Your eyes are on the clothes and shoes –
Pray tell, then, where’s your child?
Why do you allow distractions when
Your restless child grows wild?
Why, happy you, surveying sights, amassing
Things as joy,
Hear not the child, but take your eyes
Off your sweet girl or boy.
If you’re not looking out for them,
With designated care,
God help this child if one eyes them
And sees you unaware.
Why is it if we vote your way,
We are progressive smart.
If, on the other hand, we change-
We’re ignorant from the start?
Can this same people be both
Dumb and smart with voting voice?
I think not – you are just not satisfied
With their new choice.
The next time we go to the polls
And choose after the talk.
If you still question the voter’s mind,
It may be you going for a walk.
A call to find some info sure, your quest is not complete.
You find voice mail has taken o’er, before you take your seat.
You get all info from the voice, except what you have sought.
Because it cannot meet your needs; it gives what it’s been taught.
Dial “1” for address, “2” for phone – there is no end in sight.
Of course, there is no number for the need you have that night.
For office hours or the like it seems a good intent,
But if you need some more detail, there’s no one there to vent.
Oh yes, you can press “0”, you see. To find a person real.
But by the time you’ve pressed the sequence set your fingers lose their feel.
The yellow page – the finger walk is hard now to compare.
You miss the days when brains were used to find the info there.
You showed us by your service, which your face proudly displays,
the personal sacrifice you gave. It touches us today.
The numbers tell a summary of the great emotional toll,
which engulfed all those around in a massive life sinkhole.
But you are each survivors, and the flag’s still proudly flown,
yet part of you remains where grass and soil are overgrown.
Each day you live among us and we’re grateful you were there.
Please accept our humble gratitude as a badge we’ll gladly wear.
In recognition of the service wrought by this brave man,
His service some great medals won, because he took a stand.
When mailed to him in expectation — his own honor to bear,
Someone stole the contents of this very special fare.
So now we’re here — decades removed, yet honor was not gone.
No thief can take away the place where true courage belongs.
A medal is seen in visual sight, yet reveals what’s in the heart.
We honor Dennis here today; a man of valor from the start.
Av – o – cado –
Up to 65 feet it grows.
A flowering plant with berry fruit,
But there’s one 6 foot flower I know.
Berry good. That’s the word from Cricket, who is such a delightful hoot.
In the tropics he does really well, and he’ll gladly tell of the growth that comes within.
Free from sin, for He let Christ Jesus come in.
Avocado is free to bloom for Him.
Av –o – cado –
Planted in the warmth of God’s dear Son,
Basking also in the heat of his own hon.
Oh, how wonderful,
Is everything God’s done.
And you can see it, peering beneath each life task,
answering what our Lord Himself does ask.
Seeking, toiling in ardent prayer.
The harvest will be very glad he’s there.
Av – o – cado –
Thank you, Lord, for Cricket’s guy.
No one had better ever try
To soil the path God has laid on high.
Never late, even if nudged by his mate.
Like Dennis, avocados make this world great.
Three-tiered level, lovely in splendor.
Its pillars uphold it in view.
It ascends unto growth, as we sway back and forth
In this garden of love where we bloom.
Its pinnacle clings to the height wherein leans,
This physical eros of love.
Passions abound, our feet off the ground.
This intimate gift from above.
In the midst of the climb, we find just in time
The level of love of the friend.
The phileo dream, where our hearts catch a gleam
Of support from them, which never ends.
The structural base from which true love’s embraced, the loving expression of God.
Agape divine – this “One of a kind”-
Without which these tiers crash the sod.
Three levels of love, connected they are;
Dependant on each for support.
Start with God, then ascend,
Or the tiers start to bend.
Only with God is love of this sort.
Chocolate mixed with smooth-style oil,
Reese’s peanut butter, this.
Two separate ingredients forming one-
A Reese’s candy bliss.
Ev’n so, two divergent thoughts
Form solely on one main.
I think it so, no sweeter sound
To mesh life’s rough terrain.
Science, awareness of what’s seen,
And God, seen through faith’s scope;
Coat us each in creation where
A world is needing some hope.
The unseen using what is seen
To bring forth things to sprout.
These buds of life can live forever
It’s something worth talking about.
A treasure chest is found scattered among the weeds and moss.
To divers it appears at first that all valuables are lost.
Behold, open that lock and look – the vault of gems therein.
To share the prize of these inside, we hardly can begin.
Their worth exceeds the picture drawn, if searchers truth they seek.
They need to delve in deeper, not accepting mere small peek.
Glimmering among the jewels, the pearl, in all its stride.
Its essence makes you desire more, so you eagerly peer inside.
The coat of this gem, a distinctive placement rare,
Makes everything contained look dainty and fair.
The pearl of great price, displaced from His royal throne,
Appeared in our midst, long ago seeking to atone.
His presence made our darkness light,
And in Him all wrong can be made right.
Close to His chest are the stones of allure,
They hang as gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
He covers us in the shadow of His hand, an oyster asleep.
Enfolds around us protection and care, where He knows we’ll keep.
In that shell is a comfort from the storm, a shield from rage.
And in our time of youth-loved thought, this one will never age.
Common theme of years gone by, if trouble came right back.
It must be you’re on the wrong side, the wrong side of the tracks.
In present world, no tracks exist. Trouble’s on every side.
There’s no suburb or rural place to flee so you can hide.
In inner city, January eve, a house burns, mother dies.
In northeast suburb, dear friend’s stabbed. In blood, her body lies.
Distinction, none, the tracks are gone. The hands of violence great.
Without the tracks, the train roars on. The help still comes too late.
What can be done in city, state, for raging sea of slain?
First, keep in mind that evil lurks beneath some who seem sane.
The deadly virus of this plague transmits through dormant rage.
Don’t ignore the book of violence. You may appear on its next page.
