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Guest Poetry and Songs
Poetry ain’t exactly my strong suit (see “Poetry”), but Milton Watts has forced my hand in this matter; therefore, I’m giving any poems contributed to this site their own page.  I originally said that if any individual contributes enough poems of their own, I’ll give that individual his or her own poetry page.  David Carlton was the first poet to have his own page, and Wayne Edwards was the second.  See David’s work at “The Poetry of David Carlton,” and see Wayne’s work at “The Poetry of Wayne Edwards.”  The third fellow to get his own page was Bob Hurt: see “The Poetry of Bob Hurt.”  In spite of my bad attitude toward poetry, I ended up with my own page, darn it: “The Poetry of John Pinkerton.”
John W. Pinkerton
I SAT THROUGH A STORM THE OTHER DAY
By Chip Hill

I sat through a storm the other day.
It was on a grassy bank next to the little stream 
That runs down to the Miller’s apple orchard.
I saw the black clouds welling up away off to the          
     right
Like the breakers of the sea spilling out on the 
     beach.
The wind whipped at my jacket as it flew along in
     front of the clouds.
I buttoned the top button and turned up the collar 
     and then it was on me.
Handfulls of rain, cautiously at first, then harder, 
     singing against my hair and glasses.
I should have run for it, but I stayed, held by the 
     urgency of its mission.
I seemed oblivious to the staccato rhythm of the 
     rain on the ground around me
And I dug my heels into the wet clay.
It thundered and I shivered.
Brushes of rain were sweeping the grass in rivulets 
     before them.
I had fun wiping off my glasses with a dry part of 
     my shirt and putting them on again.
And still the storm was sweeping past, but it was 
     fading,
And I was fascinated, like another stump or stone.
Snatches of rain still clustered here and there and I 
     felt a trail wind on my wet face.
Climbing the hills to my left, the sounds were 
     leaving me.
Slick leaves and bulrushes drooped like tired 
     soldiers.
Scattered drops continued to bounce here and 
     there, but then they were gone too.
I broke out of my reverie as she finished speaking.
I would say I was sorry and we would make up 
     again.

“I’ve read that a chickadee is a small bird that doesn’t actually fly, but flutters from tree to tree. The miracle here is that this chickadee is flying like an eagle! I wrote this a time when I had experienced rejection and hurt. It was actually a song. I would sing it to remind myself that I was free from any and all discouragement that satan or human actions would try to bring against me.) You are free too!”	
From Alice’s book Old Yellowed Hat
Little Chick-a-dee
By Alice Hein Schiel

You thought you really clipped my wings;
You thought my dreams had died;
And when my eyes cried big ol’ tears
You were very satisfied.

You didn’t know the strength inside
this little chick-a-dee.
A breaking heart, a challenged will
Brought out God’s strength in me.

You thought you threw me to the wind,
But ‘twas a launch for me!
In case you hear a fl-ut-ter
Look up! It might be me!

‘Cause I’m soarin’ up against the sky!
I’ve got me a real good view of
how and what and why.
I’m soarin’ - in spite of gravity!
Who’d of ever thought it so – this
Little ol’ chick-a-dee!

As a hunter wounds a bird in flight,
That’s how you wounded me.
 You thought that I would spend my time
in fear and self-pity. 

But I have got my head up high.
My wings are workin’ too –
I very seldom have the time
To even think of you.

You thought you threw me to the wind
But you just set me free.
In case you hear a fl-ut-ter,
Look up – it might be me!

‘Cause I’m soarin’ up against the sky!
I’ve got me a real good view of
how and what and why.
I’m soarin’ – in spite of gravity!
Who’d of ever thought it so – this
Little ol’ chick-a-dee!

Pinnacle of Life
By Alice Hein Schiel

The blessing of life:
To breathe, to laugh, to smell,
To be a part of God’s day,
Of beauty and peace to tell!

The promise of life
God’s Word outlines for us:
Exhalt and honor wisdom
And she will promote you thus!

The treasure of life:
To bring health to your home
“Fear the Lord.” “Depart from evil.”
It is marrow for your bones!

The challenge of life:
Discouraged? Deal with it
Before it overcomes you;
Rise by praying in Spirit.

The fortress of life:
The very best people
With you in good and bad times
Give strength – It’s just that simple!

The rewards of life
Found in keeping God’s Word –
Favor, grace, health, long life, peace,
True joy – happy as a bird!

The sadness of life:
Separated by death
Soul crushed, breaking heart weeping.
Famine and war stifle your breath.

The wisdom of life
Says, “You encourage You.”
Don’t let depression attach,
Disillusion wants in too.

The sweet bliss of life:
Death, a bitter leaven,
Can’t conquer a child of God.
Death is our door to Heaven!

