A Sunday Prayer 07

Dear Lord there is so many questions
that plague our mind each day.
We hear of wars fought constantly,
each side declare God is with them.
Oh Lord, how can this be?
Who is right and who is wrong?
Pray help me understand.
A blind man when told
he could have his sight returned.
He refused to have it back,
saying he did not want to see,
the deprivation of man to his fellow man.
Oh, Lord surely there has to be explanation.
I pray to you to help me understand.
If there is to be hope for the human race,
we must understand each person’s problems;
never turn our back to those in need.
So Lord I ask you today,
grant us with your eternal wisdom,
so that we may understand and help,

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poem by David Harris
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The Table

This table is reserved an invitation for two,
only one sits alone and the other chair is bare.
He waits and waits as the hours creep through.
Stares at the empty space and wonders where are you.
He looks at his watch as another hour ticks by,
looks at the door to see who is coming through.
He feels eyes staring, probably wondering whom
he is waiting for as the minutes turn to hours.
The empty chair remains bare
as outside the sun sets as night begins to call.
This table is reserved for two, but where are you?
He thinks of all the reasons why you could be late
for this most important date.
He has rehearsed his lines of what he purposed to say.
The box with the ring within his pocket stays.
Where are you he wonders, do you love him anymore?
The negative thoughts invaded his mind
as he waits looking at the door, just waiting for you.
Finally the waiter comes along and tells him they are about to close.
He gives one last look at the door, then gets up and goes.

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poem by David Harris
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Madonna of the Streets

For many years, she walked the streets
and her body she sold.
It was a living, she said,
but deep within her,
there was a heart of gold.
The story goes they called her
the Madonna of the streets.
If anyone needed help,
her outstretched hand was always there.
She rescued many young souls
from the streets of despair.
Her neighbours turned their nose up
at her living ways,
but took a long second look
the day the lord took her away.

A child was playing in the road,
the car they did not see,
but this woman of the night
saw what was happening there.

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poem by David Harris
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A Tightwad Tooth Fairy Called Griselda

There was a tightwad tooth fairy
and Griselda was her name.
When you had your teeth out
and put them under the pillow
she would come along and pinch them
and leave nothing in return.
You would wake up in the morning;
look under your pillow for some dosh,
but under your pillow was empty there.
As you looked at the empty space,
you knew straight away
that Griselda the tightwad tooth fairy
had been about.
Complaints followed complaints
to fairly land
about this tightwad tooth fairy.
The fairy council
had never heard of such a thing.
A tightwad tooth fairy.
Oh, this could never be.

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poem by David Harris
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A Bold Knight

He rode is gallant steed
the sun reflecting off his breastplate.
He rode into the dragon’s den
to rid his precious homeland
of the monster that stalked it there.

This bold knight whose armour
glinted in the sun
rode high upon his steed
and would soon be
a hero to everyone.

Many had died at the breath
of this monstrous beast,
now one man
with the courage of a lion
would soon end the rein of terror.

Dismounting from his steed,
sword and shield in hand

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poem by David Harris
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Buses (Fun Poem 42)

When they told me
not to use my car for a month.
I smiled and thought,
a blessing in disguise,
but now I’m not so sure.
Walking a couple of miles each day
to get from point A to B,
that is not all that bad.
For longer journeys
I had to use Public Transport.
This is where that blessing
turned into a nightmare in disguise.
You can wait at a bus stop
for an hour or more,
then some bright spark will tell you,
the buses don’t run this way anymore.
Finally you find a bus stop
that the buses do use.
There you wait and wait.
Then you see your bus coming along,

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poem by David Harris
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Early Works - Bob And June

If this world should ever end
in the next we’d still be friends
for though we are from different walks of life
with different worries and strife
we combined together in strength of force
with friendship as a straight and narrow course.

Bob is the youngest of us all
isn’t very tall, but his friendship
is something you cannot explain
it’s true and sound, something profound.
June, Bob’s wife I’ve not known that long
has given me friendship and hope that’s strong
that’s why when together in a room
all sadness by happy faces and laughter is consumed.

Though our world is changing rapidly
our friendship will remain constantly
for our friendship will never break
of this make no mistake

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poem by David Harris
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Ballad Of ‘Memo’ Roy

For JoAnn
Who in conversation inspired this little ditty.

This is the Ballad of ‘Memo’ Roy
the fastest memos in the world.
Roy writes a memo every minute
just to remind himself what to do.
He even writes one to tell himself
he must visit the loo.

It all started many years ago
when the doctor told Roy
he was suffering from
short-term memory loss.
Now he writes memos
to remind himself to write a memo
for everything he must do.

He writes one late at night
to remind him

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poem by David Harris
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Eyes Of Mr D (Part 2)

A few days later,
the newspapers tell the story
of a young woman found on the beach.
She had been strangled,
that is all the police would say.
There were no photographs;
the family had to be informed.

Sadness filled him.
Who was this girl whose death he saw?
The question bothered him.
What kind of eyes was he given?
Where did they come from?
Who was the previous owner of these eyes?

Days followed days,
his restlessness grew.
He had to know the answer,
of whose eyes he had.
Through the years, he had saved

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poem by David Harris
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No Difference

The other day I wrote a poem
and a friend asked me how I
could feel the pain of her kind,
as she was a different race from me.
You are white and I am black,
so how could you feel the pain I felt?
The answer was simple
we were not of a different race.
There is only one race, the human race.
We maybe different in the colour of our skin,
but we share each other’s pain.
I share yours and you share mine
whenever we are struck by grief.
We may eat different food,
but we both breathe the same air.
We see through different coloured eyes,
but we both see the same things.
There is no difference between us
except within our colour
and I am a man and you are a woman,

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poem by David Harris
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