Poetry Poems

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For* us *ALL, *BLESSINGS, *will*COME For, you, and me, and each, and*EVERYONE For*us*ALL*BLESSINGS,*will*COME Even, when we feel, beaten down, finished and*DONE When* a *door *slams *slams*slams*shut *right* in *your*FACE Stay,* FAITHFUL*, stay, *HOPEFUL*, stay,* PRAYERFUL*, and *a *window *just *may *open, *so *don't* give *up *QUICK*in*HASTE * Be *patient,* preserver, *and *stay *persistent* in *FAITHFUL*HOPEFUL*POSITIVE*POSITIVE*PRAYER You just never know, iwhat blessings will, come your eaygreater than you ever dreamed in *COMPARE Even *at *your* lowest *lowest*lowest*times *of *great*heart* ache*, doom*, devastation*, depression, *and*DARK*DARK*DARK* DESPAiR When *only *ONE*SET*of *FOOT*PRINTS*are *in *the *SAND*, just *know *really*really*really*KNOW*that *the *ALMIGHTY*LOVING*LOVING*LOVING*HEAVENLY*FATHER*GOD*, is *holding* you *so*closely *in *HIS*ever*LOVING*CARE By john d jungers 27th of may 2017



Unlimited Spiritual Power

This is the reason I kneel,
In front of the Father;
He has given so much zeal,
Relating to my Brother.

From whom all the family,
Up in Heaven and on earth;
Making us virtually,
For receiving a new birth.

I ask the Lord to give you,
A gift of glorious wealth;
For helping you to construe,
That is strengthening your health.

I pray that He gives you strength,
And power through His Spirit;
Persevere at any length,
In all your deeds of merit.

Through faith, Christ lives within you,
As His love will sink deep roots;
For a foundation as true,
And bearing abundant fruits.

Along with all the others,
You are fit to understand;
From your sisters and brothers,
Of what His love does demand.

How long, how wide and how deep,
How far of a distance high;
What the love of Christ does reap,
And without wondering why.

It goes far beyond wisdom,
Any man would ever know;
Stretching up to His Kingdom,
Down to earth will gently flow.

I am praying that you may,
Be completely filled with God;
And that you will also pray,
While you honor and laud.

Each day and through each hour,
Glory belongs in the church;
Through the spiritual power,
As you continue to search.

Copyright © 2017 Richard Newton Sherrer



"October 17th"

“October 17th”

