poetry – penpaletteheart

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.

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.

****

The One Who Makes the Wind Obey

The One Who Makes the Wind Obey
© 2019 Mollie Pearce McKibbon

1)
The ocean swells with the rising tide
And I cannot see the other side.
My craft is small and the water deep,
But I must cross it before I sleep.

refrain
How wonderful to trust my frail steps
To the One who made the ocean depths;
To the One who makes the wind obey,
My Jesus, who carries me all the way.

2)
As I sail over the bounding waves,
I trust my soul to the One who saves,
Mightier is He than any king,
God, the Maker of everything.

3)
I am never alone, have no fear,
For my Protector is always near.
He guides me through every storm
And shelters me from eternal harm.

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.

Little Brown Teapot

Brown betty teapot

Little Brown Teapot

This little brown teapot,

through the years,

has welcomed strangers,

sopped up tears,

celebrated good friendships,

patched up fights,

calmed in stormy weather,

and lonely nights.

It’s been a staunch server

through all woes;

has heard about troubles

no one knows.

This little brown teapot,

without a doubt,

is more than a handle,

body and spout.

Fireflies

Fireflies

fireflies-at-night-tsuneaki-hiramatsu-6

Tiny flashes light the path

Winding through the forest dark,

Minute points of silver light

From heavenly anvil spark.

There’s wonders in the night time

That can only be perceived

By wise and curious people

Who always have believed.

The brightest beam of sunlight

Is not as welcomed or fair

As those sparkling lanterns

And the One who placed them there.

Burgeoning May

Burgeoning May

Winter’s ragged blanket withdraws

Washed away by April’s tears.

Crocuses open their purple petals

To a smiling, unbroken, blue sky.

Breezes gently nudge the trumpet daffodills

While drowsy bees awaken.

Squirrels and chipmunks stretch and yawn,

Aroused in budding branches

By the joyful serenades of robins

And red-winged blackbirds

Responding to the warm coaxing

Of a burgeoning May.

Senior Locomotion

My perfume is linament
And I walk most carefully
Because at any moment
I could buckle at the knee.
Stairs are quite a challenge;
Going up I have no speed.
Going down them, I wobble,
Scaring those whom I impede.
Rising from chairs and sofas
Takes time and determined skill,
While I remember fondly
Youthful springing up at will.

elderly man wearing glasses using cane And dance which was so graceful
When I was young and complete,
Is more a lurch and stumble
Than light skipping of the feet.
Though my strong cane is stylish,

Carrying it can be a bore green-turtle-hi

‘Specially when I forget it
And it clatters to the floor.

If perilous my travel

Down life’s rugged trails,
I have some good companions
Among the turtles and the snails.

I AM – a poem

I AM

Jesus healing

I am the healer of pain-wracked souls
And the fixer of broken parts.
I am the soother of weary minds,
The one comfort for troubled hearts.
My arms are open to welcome all
Of those who are yearning to be
Sheltered from the storms of life,
Enfolded and strengthened by me.

I am the mender of shattered lives,
The breaker of earthly fetters.
I am the finder of long-lost souls,
Forgiver of life-long debtors.
I long to gather my dear ones home
And rejoice with all who will come
For I have prepared a banquet feast
With enough places for everyone.

The Festive Punch

It is my solemn duty,
Perhaps you have a hunch –
To guard the buffet table
Lest Grandpa spikes the punch.

Now, I have my eyes upon him
Though he thinks he’ll call my bluff,
But when he saunters near me
I’ll confiscate the stuff.

Last year it was a shambles;
Our Christmas wasn’t fun,
The punch was 50/50
Apple cider – moonshine rum.

Uncle Ed began addressing
The stuffed muskie in the hall
And Aunt Hilda started swatting
Invisible spiders on the wall.

Cousin Sam was jitterbugging
With the hat-tree in a twirl,
And Papa kept insisting
Father Patrick was a girl.

My mom was apoplectic
And my sister was in tears.
When our pup set up such howling
I had to plug my ears.

So this Christmas’ll be different,
Of that you can be sure,
‘Cause Mom’s paying me a fiver
To keep the punch secure.

Tag: poetry

Snowed In

Winter

The One Who Makes the Wind Obey

Something About That Man

Little Brown Teapot

Fireflies

Burgeoning May

Senior Locomotion

I AM – a poem

The Festive Punch

The Festive Punch
© 2017 Mollie Pearce McKibbon

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The Festive Punch © 2017 Mollie Pearce McKibbon

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The Festive Punch
© 2017 Mollie Pearce McKibbon