Rhyme: Bury Your Dead
Grieving is a divine healing;
God's helping you bury your dead.
There's peace in the palm of His hand,
Let go now take His hand instead.
We feel despair, we sob, we cry,
It's what we do when people die.
We feel sadness, we weep, we sigh,
It's what we do when we say, goodbye!
We dig through boxes of keepsakes,
Mementos, music, and old mail.
A sentimental picture comes
From a sound, a touch, or a smell.
We feel despair, we sob, we cry,
It's what we do when people die.
We feel sadness, we weep, we sigh,
It's what we do when we say, goodbye!
We go back, revisit their home,
The place we can see them so clear.
We remember the things we shared—
All the tears, all the joys, all the years.
poem by Caryl Ramsdale
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Couplet: A Place To Stay
There was a stingy, hateful man named Old Jack that died uncaring;
Too mean to pass through heaven's gates—he missed hearing angels singing.
Jack was sent to the Devil's Pit that roars with redhot, burning coals;
The smoke's too dark, the heat's too hot—the devil lives there with lost souls.
And after all promised rewards for living each devilish day;
One hot coal was Jack's lifetime prize—Jack was burned and sent on his way.
Jack found an oversized turnip, carved creepy eyes and a weird face;
Into the dried up turnip shell—one hot coal lit it's inside space.
Now Jack wanders the countryside, his coal burns to this very day;
Inside Jack's old Jack-O-Lantern—while he scouts for a place to stay.
Author's Note: A story about a Halloween “Jack-O-Lantern” Legend. Jack is not
real but the Devil and his dark pit are real.
poem by Caryl Ramsdale
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Couplet: Come With Me (Ekphrasis)
This door was cut from the same tree
that held Me up for all to see.
There's no latch, bolt, padlock, or key,
swing it open, (your name) come with Me.
Follow My lead. Stay close behind.
The path's narrow. See how it winds?
Pace yourself and don't make a sound—
we're passing over hallowed ground.
Not many have ventured this way.
They don't like the small gate they say.
Most prefer that wide road over there;
it's large, red gates are a matched pair.
Look up ahead. See that bright light?
That's My signal. An angel's in flight.
Not to worry we'll be safe now—
we're near My Father's house anyhow.
[...] Read more
poem by Caryl Ramsdale
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Couplet: Turn The Lights Up High
Four pair of hard eyes guide eight-legs that sway
‘Neath web making hunters in search of prey.
Instant vibrations—even light traces
Alert predators in deep, dark places.
Twining, twisting through hollow-hillside caves
Surface skipping murky, watery graves.
Tiptoeing athwart dusty desert floors
Lurking behind moldering cellar doors.
Catch wind flying open skies, on silk strings
Oozing fatal fluids—pokes, poisons, stings.
Sticky, silk-spun, thick jumble deception
Wraping, entraping in cunning fashion.
Ambushing insects, jawing side to side
Feeding off mice and small birds that can’t hide.
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poem by Caryl Ramsdale
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Couplet: Some Eyes Can't View
In my long past neighborhood at the intersection where;
Narrow streets meet each other—sometimes—I want to be there.
Where bright yellow beams circle, forks in the road, after dark;
Where snowflakes slide down columns, of light rays, that curve and arc.
Where lamps perched on tall lampposts illumine black ice and snow;
Where bright lights cover corners setting slick and safe aglow.
’Neath those light beams I first heard the silence of falling snow;
There quiet—gets quieter—as air currents shift and blow.
That’s the somewhere calling me back to its someplace sublime;
It appears to beckon me back home near Thanksgiving time.
Oft I go there in thought when family bustles my heart;
With think back memories of streetlights, big brothers, and art.
Isn’t it strange how small things leave a lifetime impression;
Or odd—how a simple scene—effects minds eye direction?
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poem by Caryl Ramsdale
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Narrative: Look Toward Home For The Holiday
Everyone’s talking of brave warriors—
Like you and the place where you’re assigned.
They say you’re inspired—stand for love
Devoted to country and mankind.
You don’t leave my mind day or nighttime,
Belong to me even in my dreams;
I’m either praying or reliving us
In one way or another it seems.
Sometimes I see your lonesome shadow
Framed by the horizon’s afterglow;
You’re quite worthy of imitation
As the loyal peacekeeper I know.
Tonight I placed a praying angel
Near a flaming Christmas candlelight;
On the windowsill, to light your way,
To the place your heart lives ev’ry night.
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poem by Caryl Ramsdale
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