Among all earth's creatures, poetry is a uniquely human gift. The following poems are included in this Web page:
In addition to poetry, following are two songs:
by Neela G. Redford, Oct. 13, 2000
What do people do
when they have nowhere to turn?
What do people do
when there's always something to learn?
What do people do
when they can't find their way?
What do people do
when they can't find the right words to say?
Perhaps there is an answer;
It's really not hard to find.
Give your heart to God
And he'll give you his heart and mind.
by Harlan K. Brown in early 1995
The screen flickers softly as fingers meet keys. The words shuffle by like dry leaves in a breeze. A mind filled with knowledge directs today's task, But what is the motive, one may rightly ask. No pain no gain, garbage in garbage out. Purpose and effort is what it's about. Some are marauders, some humanitarian. What they are doing is quite unagrarian. The hardware and software are state of the art, Reliable, trustworthy, doing their part. But the foremost integrity anyone sees Is that of the one who is pressing the keys.
by Harlan K. Brown, Nov. 10, 2000
He polished the metal. The whole thing he oiled. Grown up in the suburbs, he was a bit spoiled. He had his own laptop, a room of his own, His own CD player, his own telephone. His mom was a chemist, his dad a programmer, And he was a geek and a freak and a spammer. They worked very hard but had time for their guy Except on the days with names ending in "y." His sis didn't live in the house of the geek's. A D&C got her just after 12 weeks. His brother though older was also quite dead From a Metzenbaum scissors in the back of his head. His grandmother Ruth and his gramps Anastasia Departed this world through a brief euthanasia. And now their young grandson did sigh out his breath. His thoughts were enmeshed in the culture of death. The nasty school bullies for taunts and for jeers Were going to get things beyond their worst fears. Their mouths full of venom, their bites they did give. Now a thirty-aught-six would soon make them a sieve. As darkness was 'bout to engulf a teen mind, A glimmer of hope seemed to come from behind. His new friends at school didn't sneer, didn't mock, Were faithful and true like an accurate clock. He knew with them he'd ne'er be left in the lurch, Especially by Sam, who had brought him to church. They treated him friendly--he didn't know why-- And made him to feel like a regular guy. He'd heard the fine messages, heard the good talk, But now he had friends who he'd seen walk the walk. He pondered the meaning of amazing grace. The thirty-aught-six he put back in its case.
by Darrell Scott
Technology can be a blessing or a curse, depending on how it is used.
This poem (I added the title) was written by Darrell Scott, the father of two victims of the shooting on April 20, 1999, at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. On May 27, 1999, he testified before the Subcommittee on Crime of the House Judiciary Committee in the United States House of Representatives. He said, "I wrote a poem just four nights ago that expresses my feelings best. This was written way before I knew I would be speaking here today."
Your laws ignore our deepest needs. Your words are empty air. You've stripped away our heritage. You've outlawed simple prayer. Now gunshots fill our classrooms, And precious children die. You seek for answers everywhere And ask the question "WHY?" You regulate restrictive laws Through legislative creed, And yet you fail to understand That God is what we need!
by Harlan K. Brown, Dec. 9, 1995, based on Matthew 13:1-23
A gardener gardened in four kinds of soil. With four clear results from his gardening toil. A ditch, on the rocks, among thorns, and good ground Were places where seeds from the gard'ner were found. The seeds on the wayside by birds were devoured. The seedlings on rocks were soon scorched, never flowered. The seeds among weeds found thorns smothering 'round, But on the fine loam a great crop did abound. The ditchers by Satan are snatched all away. The rockies in trouble find faith does decay. The weedies are choked by the cares of the world. The loamers bear fruit like a banner unfurled. So don't be a seed out alone in a ditch, And don't dwell on trouble when spiritually rich, But care more for Jesus than physical things, And you'll find the good life that faith in Christ brings.
by Cindy Blackamore
Although things are not perfect Because of trial or pain Continue in thanksgiving Do not begin to blame Even when the times are hard Fierce winds are bound to blow God is forever able Hold on to what you know Imagine life without His love Joy would cease to be Keep thanking Him for all the things Love imparts to thee Move out of "Camp Complaining" No weapon that is known On earth can yield the power Praise can do alone Quit looking at the future Redeem the time at hand Start every day with worship To "thank" is a command Until we see Him coming Victorious in the sky We'll run the race with gratitude Xalting God most high Yes, there'll be good times and yes some will be bad, but... Zion waits in glory...where none are ever sad!
