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A Paranoid, Antisocial Four-Leaf Clover
No meant to do you harm
Oh, unlucky lucky charm
No one meant to run you over,
Oh you tattered four-leaf clover
The sun doesn't mean to burn so hot,
Oh, lucky charm in an unlucky spot
Don't you see that you don't match?
Why don't you grow in the clover patch?
You grow in the dirt, all solitaire
By yourself, with no one to care
A lucky charm in an unlucky place
Mud being constantly kicked in your face
Why do you choose to grow in the bog,
Within reach of an oversized dog?
You would be more of a king than a pawn,
Why do you choose not to grow in the lawn?

"Well, I'll take the heat and the pain, to tell you true
I'll take the dog and the loneliness too,
I'll be a pauper rather than a king or a pawn,
Because I'm out of the way when they mow the lawn."

(c)1999 Billy McAleese

Homeward Bound
In a cloud of dust among the many questions of faith,
You can find this man in his dusty, fallen land,
Trying to remember what he1s forgotten, and to learn
what he don1t know. He1s just a Christian man, trying to get by on his
own.

So many times have found him, falling from his faith,
So many times he1s been found, in just the wrong
time, wrong place.
He1s standing knee-deep in a bog of misunderstood
confusion,
All he1s saying now, is he wants to know where to go.

With a burden of the past upon his weary shoulders,
He rides ahead in search of something new.
Leaving behind what he had to deal with, ‘cause it1s
all he1s ever known.
Day by day, he1s living, trying to find a way home.

His family is far behind him, on the path to
self-destruction,
And as he looks in from a strangers darkness
All he sees are happy images lost and frozen in the
past.
He tries so hard to break through the separating wall
of lost forgiveness.

One day he finds himself alone, adrift and in
confusion,
Halfway from the past, and God only knows what1s
beyond.
And all he can do is fall to his knees and plead
With his Father to take away the pain.

Take away the pain of the swift confusion that has
marred his soul.
Lift him up and set him on his feet among a world of
falls from grace.
His thick-throated, rugged cries fall upon the lap of
a saving King,
And he bows before his Savior in pleading submission.

His Father lifts his hand, and it falls upon the man,
His loving arms bid the stumbling man to come.
In the gentle arms of his Father, the man weeps until
he1s dry,
And Abba, our Lord, wipes his tears and tells him not
to cry.

In the gentle hands of his Father, his soul is
soothed in separation
From the troubles of a man lost, without a home.
And in the gentle hands of his Father, despair turns
into peace,
From the confused path of the lost, he has stumbled
into love.
(c)1999 Krystal D. Monroe
e-mail Ms. Monroe at Hunny10498

An Old Gray Mare

In a lonely field, beneath a harvest moon,
Stands an old gray mare with her back to the wind.
As silver slivers of silken moon dance on her back,
This old gray mare nods her head in thought.

In her mind lies a fallow field, a field of rolling
plains. The sun warms her soft back after a night of
mid-summer rain,
Off in the distance, other young foals run in the
sweet sun,
After a quick breath, breathing in a fresh morning,
she bounds away.

In a dark quiet night, underneath a hanging oak,
Stands an old gray mare with her back to the wind,
As the wind picks up and plays with her tattered mane,
This old gray mare nods her head in silent thought.

Standing in hay-packed stable, shut away from the
sun,
A little boy walks into the stable, a smile on his
delighted face.
"Is she really mine, Grampa?" is the question as his
hands caress her.
A chuckle from the old man as he assures the boy she
really is.

In a lonely night lit by memories, next to a flowing
river of continuance
Stands an old gray mare with her back to a wrinkle in
time.
As the memories pick up and wash over her in a torrent
of time,
This old gray mare nods her head in silent thought.

In a growing field during spring, laughter follows a
race.
A little boy and his horse play together in the wind.
The wind picks up as they race around an empty field,
A faithful horse and her boy grow side by side.

In a lonely darkness, lit by a bittersweet memory,
Stands an old gray mare with her mind traveling the
course of distant time.
As the rain starts to fall around her, like
bittersweet tears in the night,
This old gray mare nods her head in agreement with the
cry of the night.

Years down a wrinkled road of distant past and long,
hard times,
On a bitter cold, rainy night, a man and his horse are
parted.
She is left to stand alone in that fallow field among
seeds of sorrow,
To stand alone next to an oak of hanging memories, of
past times.

In a lonely field, carrying the pain of a memory,
Stand an old gray mare with her mind in the abstracted
past,
As the night falls around her in a downpour of sad
reminiscence,
This old gray mare nods her head in soundless thought.

A night darker than present comes to her struggling
mind,
Lightning opened the sky with a crash, and rain poured
down.
Rivers and rain come together like white silk, and
they flow,
In this night of white light and soundless noise.

In a lonely field beneath a harvest moon,
Stands an old gray mare with her back to the wind.
As silver slivers of silken moon dance on her back
, This old gray mare settles down to sleep.

(c)1998 Krystal D. Monroe
e-mail Ms Monroe at Hunny10498


Here We Are
Here we are, a thousand miles and worlds apart
From a place where the journey began.
Here we are, in a bogged down, washed out world
In need of a hope that only one can give.

Here we are in needy desperation.
In a place where we only know no hope.
But there1s a light that shines in that tunnel
Of unforgiving love and lost peace.

On our way from the dark past to a scary end,
There is a young man in his tattered robes.
Here we are, and he offers us his hand.
Here we are....are we worthy?

(c)1999 Krystal D. Monroe
e-mail Ms Monroe at Hunny10498


Wings of the Butterfly

She is like a butterfly
in the summer breeze
floating among the whispers
of the rustling leaves...

Looking for a safe harbor
to call her own...a landing
one that welcomes her
beckoning..

She finds rest and comfort
in the darkness of the forest
her wings flutter slowly
as in the beating of a heart

All she wants is not to be broken
to keep her wings whole..
so that she may take flight
on her nurturing journey...

For with a broken wing
she knows the journey is ended
and she will then only pretend to fly
as she is left on the ground....

Her wings beating
to no avail....
Her journey ended
her smile faded...

Be her safe haven...
protect her wings of flight
for without them...without you
she has no where
to sojourn...
(c)1999 Myst
E-mail Myst at mystkissed@aol.com

Kenny Foust's Birthdate

Now let me think, what was that date?
Was it August seven or August eight?
I cannot help but hesitate
Wait a moment while I concentrate
I'll correlate and calculate,
ponder and deliberate
August Eight! That is the date
when we would want to congregate
with a cake that we'll illuminate
with candles we'll accumulate
Then with one breath, he'll aspirate
and the candle flames will terminate
and then we all will celebrate

But wait,
Myself I must incriminate
I confess I did prevaricate
In doing so, I invalidate
the day that I did stipulate
to be the actual birthday date
I hope you can commiserate
I didn't mean to aggravate

As a way that I might vindicate
eliminate and eradicate
the falsehood I did propegate
I lift my voice to reverberate
through the mountains of this state
I yell, spewing forth expectorate
"YES, oh yes! I did mis-state
Kenny Fousts birthday date"
but let me just elaborate
and let me set the record straight
The words that I do fabricate
all would rhyme and correlate
with the proper birthday date
had his parents only thought to wait
just one more day to procreate
but they're not the type to procrastinate
So in a nasty twist of fate
Kenny was born on August seventh

(c)1999 J P LAVA

Email: mcaleese81@aol.com