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Rain and roses

Chapter 52: Lines to Death
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About This Book

A compact lyrical collection of short poems that meditate on nature, memory, domestic life, and spiritual feeling. Many pieces depict seasonal landscapes, gardens, rivers, and small-town scenes with sensory detail and plainspoken imagery. Several poems turn inward to consider aging, friendship, longing, and quiet gratitude, while a devotional strain frames ordinary moments in relation to faith. The tone remains reflective and accessible, using steady rhythm and modest diction to celebrate everyday beauty and moral consolation.

DO you remember the cardinal’s call,
Brother O’ mine?
The hills that we climbed, be they ever so tall,
With never a fear for a hurt or a fall,
Wondering ever if skies did fall,
Brother O’ mine.
Many a hill we’ve climbed since then,
Brother O’ mine.
Been pelted with roses and rinsed with the rain
Of our sorrowing teardrops time and again;
Despair in our hearts and a clutch of pain,
Brother O’ mine.
And there were pebbles that hurt our feet
Brother O’ mine.
But the dust of the highway seemed velvet sweet
Tho’ many a cross and trials we’d meet,
With daisies and graves at our very feet,
Brother O’ mine.
Father we had in the bygone days,
Brother O’ mine.
And mother to wipe all our tears away.
Tho’ sodden the sky, and shadows be grey
God will speak clear of the mist some day,
Brother O’ mine.

Dream

THE flowers upon my lady’s hat,
Kept bobbing so this way then that,
Until the Church seemed faint and blurred
The morning Psalms I scarcely heard.
Unless I see I cannot hear,
So, I just admired that flower so near.
’Twas unlike any bloom that blows
On trees or waves in garden rows,
Where clings the morning glory vine
Or beds of phlox or columbine,
Like nothing in the drowsy south
With love songs oozing from its mouth,
In all the languorous, summer noons
Or riotous breaths of all perfumes,
Like nothing in my garden bed
Of flowers washed blue or drenched red;
Peculiarly designed it sat
And nodded on my lady’s hat.
I summoned all my powers to wit
But could not find a name for it.
I sought my couch with troubled breast,
I could not from my memory wrest

The name of that tormenting bloom,
Till wearied tossing, then I swooned
Into forgetfulness and dreamed
Of lands beyond where sunlight streamed,
In gardens where an angel talked
In soft glad whispers as he walked.
And touched each blossoming bud and bell
With pride and love ineffable.
But one he loved beyond compare;
He stooped and kissed the petals rare.
With eagerness I did persist
To see the flower the angel kissed.
And there it grew a thing intact,
The flower upon my lady’s hat.
It stood a straight slim tossing flame
And I had yet to learn its name.
With this in mind I tried to talk,
But the angel only sped his walk.
I could have cried for very shame,
Then someone called me by my name.
The room was pink with morning light,
Because dreams vanish with the night;
And things are not what they seem,
I called the little flower “dream.”

Shine and Shower

Lines to Death

To the New Year

Homesickness

To Love

Your Friend

Draw Closer to the Fire

What Love Is

LOVE is a magnetism
That enables two people
To see one another as
No one else can see them,
A compelling unresisting element
Drawing them into each other’s arms.
Love is an unselfish devotion,
Giving service without reward,
Sacrifice without compensation,
Suffering without alleviation.
It is a power, a force,
The fundamental principle of life,
Without which, the mere act of living
Becomes a farce and a mockery.
Love is the foundation of every
Unselfish act, in this grey old world.
It is the rosy amber hearthstone
Of earth’s flaming paradise, and
A stepping stone to a better world called heaven.