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In a Dark Midnight Garden

In a dark midnight garden,
So many long years ago,
Our dear Saviour, Lord Jesus,
Cried out His prayer of great woe.

On the bank of the river,
At the brim of the cup,
I have stepped in the water,
Must I drink this draught up?

In all You have asked, Father,
I have done to my best.
I have fought mankind's evil;
I have faced every test.

On the bank of the river,
At the brim of the cup,
I have stepped in the water;
Must I drink this draught up?

Unaware of His anguish, 
Despite their Lord's longing plea,
His disciples slept soundly
Beneath the old olive tree.

On the edge of the river,
At the brim of the cup,
I have stepped in the water;
Must I drink this draught up?

Had you been in that garden,
All those many years ago,
Would you have so soundly slept,
As Jesus poured out His soul?

On the bank of the river,
At the brim of the cup,
Jesus stepped in the water;
Jesus drank the draught up.

Heaven’s Handiwork

snow laden branches 2019

Heaven’s Handiwork

Delicate Belgian lace

Has historical place

On the clothes of women and men;

And old Ireland’s flair

For point lace so fair

Enhances some now and then.

But Pines in raiment green

Won’t steal the scene

In any mortal art of ours;

So God gracefully encases

His wildest woodland places

In glorious winter’s flowers,

Draping tree to tree

Lace made so intricately

That artful human eyes

Gaze in delight and surprise

At the handiwork of heaven.

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Snowed In

Snowed In

Snow falls on a frosty day

When spruce and pine can barely

Lift their long, sagging branches

With their thick, icy burdens

And my mind, oppressed by

A tyranny of empty pages,

Determinedly pursues

An erratic, errant muse.

Snow Falls

Falling Snow

Snow falls on a dreaming day,

When spruce and pine barely

Lift their dragging branches

For the weight of their icy burden,

And the empty white expanses

Of vellum and screen

Press down on my bowed shoulders

While I pursue an errant muse.

Winter

Winter

Snowy landscape

The winter howls; the winter blows;

The winter sleets; the winter snows.

The winter makes us put on clothes

In other climes we’d never wear,

But here there’s winter everywhere.

****

The winter’s white; the winter’s cold;

The winter’s ice; the winter’s bold.

The winter’s beauties do unfold

As we trample high and low,

Plowing pathways where we go.

****

Winter’s fierce and winter’s mean;

Winter’s silver and so pristine.

Winter paints a magic scene

On earth, in sky and on the glass,

Enchantment never meant to last.

****

Fall Asleep

Fall Asleep
©2019 Mollie Pearce McKibbon

The sky is heavy with cloud;
Pregnant with sleet or snow.
The maples and birches shiver;
Their bright raiment now shed
In scattered heaps around their feet.
No longer wanted, the leaves wait
To travel on capricious winds,
Or to be tucked into hibernation
By gathering mounds of winter,
To sleep undisturbed,
Sheltering the silent soil
And all that lives beneath
Until Spring’s resurrection.

Thanksgiving Doggerel

Thanksgiving Feast

Mama’s in the kitchen

And dinner smells so good,

We’re sent to set the table

As all hungry children should.

We’ve folded all the napkins

And pulled up all our chairs.

Papa is so famished

He rumbles like the bears.

The potatoes have been mashed,

And the carrots have been creamed,

The turkey bursts with stuffing,

And the onions have been steamed.

As we sit around the table

With our relatives galore,

Papa says the shortest blessing

Than he’s ever said before.

Our eyes are on the kitchen,

With our napkins tucked to chins,

When Mama brings the platter

And Papa starts to grin.

The turkey smells delicious

As she wafts it by our nose,

And all of us together

Are curling up our toes.

There’s a leg for my big brother,

A wing for my dear sis,

And another leg for mother

While Papa takes some breast.

After all my aunts and uncles

Have each made their own pick,

There’s hardly any turkey left

For me to get a lick.

Because I am the youngest,

When the turkey has been cut,

I’m lucky if I end up with

What’s on the turkey’s butt.

