Power and Provision -
A Poetic Paraphrase of Psalm 146
Let my soul sing to the Lord,
Exalting Him in tune and word.
I adore Him, while I live,
Lifting high the praise I give.
The highest royalty can't save,
As mortal men go to the grave.
They fall and vanish, like the soil,
As nothing comes from all their toil.
But happy are the ones who trust
The great Jehovah, who is just.
Creator of all things that are:
The sky, the sea, the earth, the star.
Our Maker's caring is displayed
With freedom, food, and other aid.
He opens up the eyes born blind
And lifts the humble; He is kind.
The orphan, outcast, left alone
Can find in Him a loving home.
But those who set out to destroy,
He blocks and frustrates every ploy.
The Lord is King forevermore,
May generations Him adore.
Praise the Lord forever.
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I wrote this poem to encourage a genuine friend, who has both admonished and uplifted me on multiple occasions. I post it here, in the hope that these words might bless others as well.
Hide and Seek -
A Rhyming Pique at Things Oblique
A friend loves at all times,
and a brother is born for adversity.
Be courteous to all, but intimate with few,
And let those few be well tried
before you give them your confidence.
True friendship is a plant of slow growth,
and must undergo and withstand
the shocks of adversity
before it is entitled to the appellation.
(George Washington, 1732-1799)
I must admire your technique!
You hide or seek or take a peek,
And yet I hear the words you speak.
Ideals like destiny and fate
Have caused your heart to hesitate.
But wait! Perhaps it's not too late!
Alas, you've chosen to withdraw,
To set your face and lock your jaw,
Although soon comes the great spring thaw.
It's time to toss away that doubt,
To loose the binds and cast them out.
A new day dawns, so come on out!
A shiny glimmer crystal ball
Sheds just a shimmer, then a fall,
Enduring never, not at all.
You say you're idle, in a shell,
As if the world outside can't tell.
But it's a self-made prison cell.
The wolf, he howls outside your door.
He beckons you to blood and gore,
The ever-present carnivore.
The sharpest fangs that drip with dread,
Of those who'd keep you underfed
Can never harm you, sleepyhead.
For forces strong are standing near,
These multitudes, you cannot hear.
True trust can banish all your fear.
The dragon hovers, like a snake.
He hopes your soul to overtake.
And yet, you pray for Heaven's sake.
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Midwinter days are upon us, sending plenty of folks packing and heading for warmer climes. As retailers market cruise apparel and vacation fashions, one can only wonder about the significance of swimwear in our ever-changing lives.
Swimwear Is Life -
A Rhymed Retort to Suits We Sport
First toddling with a padded seat
To catch the items we excrete,
We graduate to ruffled skirts,
As we delight in sand and dirt.
'Ere long, we pick a racer-back
Of quick-dry nylon, off-the-rack.
Our bodies change, still teeny-weeny,
And we select a sweet bikini.
Between our teens, we catch their eyes
In lycra maillots, cut thigh-high.
By twenty-five, we grow more modest,
Choosing suits with tailored bodice.
Ten years later, spandex slims;
We tan in suits that never swim.
'Till middle age and gravity
Attack us with depravity.
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They won a prize, a special cruise.
“Hooray!” they cried. “How can we lose?”
They danced along the entry ramp,
Like two young kids, attending camp.
The noon-day meal was simply great.
She went back for a second plate
Of Caesar salad, lobster claws,
And then they headed for the spas.
Mid-afternoon, the call came out:
“The Lido Deck is serving trout.”
They quickly went to find their seats
And stuff themselves with ocean treats.
So, satisfied, they hit the pool,
Where sweet confections made them drool.
A waiter passed umbrella’ed drinks,
As they relaxed and turned bright pink.
By evening, rang out the bell,
And dinner beckoned them, “Oh, swell!”
They donned their fancy garb again, and then
They headed off to stuff again.
The presentation, it was sweet,
With every fish and fowl and meat.
They skipped the salad bar this time
Because the pastries were sublime.
That night, she hovered on the deck.
She was a nauseated wreck.