The shortest distance between a problem and a solution is the distance between your knees and the floor. The one who kneels to the Lord can stand up to anything.
by an unknown author
I've never made a fortune, And I'll never make one now. It really doesn't matter, 'Cause I'm happy anyhow. I go along life's journey, Reaping better than I sowed. I'm drinking from my saucer, 'Cause my cup has overflowed. I've not a lot of riches, And sometimes the going's tough, But I have kids who love me, And that makes me rich enough. I thank God for His blessings And the mercies He's bestowed. I'm drinking from my saucer, 'Cause my cup has overflowed. I recall when things went wrong, And my faith wore somewhat thin, But all at once dark clouds broke, And the sun peeped through again. Lord, help me keep from griping About tough rows that I've hoed. I'm drinking from my saucer, 'Cause my cup has overflowed. God gives me strength and courage When the way grows steep and rough. I'll not ask for more blessings; I'm already blessed enough. And may I never be too busy To help another bear his load. Then I'll keep drinking from my saucer, Because my cup has overflowed.
by Douglas W. Comin
A baby cries amid the straw, fresh-born into a world so strange; Could this be God, the eternal Son, glorious throne for flesh exchanged? How can this be? What mind can grasp the untold splendor of this thing? Almighty God, The Lord of Hosts in infant-form to mother clings! Majestic One, whose blazing beauty shineth forth to shame the dawn. Now without form or comeliness that any should to him be drawn. Creator God, Who made and owns the cattle on a thousand hills; Now humble, poor, A stable floor For solace 'gainst harsh winter chills. Perfect Spirit, Unhindered by the bonds of Adam's flesh-bound race, conceived and born in mankind's form, with limits all of time and space. When once He dwelt in Heaven high, He was untouched by worldly woe. Yet willingly He condescends, consents the scourge of pain to know. And not mere pain, but death itself, and not mere death, but cursed cross, the Suffering Servant stoops to bear to purge away man's sinful dross. Was this for me? Did Glory stoop so low to grace this wretched orb To set me free, and for my sin did He God's righteous wrath absorb? 'Tis said in order to secure the ransom price I could not pay, He took my form, and bore the storm of God's just punishment that Day. The Lord of Glory took my place before the unleashed wrath of God! Like grapes His blood beneath the feet of His Almighty Father trod! And had He not consented thus, the confines of the flesh to know, then I would face eternal chains to pay the penalty I owe. What glorious grace! The Risen Son, enthroned once more at God's right hand has conquered death through sacrifice and put to shame hell's raging band! 'Come to Me, all you who bend beneath the crushing weight of sin,' says He, 'and I will give you rest.' Eternal life is found in Him!
by Marilou Morgan, Oct. 10, 1976, while she was a missionary in South America
Lord, we are so very happy today As we think of Thy blessings sent our way. Thank You so much for all You have done, For the valleys low and the victories won. Thank you for loving us and caring so much, For the little pricks and the gentle touch, For the lessons learned, the grace bestowed As we yield to Thee our heavy load. Closer, yes, closer, to Thee may we grow Till with Thy love our hearts overflow That others may see what has happened to us Since in Thee, our Savior, we put our trust.