Some Say

Some Say

Some say I believe myths, Lord,

But I think that’s so unfair

Since they believe that U F O’s

Are flying everywhere.

Some say You are a crutch, Lord,

But You’re just what I need

For I am lame in Spirit

And your help makes me succeed.

Some say its just happenstance

All the miracles I see,

But miracles keep happening

When I ask You faithfully.

Some say that I am blind, Lord,

To the truth that science finds,

But I cannot forget, Lord,

That You made those human minds.

Although I love my friends, Lord,

I know they’ve been misled.

Please open up their hearts, Lord,

To the truth You’ve done and said.

Something About That Man

Jesus carrrying his Cross

Something About That Man

Oh, what’s the hubub in the street?

I hear the sound of marching feet.

I hear the shouts of and angry crowd-

They’re coming near; they’re getting loud.

See the Man with the crown of thorns?

He is the one that King Herod scorns.

They’re driving him up Godgotha’s slope-

A merciless place without hope.

There’s something about that Man’s face

Reminds me of a time or place

Where he and his friends shared their meal

And went about to teach and heal.

They say he now claims to be God

And his miracles were a fraud.

But I saw the lame he made walk,

The blind to see, the mute to talk.

I heard the stories that he taught

And felt the hope that Man brought.

I must protest this awful fate

Brought on because of fear and hate.

Yet, I stand silent on the hill,

Urging my conscience to be still

And when they plant that awful tree,

My voice is stopped; my eyes won’t see.

As I gaze at the darkened sky,

I hear his words, his groaning cry,

“Father, forgive them for my sake,’

And I feel my own heart break.

Dad Taught Me to Love Books

Dad looking out to sea

My reading life didn’t have an auspicious beginning. I spent most of my grade one year at home sick with every childhood illness going – chicken pox, red measles, scarlet fever etc. This was before inoculations for these diseases. Consequently, my opportunity to learn to read was limited. Our grade one class was divided into reading groups named Robins, Sparrows and Skylarks. Although the labels were designed to disguise our reading prowess, we all knew the skylarks were the best. My parents learned with shock at one of the parent/teacher confabs that their little “genius” was in the bottom group – the Robins. That decided it. Dad would soon change that status.

So began a daily regimen of reading practice that I dreaded. Dad would sit in his easy chair, my reader on his lap and I was instructed to stand behind him and read every word perfectly. If I made a mistake or tried to fudge it by adding a word that wasn’t there, I had to go back and repeat the whole sentence however many times it took me to get it all correct. It was tortuous. I usually ended up in tears, mom would be all for giving me a rest, but Dad was relentless. No child of his was going to stay in the Robins group.

I should probably explain that my father was an officer in the Royal Canadian Navy, trained in communications. My lack of reading skill was an affront to his training. So he persisted in drilling my recalcitrant brain to recognize and sound-out syllables until I understood what the dancing black symbols spelled. It might have been a total failure had I not wanted so badly to be able to read.

Mom and Dad had read books to us before bedtime every night. They read our favourites over and over. I loved “Beauty and the Beast”, “The Little Red Hen” and the now totally politically incorrect “Little Black Sambo”. I knew them by heart and wanted desperately to read any time, not just at bedtime. So I stood behind Dad’s chair every night for two solid weeks until I could read my whole “Dick and Jane” reader without stumbling. My teacher was astonished at my progress and I got an immediate promotion to the Skylark group. Ever after that she had to continually tell me not to read ahead of the others.

Once I knew how to read, I was voracious. I read anything in front of me from the backs of cereal boxes to the daily newspaper. That last item became the bone of contention between Dad and me as time went on. Dad liked to read the newspaper first when he got home and sometimes, if I wasn’t quick enough to put it back together, he would discover a missing section and knew exactly where it was. Heeheehee – his reading drills came back to haunt him.

As I got older Dad and I shared a love for mysteries, historical novels and Zane Grey westerns which we traded back and forth. After reading so much, I began to want to write my own stories and well, the rest, as is said, is history. Thank you Dad, for the gift of my favourite pastime -reading.

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