She stood and wretched over the side;
She’d swallowed everything but pride.
c2008 by Linda Ann Nickerson
Considered a medium-sized dog, the Golden Retriever is a perennial favorite canine breed, particularly as a family pet. The breed excels at hunting and showing. However, the gentle Golden Retriever's favorite sport is probably pleasing his or her owners.
The Real Golden Girl
A Rhyming Blog on Our Favorite Dog
Are you a Golden Retriever Believer?
"You think dogs will not be in heaven?
I tell you, they will be there long before any of us."
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894)
We share our bed with sixty pounds
Of whiskers, tail and fur.
And though she stretches, side to side,
We share our space with her.
With hair of gold, so sleek and soft,
A temperament so gentle,
She prances with her tail aloft,
We swear she's sentimental.
She hogs the sofa with her sprawl;
The kids sit on the floor.
And yet, for hours, they toss the ball
To see her jump for more.
The neighbor kids, they ring our bell
To romp with our retriever.
Returning, back in bed she'll dwell.
We simply don't believe her.
If you should come to our front door,
She'll soon sound her alarm.
But if you enter through the back,
She'll do you no great harm.
She'll bounce and beg and rub her nose
And lick you half to death,
If you can stand to draw her close
And smell her beefy breath.
In younger days, she'd hunt with men
To gather duck decoys.
Now she's had pups, and she's taught them
To carry bean bag toys.
Who is the ruler of our home?
View our family, and you'll query.
Home together or alone,
Our canine reigns! Be wary!
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In the U.S. Presidential Primaries, politicians have begun sparring. As two front-runners from one political party slug it out, who is in the middle? If his favorite prevails, will he continue to interfere?
Fighting Over the Bill
A Poetic Catch on a Boxing Match
An election is coming.
Universal peace is declared,
and the foxes have a sincere interest
in prolonging the lives of the poultry.
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
The boxers take their corners,
Prepare to slug it out.
The refs become bullhorners,
As audiences doubt.
Another fighter interferes,
All blustery and brash;
And, though sincere this man appears,
He's full of balderdash.
His place is elsewhere, not the ring,
Though he has fought before.
The boxers both can feel the sting
And point him to the door.
The battle belongs not to him,
Despite his angry voice.
His time has gone; his light grows dim.
He doesn't have a choice.
The ring officials send him on;
The boxers aim their mitts.
And so begins a marathon
Of slugs and counter-hits.
And yet, to those who listen best,
This angry game of skill
No longer is a boxing test;
They're fighting 'bout the Bill.
One throws a punch, and one falls down;
The third man utters, "Ouch!"
Despite his empathy, this clown
Will soon sleep on the couch.
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On September 11, 2001, thousands died after terrorists crashed two commercial airplanes into New York's World Trade Center. As the Twin Towers fell, many brave firefighters, police officers and rescue workers sacrificed their own lives to save others.
Burning in Our Hearts
A Tribute to the Fallen Firefighters
of September 11, 2001
We sing for you a hero's tune,
For you have left us much too soon.
You boldly gave your life away
The day the city turned to gray.
The sirens blared; the call came out;
You answered it without a doubt.
A tragedy had struck us all.
The towers fell, but you stood tall.
You vaulted over flights of stairs
To answer many strangers' prayers;
They live today because you went,
Allowing your life to be spent.
Your country and the world admire
How you leapt up to fight the fire.
Yet a much grander blaze did start
Within each American heart.
As years go by, we don't forget,
And we owe you a giant debt.
Your courage, valor, strength and might
Will ever live in endless light.
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"The dog ate my manuscript."
"The cat reprogrammed my PC."
"The mouse froze."
As a writer, I have considered many excuses as well. Still, deadlines are deadlines . . .
Cramping My Style
Imagination or Inflammation?
Dear Editor: About that rhyme;
I think I need a bit more time.
It's not a writer's block I face,
I'm concepting at warp-speed pace.
A hardware glitch has got me beat;
I'm squirming in my writing seat.
Ideas keep coming, fast and mean;
I just can't get them on the screen.
My carpal tunnel has gone bad;
Imagination's launching pad.
A typing cramp is in command.
And mouse-tics cripple my right hand.
It's not that I've run out of juice.
My poet's brain is lucid, loose.
I have a million more to write,
And each one will be dynamite.