The pinnacle of life:
Assess each situation.
Then use the rocks hurled at you
To build a firm foundation!
From Alice’s book Pen of Gold

I Recommend Jesus
By Sarah Hein Muñoz

   When life’s going good, when life seems sad, 
I recommend Jesus.
	When life’s at its start, when life’s at its end,              I recommend Jesus.
	If you’ve lived well or made mistakes, 
I recommend Jesus.
	There’s no one that doesn’t need Him.
	If you feel well or if you are sick, 
I recommend Jesus.
	When you’re at suffering much pain, 
I recommend Jesus.
	There’s no one not loved by Him!
	If you have enough money or if you are poor, 
I recommend Jesus.
	If you are lonely or have friends galore, 
I recommend Jesus.
	When life seems on track, or if your train has derailed, 
I recommend Jesus.
	We all need a Savior. He’s the only one there is.
	His blood is sufficient to cleanse all our sins.
	He knows all our trials, has felt all our pain.
	You have nothing to lose, eternal life to gain.
	We can be saved if we call on His name.
	He offers forgiveness. His pardon is great. 
I recommend Jesus.
He demands first place in our lives; it’s what He deserves.
	His arms are open wide to big and to small.
	He only refuses those too proud to call.
I recommend Jesus.
Published in Alice Schiel’s book Pen of Gold
Return of the Yegua, 2003
By Tilman Hein

By birthright senses would conjure
And sibling pressures would ensure
With constant totems to enure
Incessant beckons of the lure 
Of Yegua

And so impressions there would teem
Like glitter in the spotlight’s beam
Forever polished so to deem
Necessity to live the dream
Of Yegua

Away from all the maddened throng
A semblance of what’s right and wrong
With constant drilling, hard and long
In students teachers wrote the song
Of Yegua

So forged into the pliant youth
By fang and claw and nail and tooth
Like flavor bursts in fine vermouth
Now lies the fundamental truth
Of Yegua

And so began the daily fight
Attaining goals that mark the height
Of standing graduation night
To covet passage to the rite
Of Yegua

There to extend the hand to hold
That wanted parchment, tightly rolled
And valued as though finest gold
Ensuring lifetime in the fold
Of Yegua

And having now fulfilled the need
With some to follow, some to lead
But all to show by act and deed
Of living as to chant the creed
Of Yegua

Returning home in mass they came
Back to those hallowed halls of fame
Like to moths to an eternal flame
So silently to scream the name
Of Yegua

And seeing those that had been missed
The favored ones to hug and kiss
For nothing wells the tears like this
Renewing friends, within the bliss
Of Yegua


GREECE FIRST TASTED	
By Chip Hill


Ah Greece, thy rocky crags evoke
a vision of the bygone days.
‘Ere marble trees on marble slabs
first raised their face to Helios’ rays.

How many cultures seeped from one to one
across this hallowed ground?
As poems and spears, across the years,
emerged to form a plaintive sound.

Can you sense it?  Turn your face
into the wind Lord Byron knew.
And close your eyes to olive trees
and sand and rock ‘gainst azure blue.

There’s wispy scents from Thera’s arc,
Cold paint and dust from Minos’ tomb.
Sea spray tears the eyes of Aegeus
leaping down to watery doom.

Soft sandal sounds on Marathon’s plain
foretell the smoke and blood of war.
A groan from unknown sailors; offerings
at Athina’s temple door.

Gods yet alive, and athletes strive,
forgotten scenes we’ll never know.
The Muses sigh, we hear it… high
on Epidaurus’ final row.

They come in waves, some live in caves,
Crusaders walk Apostles’ trails.
Aromas from the eons soak
the Grecian soil and fill her sails.

Thy spirit must escape, it must!
From beck’ning isles to Olympia’s height.
Give up thy heart!  This is a pull
one just accepts, one doesn’t fight.

Ionian meets Aegean, yea
and shall until the end of time.
Here all stands still, invites the fool
to lose himself in simple rhyme. 

I Am “They”
By Chip Hill

When something’s wrong I know just who to 
        blame.
Doesn’t matter if “they” haven’t got a name.
It only matters that “they” chose a different way.
You see I find the ones at fault are always “they.”

I’ll admit “they” aren’t so easy to describe.
“They” talk different or they’re from a different 
        tribe.
I don’t understand them ‘cause they’re not like            
        me.
If I choose A I am sure that they’ll want B.

Seems our echo chambers block diversity,
Crush the sharing that can form community.
We put labels on each other to be smart.
But ol’ “they” has been our go-to from the start.

Still, who are “they,” this group that I accuse?
Besides a nondescript excuse I always use.
If I think of all the things that “they” could be.
Doesn’t “they” mean… all humanity?

Let me give my cleverness and pride a rest.
Can I now detect some virtues “they” possess?
Are there unique people there, within that crowd,
I can’t hear because my voice is much too loud?

If I walk with them, do you think I might find,
Their goals and needs would sometimes sound like 
        mine?
If I stand with them and use their eyes to see.
Would I sense “they” thoughts, when “they” look 
        at me?

As we learn “they” isn’t something we should fear,
All our differences would start to disappear. 
So is it possible that there could come a day,
When it starts to dawn on me that… I Am “They?”

Friday
(With a nod to William Carlos Williams)
by Jay Brakefield


                         The two-tongued sky
                         Was not my friend--
                         Though nor, in truth, was I
                         When long ago I sought to fly.

