Poetry

For Joel…

 

little boys
grow up and set
their toys
aside.

Little Girl Comes Walking Down…

 

little girl comes walking down
across the hillside green
place each footstep gently now
on stones – not in between

Arise, The Wind Has Found The Sky…

 

Arise,
The wind has found the sky.
Find string,
The time has come our kite to fly.

Something Special About That Car

Perhaps It Was You!
A Poem by Rev. Stephen B. Henry PhD.

 
Such a beautiful design,
Yellow and white, a Buick.
My Uncle’s last car,
But he never drove it.

Desiderata – Read Prose Poem by Max Ehrmann

Max Ehrmann (1872–1945) is an American writer. He wrote the prose poem “Desiderata” in 1927. It was some time before it received wide spread acclaim. That did not happen until 1956. The Reverend Frederick Kates, rector of Saint Paul’s Church in Baltimore, Maryland, included Desiderata in a compilation of devotional materials for his congregation. It then become more widely known. That compilation included the church’s foundation date in the line: Old Saint Paul’s Church, Baltimore A.D. 1692. This was mistakenly taken for the date of the text’s authorship. That mistake was, and still is, often repeated.

Ciara On Her Twentieth Birthday

Ciara On Her Twentieth Birthday
A Poem by Rev. Stephen B. Henry PhD.

 
When you were a baby small,
Before you learned to talk,
Everything was so hard then.
You couldn’t even walk.
 

In Rhyme We Speak Of Many Things

In Rhyme We Speak Of Many Things
A Poem by Rev. Stephen B. Henry PhD.

 
In rhyme we speak of many things;
Both big and small,
Or wide and tall.
 
In fear we speak of nothing more;

Like Quixote de la Mancha

Like Quixote de la Mancha
A Poem by Rev. Stephen B. Henry PhD.

 
Like Quixote de la Mancha he lays his heart down,
Breath caught in his throat, brow creasing with frown.
Rust the only crimson his tired sword knows,
From sea to the mountains, wherever he goes,

When First We Met

When First We Met
A Poem by Rev. Stephen B. Henry PhD.

 
        -i-
 
when first we met
i saw you as a little girl,
alone

It Was A Small Island

It Was A Small Island
A Poem by Rev. Stephen B. Henry PhD.

 
It was a small island,
A tiny mountain, hillock, really,
Of rock and trees and rich dark loam
Made of rotted leaves.