When sunshine falls upon a spread Of yellow prairie flowers, It fills me with that silent peace That graces morning hours. The sunshine and the flowers, each, Impress my mind and sight, But one without the other tells The tragedy of light. To see a mother fondle child, One nuzzle to the other, Dispensing freely of the love That touches every mother, Is like the sunshine on a spread Of yellow prairie flowers, That blends its silence into peace That graces morning hours.
The poet must swim in the sea of his heart To scour its bed for the pearls of his love, And string them in verse that will let him depart The dark of his soul to the light up above. But he who recites from the Word of his Lord Immerses his heart in an ocean of Light, Illumines the world with the pearls that afford Us a glimpse of a life of eternal delight.
A poem can be a fancy way To say a thing well known; A thing that when presented plain Is not attention prone; To take a thought mundane and make It sweet, romantic or Just fascinatingly astute, Is what a poem is for. And seldom can it cause you pain That makes you frown or curse, Digesting thoughts that don’t constrain The words that make them verse; Like sitting in a carriage that Is led by handsome steeds, Unbridled, wont to gallop at Unregulated speeds. But if you chance upon a poem You cannot understand, Extending it the courtesy Of silence would be grand.