by Douglas W. Comin
That snowy cold December morn our first and only child was born. And as the snowflakes fell to earth a greater beauty had its birth: a beauty sent from up above, the wonder of a mother's love. Into this world of woe and sorrow he sprang to see his first tomorrow. Tiny fists were clenched so tight, eyes adjusting to the light, when suddenly his gaze met thine; a face so lovely, so divine; a look as gentle as a dove, the wonder of a mother's love. And as his eyes began to range across this face so new, so strange he had no words that might describe the joy that swept in like the tide, nor could she speak; so filled with wonder, swelled with awe like gentle thunder. Two smiles broke forth and then both wept, and later, as the baby slept he felt contentment like a glove, the wonder of a mother's love. These early days I call to mind and in their memory I find a confirmation true and clear that God's good grace is surely near. His blessings here are plain to see: my Lord, my home, my family; my treasured bride, a prize so rare that richest gold could not compare; a son, so blessed, the object of the wonder of a mother's love.
by Harlan K. Brown
A slack hand causes poverty, But the hand of the diligent makes rich. A slack hand causes poverty, But the hand of the diligent makes rich. Being so lazy is really quite crazy, For diligence helps lead to true success. A slack hand causes poverty, But the hand of the diligent makes rich. A slack hand causes poverty, But the hand of the diligent makes rich. Go to the ant, O sluggard; go to the ant today. Go to the ant, O sluggard, and carefully consider her way. Having no chief or ruler, she works in summer heat, Gathering food for winter; then she has plenty to eat. How long will you, O sluggard, lie there and oversleep? Do you not know, O sluggard, what you sow is what you will reap? Lying in idle slumber, you fold your hands to rest. Poverty soon attacks you; laziness will not be bless'd. Wake now, O sleeping worker, awaken from your sleep! Wake now, O sleeping worker, and you'll find a harvest to reap! A slack hand causes poverty, But the hand of the diligent makes rich.
by Harlan K. Brown, August 11, 2001
I hear the whistle blowing O'er the pine trees in the park. The engine's chugging smoothly. It will soon be getting dark.The locomotive started At a station far away. It traveled 'cross the country 'fore it made it here today. I wonder where it's going, Where it's heading to tonight. Where will it be tomorrow When the sunrise brings new light? Do you know where you're going-- You, your 50 billion cells? If you don't know where you're going You may end up somewhere else.
by Harlan K. Brown
(a song for the young and for the young at heart)
Two ways of life, there are two ways of living. One way is getting, the other is giving. Two ways of life, there are two ways to live. Happiness comes when we learn how to give.
by Harlan K. Brown in 2002
We praise our great Father in heaven on high, Who gave us His Son and sent Him here to die. He loves us so much. His desire is to give. And all who believe shall eternally live. We worship our Saviour called Jesus, the Son. He came down from heaven. The vict'ry He won. He died for our sins and then rose from the dead. By His godly teachings we daily are led. We cherish God's Spirit of truth and of love, Who dwells now inside us from heaven above. He counsels and comforts our hearts to embrace And flows in and out like a river of grace.
by Harlan K. Brown on March 8, 2008
God made all and does what He decides. He rules all; in Heaven He resides. He can play a clarinet or flute, Or a lively trumpet he can toot. But one instrument He never plays, Doesn't play it ever all His days. What's the answer to this puzzling riddle? What God never plays is second fiddle.
anonymous
This is a poem from the 1940s during World War II. I got the poem from my granduncle many years ago. The title has been added.
Absolute knowledge I have none, But my niece's washerwoman's son Heard a policeman on his beat Say to a laborer in the street That he had a letter last week Written in the finest Greek From a Chinese coolie in Timbuctoo, Who said the natives in Cuba knew A sun-burned man in a Texas town Who got it straight from a circus clown That a man in the Klondike heard the news From a detective who had some clues Who heard of a society woman of late Whose mother-in-law will undertake To prove that her husband's sister knows, As stated in a printed piece, That she has a son who has a friend Who knows when the war is going to end.
This poem was published in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in McGuffey's Primer. It is also included in The Book of Virtues by William Bennett, a book that I highly recommend.
Work while you work, play while you play; One thing each time, that is the way. All that you do, do with your might; Things done by halves are not done right.
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