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My Own Book of Poetry, Volume 1

Page 4

by Mary Esther Wacaster


  Seasons And Seasons

  The seasons never fail to amaze me,

  Changes from hot, to cold, to warm.

  Nature follows each pattern exactly,

  The wonders of God to perform.

  In fall the colors are brilliant

  As nature prepares for her sleep.

  In silence she stands resilient

  As her colors grow dark and deep.

  The petals of flowers are blown;

  The trees give their leaves to the earth

  While nature sings softly to her own

  Awaiting Spring and re-birth.

  Winter's breath is bitter and cold,

  Binding all growth in delay,

  And life's cycles in secret unfold

  Its mysteries, like molding of clay.

  The most fascinating part of the story

  When nature awakens the earth,

  Is the slow warm ember of glory

  When Spring glows again with re-birth.

  Life slowly creeps into seed and sprig,

  Emitting a warm vital glow within,

  Flowing through trunk, to limb, to twig,

  Unseen as it so subtly begins.

  It starts with a small unseen quiver,

  As life flutters with anxious hope,

  Followed by a visible green spur

  Until it is arrayed in full scope.

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  Seasons Of Our Lives

  God has blessed us with Seasons

  And the changing colors therein,

  Overflowing with breath-taking beauty

  Where one fades and others begin.

  And through every season

  The changes nature brings again,

  Through its storms or calm repose

  It stirs us from within.

  God has blessed us with seasons,

  And our beauty grows from within,

  Overflowing with His awesome love

  Where one fades and others begin.

  And through every season

  The changes nature serves again

  Ever through storm or calm repose,

  God calms us from within.

  May your days be full and happy,

  Filled with Love and not strife,

  As you walk in glowing beauty

  In the Seasons of your life.

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  Spring

  Spring, ah, Spring!

  Born of love and patience's

  Tenderest care;

  Spreading your awakening

  Here and there;

  Your essence caressing

  The balmy air;

  Embracing your existence

  So soft and fair!

  Awake, yes, awake!

  'Tis time for your ballet.

  Gentle; then fast;

  Obeying the wind and storm

  With hopes 'twould last.

  And your fresh splendor,

  As in the past,

  With blended hues captivate

  In green softness cast.

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  Migration

  Slow and laborious

  The winged rhythm beat

  Winging a path unseen from below,

  Through storm, rain or snow,

  To fields warmed by the sun's heat.

  To fields meritorious

  Of Nature's remembered call,

  Guided by supernal love

  And wisdom from above,

  Sounding cries of Spring and Fall.

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  Breath Of Winter

  The winds of winter sweep the sky,

  Leaving it a frosty grey.

  No warmth of sun, and we sig;

  Only winter's icy breath day by day.

  Visions of frozen beauty for the eye,

  While we get the joys of winter's play.

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  Slowly Child

  Walk slowly:

  looking down;

  the world lays treasures at your feet.

  But remember! little one

  the golden glitter brings defeat.

  Walk slowly:

  looking all aroundl;

  for all the world is God's creation

  great and small, discerning one;

  it bears the crux of every nation.

  Walk slowly:

  looking up;

  exalting in all that you observe.

  but be aware! blinded one

  that it is not pride you serve.

  Walk slowly:

  looking up;

  walking in the light from above,

  stand in prayer, hopeful one;

  send God the incense of your love.

  Walk slowly:

  looking inwardly;

  set yourself against this world's sin

  Gratefully hope Christian one;

  "Not I, but CHRIST, that lives within."

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  The Captain Of My Ship

  The Captain of my ship is familiar with the waters that we sail.

  He gives me strength to endure.

  He is the Anchor, strong and sure.

  The strength of His hand upon the rudder cannot fail.

  When the raging storms arise, He calms the boiling seas

  From its anger that‘s bestirred.

  Above the storm His voice is heard,

  With loving reach through all time to hear His children’s pleas.

  We soon will reach the safety of that promised shore,

  The awaited hope of journey’s end.

  Supernal joys received, to spend

  With friends and loved ones traveling on before.

  My Captain in His awesome wisdom sails this mighty sea.

  His heart remains upon my care.

  In my unlearned vessel, do I dare

  To seek another captain, who cares naught for me?

  Nay, but I continue on to reach that eternal goal.

  Upon my Captain’s strength I lean.