She rode,
A beat up,
Thrasher board,
That use to belong,
To her older brother,
Who was 19,
3*years older,
Than her.
She liked riding barefoot,
But wore a pair of,
Black converse high tops,
If she was going,
Into public buildings.
She rode her board,
“Goofy foot”,
With her right foot,
Instead of her left,
She also used her,
Front foot,
To push off,
Instead of her,
Back foot.
She didn’t have,
The greatest sense,
Of balance,
But could still pull off,
Some pretty cool stunts,
But for what she lacked,
In skill and balance,
She more than made up,
In distance.
She rode that board,
And took it,
Everywhere she went,
She lived,
2*miles from school,
She’d ride her board there,
Then hook it to,
Her backpack,
And carry it around,
With her,
All day long,
To class.
She always wore shorts,
Her legs,
Hosting a number of scrapes,
And bruises,
All in various stages,
Of healing,
Creating a unique,
All their own.
She’s not going to school,
She’s riding her skateboard,
Into the center of town.
Today is the 17th,
Of the month,
This will be,
The 7th time,
She’s made this,
10*mile long round trip,
Except for the 3rd time,
When the wind and rain,
Were just too much,
For her,
To overcome,
She was only able,
To ride her board,
Less than a mile,
Before taking the bus,
The rest of the way,
Their and back.
But today,
Was just calling out,
To her,
The sun was riding high,
The clouds,
Serving no other purpose,
Than to break*up,
The calming blue,
Of the sky.
She dropped her skateboard,
Wheels down,
On to the sidewalk,
Pointing East,
Towards town,
With the sun,
To her back,
And her shadow,
Stretching 10*feet,
In front of her.
Her converse sneakers,
Size 7.5,
Started pushing her clear,
Of the only home,
Her brother and her,
Have ever known.
It doesn’t take her long,
Before her mind was lost,
In the repeating,
Of the wheels,
Hitting the evenly spaced,
Of the sidewalk,
Making her feel,
Like a train,
Touring through,
The country side.
She glided over,
Her cement expressway,
Her eyes wide open,
To all there was,
To see,
Wondering about,
All the heartache,
And love,
Going on,
In each individual’s life,
As she rode past them.
She had a habit,
Of looking at people,
And trying to guess,
If their world was,
Happy or sad,
Just by their,
Outward appearance,
Maybe because of,
The sudden changes,
That had happened in hers.
The sidewalk started,
To smooth it’s self out,
As she entered the city,
She caught a,
Downward slope,
That emptied out,
Into an intersection,
She saw the light,
Was green,
And gave a few,
Good strong pushes,
With her right foot,
To try and catch it,
Before it changed,
She flew off the curb,
Through the crosswalk,
Narrowly missing,
A red pick*up truck,
Turning right,
At the light.
She let the asphalt,
Slow her forward speed,
To a manageable rate,
So she had no problem,
Popping the board,
Over the upcoming curb,
Without really,
Much of a challenge,
The sidewalk up ahead,
Was empty and wide,
She settled into,
A steady pace,
Planting her right foot,
Like an oar,
In the water.
The wind,
Blowing her hair back,
And out of her face,
She glanced,
To her right side,
And saw her reflection,
Flashing by,
On the store front windows,
A frame by frame,
That made her feel like,
She was watching a movie,
Of herself.
After a while,
The sidewalk began to narrow,
The smoothness gave way,
To a much more,
Pitted surface,
And then,
After riding a few more
She puts all her weight,
On the back,
Of her board,
Holding it down,
Letting it scrape against,
The cement to stop her,
She then hops off,
Her board,
And stomps a foot down,
On the tail,
Causing it to,
Fly up to her hand.
She puts the board,
Underneath her arm,
And walks into,
A small deli,
The man behind the counter,
Knows her,
Gives her a nod,
And just says,
“Same as before?”
She nods back,
He had started to say,
“The Usual?”
As he does,
With so many,
Of his regulars,
When he saw her,
Walk in,
But stopped himself,
He just felt,
That the term,
“The Usual”,
Sounded hard,
And uncaring.
Both her and her brother,
Had eaten here,
Many times,
He knew both her,
Mom & Dad,
Very well.
She walked up to,
The counter,
Lowered her board,
Onto its tail,
Nose in the air,
Wheels sticking out,
Away from the counter,
As she paid,
For her lunch.
The man,
Took her money,
And looked at her,
With deep compassion,
In his eyes,
As he handed her,
A couple of small bags,
She gave him,
A faint smile,
As she took them,
And without saying a word,
Grabbed her board,
And headed for the door,
Once outside,
She dropped her board,
Wheels down,
And continued to procced,
To her destination.
With her right hand,
Holding both bags,
As she took a right,
At the next corner,
And as she got,
A little ways,
Down this road,
And all the buildings,
Started to,
She could see that,
The sidewalk was,
Scrubbed Clean,
And a short,
3*foot high brick wall,
Ran along the edge,
Of the sidewalk,
All the way to where,
The sidewalk ended,
And a large opened gate,
Above the gate hung,
A large sea blue sign,
With golden lettering,
That read,
“Central City Cemetery”
She pauses,
As a black hearse,
Followed by a line,
Of cars,
Through the entrance,
And as she waits,
She thinks back,
To the first time,
She ever rode,
Her brother’s skateboard,
Through that gate…
Her brother
Had been killed,
In a car accident,
On the 17th of October,
7*months ago,
To the day.
The first time,
She made this trip,
Was the one month,
Of his death,
She had stayed home,
From school,
Both her parents,
Were at work,
And she was,
In no shape,
To face much of anything,
On that day,
She was sitting in his room,
As she looked through,
His things,
All having been left,
Since that 17th,
Of October.
She suddenly felt,
This overwhelming need,
To see,
And be near her brother,
She just felt like running,
As hard as she could,
Towards the cemetery,
Knowing full well,
A headstone,
And a grave,
Were all she would,
Find there,
But still,
It made her feel closer,
To him,
And no one,
Was going to deny her,
She had so much,