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God gave Moses the Ten Commandments to guide the people and to show them their need of God's help and mercy. The Ten Commandments are recorded in the Bible in Exodus 20.
I wonder . . . how have I done? Has my life honored or dishonored the Lord?
Grime and Grace A Poetic Pause on the Top Ten Laws
I've stumbled into things obscene;
No steaming bath can make me clean.
My fine appearance, a smokescreen,
Pretending Heavenly hygiene.
For each Commandment, I have spurned;
Resolved for good and then returned.
Where righteousness may be concerned,
I cannot say I've lived and learned.
Loving God above the rest?
That has been a daily test.
Idol worship, claiming stuff?
I never seem to have enough.
Using God's great name in vain?
Perhaps I said a word profane.
Keeping Sunday set apart?
My calendar is torn apart.
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Copping an Excuse? (A Rhymed Recitation on Traffic Citation)
One Friday evening, while driving out West,
Putting her new four-wheel-drive to the test,
She spotted the lights, which curtailed her fun-fest
And veered for the shoulder then, under arrest.
She glanced in the mirror, perfecting her smile,
Touched up her lipstick and smoothed her hairstyle.
She'd talked her way out of this, once in a while.
But c'mon, did she think she was still juvenile?
"Hey, Ma'am, I clocked you at sixty or more,"
He said, as he leaned on the side of her door.
She glanced up and felt like a tyrannosaur;
This kid couldn't have been more than age twenty-four.
The wee whippersnapper was simply polite;
He said not to drive like a meteorite.
He wrote a citation and bade her goodnight,
Then he hopped in his squad car and sped out of sight.
She learned a most difficult lesson right there,
For when she was twenty, the cops didn't care.
They'd give her a warning and say it with flair,
But now she had better slow down and beware!
c2008 by Linda Ann Nickerson
Has multi-tasking become our master? Why do we seem to be fighting time and traffic every day? Sometimes, only a crash course can teach us how to focus on the here and now.
Making Up Time
An Advisory Ode: Keep Your Eyes on the Road
"Time is the coin of your life.
It is the only coin you have,
And only you can determine how it will be spent.
Be careful, lest you let other people spend it for you."
Carl Sandburg (1878 - 1967)
Rushed for work and out of gas,
With no time for the looking glass,
I snatched my keys and headed out
To face the daily knockabout.
I tossed my briefcase in the trunk
And grabbed a mug and roll to dunk.
I turned the corner at full tilt,
And raced my neighbor out in guilt.
Somehow, I zipped through every light.
Perhaps I'd make it; I just might.
My hopes were raised then, just a smidge,
Until I saw the tollway bridge.
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Clearly, the fashion police have gone off duty. Maybe the apparel authorities have punched out. Perhaps they are just punchy. Could be, we all are! Clothed in rhyme, here are a few wearable warnings for our time.
Compassion for Fashion
An Ode to Fashion Victims
I'd like to call up my compassion
For tragic victims of highest fashion.
Our young and old and in-between,
Are sporting garb that's just obscene.
Those skimpy, stretchy lycra tops
Are showing up in high-priced shops.
Torn jeans can fetch a price so dear,
They make your savings disappear.
And save those flip-flops for the shore;
They're not in style anymore.
Your chiropractor wants you back
Because your frozen arches crack.
Don't get me started on briefs or thongs;
Keep underwear where it belongs.
Don't wanna see your tidy whites,
So please respect my human rights.
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What do Eric Clapton and coffee have in common?
Neither are any good without Cream!
- M. S.
Cream of the Crop
My dear friend, I must disagree.
The best Slowhand is Mr. C!
My heart, just like a hammer, pounds
To hear this brave Ulysses' sounds.
A distant kin, this bluesman dear
Can run a riff to please the ear.
For decades, dancing on the edge,
A strange brew was his daily pledge.
And yet, his soul has searched for more,
As he has knocked on Heaven's door.
In tears eternal, seeking hope,
This long-lost pilgrim dropped his dope.
The Father's eyes have never left,
Although his soul has been bereft.
Like Mr. Key, the faithful pray
Forever man will find his way.
Photo courtesy of Variety - Music, http://www.variety.com/review
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