  From His galley will I glean.

  He is the Master of my ship;

  He is the Captain of my soul.

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  The Cry

  I called from the city,

  Whence the cries, loud and clear.

  Not a call from the mighty,

  But those that to me are dear.

  I wept and begged for comfort.

  The wind moaned about

  Seeking out your effort

  With every lonely shout.

  "Dress me please", I pleaded.

  "These tatters leave me cold."

  But nakedness, unheeded,

  Grew as I grew old.

  I called you from the prison

  Through walls that hid the light.

  Why have you not arisen

  And made these wrongs right?

  From distance far over seas,

  Of bones dried within the flesh,

  Come muffled sounds of hungry pleas

  That break my wounds afresh.

  Still growing is this disease

  That has mind and body bent.

  Neither would you come to ease

  Nor one you could have sent.

  The land is scorched and dried,

  No water will you give.

  And mercy will you hide

  That others may not live.

  Weakly, I whisper still

  As I walk through the vale,

  But Death looms above the hill

  And covers my lowly wail

  .

  You are surrounded with the cry

  For water I give, this day.

  "Lord, Lord, give or I shall die."

  Yet you do not what I say.

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  The Drifter

  The gentle rocking of the water

  Sooths the boatman into sleep.

  And the
drifting boat yields

  To the undercurrent of the deep.

  And when the dreamer awakens

  To the waves of the sea

  He finds it is not himself the "rocker"

  But the mighty waves that be.

  And it is not the mighty waves

  That the drifter needs to fear,

  But the failure to keep ahold

  Of the oars to keep the shore near.

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  The Eagle Flies

  The Eagle flies

  The frozen skies;

  Beneath his wings

  The snowy scenes

  Of wolfen whines

  And laden pines

  Glazing the forest’s frozen grounds.

  Trees bend

  Before the wind;

  Tales are told

  Of winter’s hold;

  The bitter haze

  Of grey laden days

  Sweeping the earth within its bounds.

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  The Flag

  Our hopes are flying high.

  Our dreams are waving true.

  Our country was built upon those dreams

  With it's people's rights in view.

  The nations came in numbers:

  Weak and weary, bonded or free,

  And all in humble gratitude

  Bowing low upon their knee.

  A country built on honor

  To both God and man.

  May it wave in honor

  Forever, if it can.

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  The Growing Rod

  Life is a gift given of love,

  But everyone a burden must bear.

  It may be light or heavy laden,

  Full of sorrow and of care.

  Yet each one has it's purpose

  In the story so carefully planned,

  Guided stealthily forward

  By so strong and steady a hand.

  It's light may not carefully shine

  That by it's beam we may see,

  But in it's ultimate crises

  There it's lasting love will be

  To steady a hand so weakened

  By life's beating, stormy path

  To rebuild the shaken foundation

  Amid the dreary aftermath!

  Forward go the strong from the weak,

  And happy from the sad,

  Growing in stature from the small,

  yielding the good from the bad

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  The Light Of The World

  lluminant ----

  Angels brighter than the day,

  Stand before the open grave

  Emptied of its prey;

  The Lamb prepared as foretold

  To atone for man's sin.

  Illuminant ---

  Spirit of Love greater than the grave,

  Through God's only son,

  Pouring out His life, He gave

  The full measure of sacrifice;

  His eternal call to men.

  Illuminant --

  Why seek ye Him among the dead?

  The grave holds not its prey.

  Yield not to death with fear and dread,

  For Christ has paid the unpaid debt,

  To cover man's reproach and sin.

  Illuminant ---

  Spirit of man's obedient faith

  In answer to God's gift of grace,

  No longer seen a wandering wraith;

  But out of a watery grave walks anew,

  Where Christ can dwell within.

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  Wanderlust

  Wild is the wind that blows asea

  And tosses ships to and fro.

  Strong is the heart 'twould depart alee

  Yearning seaside w ay to go.

  Sick is the heart with geese do wander.

  Wanders afar, and wanders alone,

  Setting no port; off to horizon yonder,

  Restless with the wind, and blown.

  Solace found only with the tad

  That inner soul does beckon

  To follow the way of the nomad

  Whose heart doesn't reason or reckon.

  For counting loss is not with them.

  To lose they have but naught.

  And gain is not the priceless gem

  But with the game they've caught.

