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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> Poetry.htmlMilton_Watts.htmlDavid_Carlton.htmlDavid_Carlton.htmlWayne_Edwards.html14Poetry_of_Wayne_Edwards_3.htmlPoetry_of_Bob_Hurt.htmlPoetry_of_John_Pinkerton.htmlPoetry_of_John_Pinkerton.htmlChip_Hill.htmlShiel.htmlShiel.htmlMunoz.htmlTilman.htmlChip_Hill.htmlChip_Hill.htmlhttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Carlos_WilliamsJay_Brakefield.htmlScott_McDermott.htmlBill_Tune.htmlKen_Keller.htmlHendrik_Bergen.htmlAmy_Roman.htmlGuest_Poetry_II.htmlshapeimage_1_link_0shapeimage_1_link_1shapeimage_1_link_2shapeimage_1_link_3shapeimage_1_link_4shapeimage_1_link_5shapeimage_1_link_6shapeimage_1_link_7shapeimage_1_link_8shapeimage_1_link_9shapeimage_1_link_10shapeimage_1_link_11shapeimage_1_link_12shapeimage_1_link_13shapeimage_1_link_14shapeimage_1_link_15shapeimage_1_link_16shapeimage_1_link_17shapeimage_1_link_18shapeimage_1_link_19shapeimage_1_link_20shapeimage_1_link_21shapeimage_1_link_22shapeimage_1_link_23shapeimage_1_link_24