Energy and emotion,
Bottled up,
Inside of her,
She couldn’t wait for,
One of her parents,
To come home,
And take her.
She had wanted to,
Take him something,
Something he liked,
That was of this world,
She quickly started scanning,
His room,
For just the right treasure,
To bring to him,
When she saw his,
Black converse high tops,
Size 11.5,
Sticking out of a pile,
Of jeans and tee shirts.
He loved those shoes,
He wore them to the prom,
And in the pool,
When he went swimming,
She reached down,
And grabbed them,
And when she did,
She saw the nose,
Of his skateboard,
Poking out,
From under his bed,
She pulled it out,
And with the sneakers,
Headed straight out,
The front door.
She had never,
Really ridden,
A skateboard before,
It took her all*day,
And more than a few,
Really nasty falls,
Before she got to,
The cemetery,
But when she did,
She sat there with him,
Till sunset,
When the cemetery closed.
She spent that time,
Crying and laughing,
Talking to her brother,
As if they were,
At home,
In her room.
She had called her parents,
When she got there,
They had pulled up,
Behind her,
50*yards away,
An hour or so ago,
Before sunset,
They saw her there,
From a distance,
With her back to them,
Carrying on a conversion,
With her,
Now dead,
They waited till,
The care taker rode through,
Telling people,
They were about to close,
Before they pulled up,
Next to her.
She heard the car,
Slowly pull up,
She looked over,
Her shoulder,
And gave her parents,
A knowing look,
That she knew,
It was time for her,
To go.
She stood up,
And took the long,
Shoe laces,
Of the black high tops,
And tied them together,
Then she bent down,
And hung,
One shoe,
On each side of the,
Brought two fingers,
To her lips,
And kissed them,
Then she took the kiss,
From her fingers,
And she touched,
The headstone,
With them.
She had a smile,
Of understanding,
On her face,
As she turned,
And walked to the car,
With her brother’s,
Beat up,
Thrasher board,
Under her arm.
She opens the left,
Rear passenger door,
Climbs in behind,
Her Dad,
Her Mother,
Opens her door,
Gets out of the,
Front seat,
And gets in,
Besides her daughter,
In the back seat.
She holds back,
A gasp,
As she can now see,
Her daughter’s,
Torn clothes,
And numerous cuts,
And bruises,
All over her body,
She doesn’t say a word,
Just slides closer to her,
As her daughter,
Leans over,
And puts her head,
On her shoulder,
Tightly clutching,
Her brother’s,
She shakes her head,
Clears out,
That memory and,
She follows the last car,
Through the large gate,
She has grown,
To like the peacefulness,
She is respectful,
Of the other people,
As she rides her board,
Over the stone paths,
That twist through,
The well*manicured lawns,
On her way to,
A back section,
Of the cemetery.
When she got to,
The end of the path,
She hopped off her board,
And on to the grass,
Still holding,
The two bags,
From the deli,
In her right hand,
As she held the trucks,
Of the front wheels,
With her left hand,
As she approached,
Her brother’s grave.
She somberly stood,
Over him,
For a minute,
Her head bend down,
While speaking a few words,
Only she could hear,
Then raising her head,
She drops the skateboard,
Wheels down,
On to the grass,
And sits on it.
She sets the two bags,
On the grass,
In front of her,
She opens the first bag,
Pulls out,
One of the two sandwiches,
She scrunches up,
Her nose,
And makes a face,
As she says,
“Tuna fish”,
“This one”,
“Is definitely yours”,
As she unwraps,
The butcher paper,
It’s wrapped in,
Smooths out the paper,
Then sets it,
At the foot,
Of the head stone,
With the tuna fish sandwich,
Resting on top of it.
Then she pulls out,
The second sandwich,
“Now this is more”,
“Like It”,
“Turkey with Avocado”,
“Bacon and Cheddar”,
She says.
She unwraps her sandwich,
And sets it on,
The butcher paper,
Before her,
She then reaches into,
The 2nd bag,
And pulls out,
Two Cokes,
In glass bottles,
“Well at least”,
“We can agree”
“On one thing”,
As she slides out,
A small flat metal,
Can opener,
Out of her,
Left black converse,
High top,
Size 7.5,
And with a big smile,
Pops the top off,
Each bottle,
Setting his,
Next to the tuna fish,
And hers,
Next to the turkey,
Then slides,
The can opener,
Back into,
Her left sneaker.
She takes a bite,
Out of her sandwich,
And a drink of her,
And starts talking about,
A boy she met,
In 3rd period English.
She’s talking,
Kind of fast at first,
Excited to be telling him,
How this boy,
Thinks she’s some sort,
Of rebel,
Because she’s always,
Riding her skateboard,
Every time he sees her.
Once she gets done,
Describing him,
She starts to,
Slow her sentences down,
Giving her time,
To eat,
While she’s talking.
Then after finishing,
Her sandwich,
And most of her Coke,
She stops talking,
Lies down,
On the soft grass,
Resting her head,
On the skateboard,
And silently looks,
At the sky.
After half an hour,
Or so,
She stands up,
“I better be going”,
“Lots of homework tonight”.
She looks over at,
The pair of,
Black converse high tops,
Size 11.5,
Still hanging,
On his head stone,
And can see,
They are starting to get,
Pretty beat up,
“Maybe I’ll get you”,
“Some new sneakers”,
“For Christmas”,
As she picks up,
Her trash,
And puts it all,
Into one of the bags,
Leaving his sandwich,
And Coke,
Right where she set them.
She kisses her,
Two fingers,
And transfers the kiss,
To the head stone,
By touching it,
With her fingers,
Picks up her board,
And starts to walk,
Towards the stone path,
But after walking,
A little ways,
She spins around,
And she runs back,
Towards him,
And like a little girl,
Bursting with energy,
Telling her best friend,
A secret,
She hollers to him,
“Don’t Worry!”
“I’ll Tell You”
“All About The Boy”
“Next Time I’m Here”.
Then she turns,
Back around,
And playfully,
Her way,
Back to the path,
Where she,
Drops her skateboard,
Wheels down,
On to the stone path,
Puts her right foot,
On the front,
Of the board,
And her,
Left foot,
Pushing off,
With her right foot,
She heads for home…