  Yes, wild is the wind that blows them,

  Tossing them all to and fro,

  And strong is the heart yields to the whim

  Of the yearning they alone know.

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  White Darkness

  Silence spreads around me

  Thick as fog across the land.

  I feel its touch upon me

  Heavy with its hand.

  I strain to see beyond it,

  But figures vague and slight

  Drawn close from depths, slip

  Back ag ain from sight.

  Somehow I fear white darkness

  Without its touch embracing

  The strange and quiet apathy

  Of shadows interlacing.

  But my fear is unreal

  As the shadows of the dark

  And I turn again to feel

  Warmth from life's spark.

  White darkness

  World unclean

  Through shadows

  World unseen

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  To War My Son

  For life, I gave him birth

  And gave him love by woman's touch.

  He walked his youth with mirth;

  Grew in stature, height and girth.

  Love, respect, and obedience was such

  That filled my heart with joy

  Which can only be by knowing such a boy.

  Time called with a purpose to be fulfilled.

  And eons passed on and on.

  On foreign lands his tears were spilled,

  And he arose to face a strange dawn.

  My Son; My son is gone.

  For birth, I gave him death

  And in his dying I saw sorrow.

  Weeping tears with each breath

  I beheld him in his death

  Knowing that when I rose on that morrow

  With a sad heart I would weep

  And only memories could I keep.

  He gave his life for human cause;

  On foreign soil his heart bled.

  And I weep, bitterly, because

  For this mankind he stood their stead.

  My Son; My son is dead.

  For Death, I gave him life.

  Did he think I did not hear him cry?

  That I forsook him in his strife?

  Should I have asked that he give his life?

  Did I have to leave him alone to die?

  Yet should I weep with bitter loss

  For hands and feet nailed to a cross?

  With heavy heart I can see

  The clouds clearing in Heaven's dome.

  Because of death men are free

  And heavy feet no more will roam.

  My Son; My son is home.

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  The Turning Of The World Around

  Over the horizon peaks the sun.

  The rays one by one

  Find the paths of the sky

  And tints them blue.

  All done

  cry.

  What beauty to behold

  For naught but to grow old.

  Life yields its silent sound.

  It is a day unspent.

  It is a tree unbent.

  And the stone shows the color of the ground.

  The mid-day heat falls from the sun.

  Full rays cling one to one

  Obscuring the paths of the sky,

  Blinding the tints of blue.

  All done

  I cry.

  Hidden beauty to behold
r />   Behind the blinding gold.

  Life yields its silent sound.

  It is a day half spent.

  It is a tree half bent.

  And the stone shows the color of the ground.

  The last rays of lingering sun

  Are fading one by one.

  Shadows cross the pathless sky

  Obscuring tints of blue.

  All done

  I cry.

  Quiescent beauty to behold

  Yet the night brings the cold.

  Life yields its silent sound.

  It is a day low spent.

  It is a tree low bent.

  And the stone shows the color of the ground.

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  The Pilgrim

  A stranger and a Pilgrim

  Walks through foreign field,

  Following Jehovah God,

  Obeying as He willed.

  No longer a wanderer

  Like a gostly wraith,

  But like a wandering pilgrim

  Upon the path of faith.

  Not like a pilgrim

  Wandering a path of strife,

  But as a chosen vessel,

  Following the path of life.

  Not as a pilgrim following

  A path wide and strange,

  But as a sojourner on a path

  Of strait and narrow range.

  The journey that he travels,

  This pilgrim of God,

  Is not without its purpose,

  As o’er the path he trod.

  For the compass that he uses

  Is true and faithful still,

  And the map he utilizes

  Is the Father’s Holy Will.

  The journey of a Pilgrim

  Down a long and lonley road,

  Comes out of darkness to the light

  And lays down his heavy load.

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  Learning Took A Holiday

  I go to books when I am happy or lonely,

  But there are only letters and sounds that I can’t understand.

  Somewhere someone mixed them all up

  And they lay scattered all over the land.

  One persons calls that word something to be desired,

  And that it brought one great fortune and fame.

  But another person calls it a perversion,

  That it blackens the honor of a name.

  I heard a child say that it was too much work

  To learn a word when they would not need it.

  Another child screamed in my ear I was mean

  And when I said a word they would not heed it.

 

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