                         On the long mend
                         I learned to unbend
                         And found ways to transcend
                         Without leaving the ground. 

My Haiku 
by Scott McDermott 

sun shines on asphalt
wind blows cool from turn 9b
I drift by sideways

‘Twas a Month** after Moving
by Bill Tune

‘Twas a month after moving, and all through
     the house,
All the boxes were empty, (thanks to a
     spouse).
The furniture fit into all new locations,
Even though some required modifications.

Setting up beds was an early essential,
As was locating each kitchen utensil.
And finding a path to the bathroom at night,
Was a challenge that often demanded a light!

In spite of our efforts to carefully label,
Finding some things, we still were not able.
But as time went on, the mysteries were
     solved,
Well, maybe not all of them, but that’s too
     involved.

Amid all the hassles of getting unpacked,
Grass, ever growing, had to get whacked.
Bushes so tall that they needed a trim,
Cleaning out beds so they don’t look so grim.

Patio covered with big, potted plants,
Still room for the gas grill and yard chairs, per
     chance?
Wind chimes, bird feeders are now in the
     yard,
Hummers a plenty, that wasn’t hard!

The storage was ample. It was no mirage!
Both cars now fit nicely into the garage.
With a building out back and an attic above,
Our stuff found a place with a push and a
     shove.

Broken down boxes piled higher and higher,
Those to be saved were stored where it’s dryer.
But those that were torn or crushed or so
     yucky,
The recycle man felt that he just got lucky.

Slowly but surely the new place takes shape.
It still needs a curtain, maybe a drape.
The photos and paintings are hung with great 
    care,
In hopes that for years, they all will stay there!
** In reality, my “month” lasted six and a half weeks.

Willow Springs Bridge
by Hendrik Bergen

        Although my body is of steel
        My structure is worn and old
        I still have a purpose
        And I feel proud and bold

        I carry loads way over intent
        First oxen, wagons and buggies
        Replaced by cars and trucks
        Who knows where it will end

        So Proud I am, still the 
                country link
        Between Willow Springs and 
                   Red Hill
        No matter my age.  I think
        I will serve some more years.  I will
Pons tis Vetat Mori:
the frame of the bridge is forever


The Restorer
by Ken Keller

The night gripped him like a suffocating blast from the 
            windswept North Pole. 
He, wondering if anything mattered to the Restorer of his self-
            maligned soul,
sought suffering or so it seemed.  This, due to recurring doubt 
            as to worthiness,
was shameful to self in his introspection, could others see pain     
            more or less? 


Portrayed in agony on his deep furrowed brow, was a stare
             that longed for relief.  
Sad to say, but most often, he found none.  It was his destiny 
            in life, a true belief.  
Seeking love beyond the mantle of self-loathing, he reached 
            out to anyone close-by.
Finding others ready to tell of their good fate, but as for him, 
            not even asking why?


The wind has a folly of its own.  It changes direction, bringing 
            a warm gentle breeze.
It’s the Restorer, bringing a change of heart, coming from just 
            beyond those trees.
I know of the sojourner in this story fairly well, and I know 
            the Restorer he seems to seek.
Our friend needs a strong mind, but it must be forthright, the
             Restorer will keep it meek.


Trust in Him, your Restorer and all will be okay.  Even when
             things don’t go your way, 
He is wise beyond belief.  He knows it all.  He loves it when 
            you are His to stay.  
Warm gentle breezes may turn to blizzards as the seasons 
            change.  That would be large.
Never forget however, that restoration begins when you have
             the Restorer in charge. 

Magnificent Gain
by Ken Keller


  
Laundry Day – A childhood Memory
by Hendrik Bergen

I remember when my mother
On Sunday night
In our shed
Started boiling the laundry
My sled upside down
A kerosene burner in between
A kettle with soap and “whites”
On top

Every hour she went out!
To check on the burner
And come Monday morning
The “whites” boiled and scrubbed
On a rainy day
Were hung on lines and rack
Over and around the stove
To dry

On the radio,
 a play: “de familie Doorsnee”
And the fragrance of drying laundry
Is what I will remember forever!

Addiction
by Amy Roman


"Addiction"

A bubble pops bringing me a smile
Only 5 more moves left to use
Even though I have played for a while
I still don't know which ones to use.

Three colors form a straight bright line
Now 4 moves are left to me
Come on fish, it's time to dine
On sprinkled donuts and striped candy!

I'm getting closer to the end
After 2 weeks of throwing my phone
Only 3 more moves until my win
All my skills I've had to hone.

Suddenly chocolate begins to grow
I must break it now, whatever I do
I take a moment and decide to go slow
For now my moves are down to 2.

The chocolate breaks, but so does my     
        heart
For the owl is beginning to fall
Too much red jelly has burst apart
His face is scared and says it all.

Maybe this game is not meant for me
After all, who needs this kind of rush?
I think perhaps I'm beginning to see
I sadly am addicted to Candy Crush.


enough
Page Two of Guest Poetry>




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