Tom Allen…05*23*2017…












COPYRIGHTS To The DATE OF 05/26/2017
TIME WAS 10:49 P.M.



Withernwick, May 2017

This village was my home
My first twenty odd years
I´m showing it to a friend,
At times close to tears.
Our cottage rebuilt,
The old bricks being used,
A holiday dwelling now
Standing empty and unused.
The smithy stands restored
The steel hooping ring is gone
It´s all grassed and mown
And a pleasure to walk on.
Once there were Binders
And other farm machines
On mud surface, replaced now
By verdant springy green.
The old church still there,
The graveyard closed down,
My family´s unmarked graves
Sunk level to the ground.
On one stone I read
Dates of start and end
Above the remains of
One lost old school friend.
Some once green sites gone
Where newer houses stand
But all tastefuly built and
In keeping with the land.
As we wander on round
Half remembered footpaths,
Not marked or very clear,
Maybe these days they
Are no longer really here,
There are folk around
But very few I know
Thogh everyboy replies
To my spontaneous Hello.
And one or two stop
And we have a nice chat
And i catch upon things as
We talk of this and that.
I´m glad we came back to
Where I got my good start
For it's really still my home
Deep down in my heart.
Wave goodbye to my ghosts
Then off on our way:
Memories added to memory
On this lovely Spring day.




Please visit my site to view>



Called Heart Songs

Called Heart Songs

I find myself falling at times . . .

Falling into the music and images

That reach for my words

From within the music

Comes the vision

Of what should be placed

To write its story

Music brings to the heart

Pictures of

Sorrow . Joy . Longing

Its message depending upon

What the muse is willing

To see and hear as it speaks

Behind this vision?

The music seems to play

A sadness and yet .

The multiple emotions

Of its strains

If listened to with the heart

Seems to tell a story

A story not quite heard or seen

That will wait

For another day to be told

For now it remains

To become for the time

Of this reading

A part of the heart that

Writes these words

Given today in

Bits and pieces to be placed

Devoid of form or rhyme

And yet .

There remains the whispers

A different form of calling

Than Shakespeare ever had

the technology to present

Music has always played to the

Heart of the poet

As images dance within the mind

The music gives them life

And both find their way

To poet's pen and blank posting page

If time allows the quill

To visualize the story

Will all factors come together

To present a form of poetry

Or . . .

Is what I present upon a poet's page

Nothing more than some music

That plays behind a few

Well chosen words

What could we have experienced

Of the true 'Masters'

Had they had what is available

To ourselves today

Sweet music and illustration

To complete their vision

From the windows of their souls

Allowing them a new dimension

Of expression and insight

The greatest books of poetry

Void of illustration

And certainly of music

And yet .

Original by Leas Gay


Aspiring Angel



Poem Untitled, But, If Not For You

just a bit off
the path
I'm fairly certain
that I don't have a recipe
and there's
no expert on me

the song I write
with my heart
I could always be someone
when I needed to

but now I've no need

full of possibilities
no one ever else
like me
I'm the one in whom
I believe
the original
making the best of
what will be
will be

when I glance
into my morning mirror
there's a smile
not the fear
that there used to be

wearing the skin
I'm supposed to be in
and wearing the scars
I earned
both bravely and

I know
I didn't arrive here
without getting a bit tarred and un*feathered
or a bit wounded
I've been named
the freak of the week
full of cheek
and feisty as hell

but its my claimed story
the ooze of it
the hoary gore bore of it,
not the sweet sell

who you see
is what you get
I ain't ever gonna be
completely done
you can't count me out
nor ring that
final bell

an original's
I've made
my own grades
I've picked myself up
so often
I'm certain now I can tell.
how I can learn
to manage most anything

looking forward
to that last less wilder ride
down the hill

its been hard
its been fun
its what I chose
what chose me
in the long run

I'm so grateful
to find you here
with me
we're together
through it all

you're the gravy
you're the laughter
you're the comfort
you're the man
I'm so fortunate
to have met
do you know
how much I feel
I've won

legal copyright for this poem/work
and also for this writer Melissa A. Howells
and also for this legally copyrighted site title:
Meloo Straight From Her Tilt*a*World

10:58am PST May 26, 2017 date/time stamped

with loving dedication to B and Me


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