The Word

Occasion: When I was in Jr. High I knew a girl named Donna. She was the girl in every school who was picked on, ignored, teased, etc. I never participated in those things, but I also never stood up for her, which I often felt I should. I wrote this poem several years later, in 1984, after I heard she had commited suicide.

She was a good friend,
From beginning to end,
We had the same classes in school,
We always would pick,
Who could be in our clique,
All our classmates thought we were cool.

On the weekend my perch,
Was a place we called church,
I’d show up in my coat and my tie,
They said I was so sweet,
Cause my clothes were so neat,
There was no better Christian than I.

On Monday I found,
She was now in the ground,
Somehow, unexpectedly dead,
On Sunday at home,
Only sorrow she’d known,
By herself put a gun to her head.

When I’d thought it all out,
With a cry and a shout,
It occurred to me, I’d never shared,
That God loved her so much,
That all it takes is a touch,
To bring happiness when ere you’re scared.

Now one word describes me,
And the feelings inside me,
And I hope that I’m not always it,
Now I know He lives in me,
And I pray He forgives me,
Cause that one word is this:
HYPOCRITE.

The Gift

Occasion: I wrote this poem while watching my son, Samuel, roll around on the floor shortly after his first birthday, in 1992. It had been several years since I last wrote a poem and I wondered if I'd ever write again. That day he inspired me. He still does.

I was sitting in my chair and reading
Quietly at home
My son was rolling on the floor
Content to play alone

Then something caught my eye
So I looked down at my boy
He stood before my chair
Showing me a toy

His eyes were wide with wonder
His face locked in a grin
I knew just what he wanted
So I knelt down with him

And for the first time in a long time
On that quiet autumn day
This father took his only child
And we set out to play

And as we played with all the things
That he had lying there
I looked him in his big blue eyes
And daddy said a prayer

“God, how can I thank you
For this little man of joy
Who brings me so much happiness
Lord thank you for my boy

“My father, take this child please
Though he is only one
I know that you can use him
So I’m giving you my son."

Later on that night
He lay quietly in bed
I reached down toward him
And kissed him on his head

And I thought how much I love him
How it hurts to see him cry
How much more it must have hurt my Lord
To send His Son to die.

"Lord, I really want to thank you
For all that you have done
From one father to another
Thank you for my son."

Writers Block

Occasion: Another creative writing assignment from 1985. We were to write about a situation we had personally experienced that we would consider 'difficult'. I distinctly remember the instructor dismissing my poem because he didn't like my 'situation'. I think I got a C-.

I get the assignment,
I sit down to write,
I stare at the paper,
All day and all night.

I hate this assignment,
It’s not like the rest,
The others were easy,
This one’s a test.

I’m tired of thinking,
My thoughts are a lump,
Then at two in the morning,
I wake with a jump.

I turn on my lamp,
I look at the clock,
I get pen and paper,
And write, “Writers Block.”