Dream Of Death

“Half Past Four I Fell Asleep”

We lived in a small mining house

In a little town, where we finally

Settled from our travels through

The remote areas of Nevada.

Our house was nestled in a little

Valley all by itself, with only one

Road in and none out.

If cars came in, they had to turn

Around.

Many nights I spent laying awake

Waiting for my mother to come

Home after her jobs as a

Waitress, and her frequent visits

To the gambling halls.

It was very scary at night when

Cars would come, their lights

Reflecting on our windows,

Not knowing who they were.

When I was finally able to go to

Sleep, I had many dreams and

Nightmares.

~~~~

The clock on the mantle

Struck half past ten

The hour to retire for

Most women and men

I listened to the clock

Heard a knock on the door

I looked, no one was

There

Half past two still awake

With nothing to do

Half past four I fell asleep

Forgetting the mother I

Had expected to come

Through the door

A gust of wind blew

Through the window

Death came in with a

Shroud on his face

He came to take me

Not yet was my plea

I have much to do

Much to undo

Death agreed to let me

Stay

He gathered his cloak

About him and went

On his way!

I suddenly awoke

Knowing this was just a

Dream!

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The Box

“A Narrow Box, I Was Curious What Was In It”

It is interesting what goes on in a child’s mind, how they perceive

Death and it’s mysterious ways, growing up with thoughts sometimes

Replaced with an adult’s point of view. However death is received,

There is the hope that it is not the end of this life but the beginning of

Something much better!

It arrived, it was a solem

Occasion, people were

Hesitant, I did not know why.

I tried to look in, but I was

Too small and it was too tall.

A narrow box, I was curious,

What was in it?

I tried to lift the lid, but my

Fingers could not reach.

With each attempt I became

More intent to see what this

Box meant.

As time went by I became

Older, going back to see if

Perhaps I could open it now…

I visited the box when life was

Violent and I was seeking

Silence.

Visiting a garden of rest, as

They lowered a box in the earth,

There were similarities as the

One I had seen as a child.

Then I knew it was for those who

Had ceased.

That could be me!

And then one day I fell asleep,

And was planted in the box

Reserved for me.

~

Waiting to be broken and come

To new life.. To be reunited

With those I have lost,

The hope of all who trust in

Christ.

No earthly box can contain

Our souls for when it is time

To rise ‘He cries’…

Pulling us through this earth’s

Crust, thrust out of the box

To receive the heavenly

Prize, one the coffers of this

Earth cannot provide!

Read more at: www.donnaspoetry.com

The Attic

“A gust of wind fans the flames until little remains”

A person can only handle so much, then
things begin to explode. Repressed memories,
reminders of the past, all play a part in this
thing called life.

****
The foundation is weak,
it seeks its own level.
Rusty pipes leak, joints
creak.
Red climbing roses speckled
with peeling paint, from
decades of neglect. Age has
had its effects.
The attic bears the burden of
this house of ruptures and
fissures, storing baggage in
rafters…it is full and ready to
blow, it has capacity to hold
no more. I am hesitant to go
in, but that is not strange,
I left long ago, it was too much
for me, I split in two, leaving
my child, a part of me, behind.
But she followed me in my mind.
In my dreams I could hear her
cry, in my nightmares she would
scream.
I can bare it no longer, I have
to return, to claim what is
rightfully mine. Reaching in, I
pull her out, now with me she
shall remain.
With such weight, beams crumble,
into the house they are falling. A
soft glow of orange erupts into red
tongues of fire, consuming the rooms.
A gust of wind fans the blaze,
until little remains, but ashes and
dust, and a few childhood
remembrances, that survived this
holocaust.
The sole of a shoe that once held
my foot, covered in soot. My
pink dress smolders in cinders.
A doll looking injured with charred
eyes and lips. Her hair on edge with
scars on her head.
A book with singed ruffled edges,
opened to a nursery rhyme,
“And all fell down.” I am astounded!
Walking through the rubble, I see what
trouble the neglect of this house has
caused.
Sitting amidst ashes, tears begin to
fall. This house had been my body,
to it I had not been kind.
I really didn’t want to leave, I did not
know what else to do, if I had stayed
I would have lost my mind. This
house had been deserted, the pain
it bore, tore a hole in my soul. It
must be restored!… Hinges
must be replaced, as well as windows
and doors.
Who will do this, I must have help?
I now look to the Rebuilder of broken
walls, the Restorer of houses in
ruin. He takes the destruction and waste,
preparing a dwelling place, one that is
built with His love and grace!

Read more at: www.donnaspoetry.com

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Weeping Prophet

“OH JEREMIAH, YOU WHO WEPT FOR YOUR BROKEN
PEOPLE, WILL YOU WEEP FOR US AS WELL?”

In the year Two Thousand Twenty

In the third month of March

A national day of prayer

Had been declared

There was a pandemic scare

Spreading across the world

Now six months later and not

Much better

Cities pillaged by mobs

Streets once safe no

Longer rush with throngs

Of people

In the thoroughfares

In amazement we questioned

“How could this be?” an

Illness we did not understand

Nor how to treat

It came upon us slowly

Then rapidly circling the globe

Doctors and nurses short of

Supplies

Willingly gave their lives that

Others may live and not die

Have we slept in peace and safety

Lulled by a lie?

Thinking we have all we need

Proud and free in a land of plenty?

What will it take to bend our knee

And offer our cry?

Our hearts are troubled

Have we strayed too far

From the God of heaven?

Have we spurned His love

He has so lavishly given?

Have we now been forsaken?

****

Funeral Of A City

A story of antiquity is told, of a

City once dressed in rich garments

Of gold

A royal city with grandeur and

Abundance, of perfection among

All nations

Lifting its splendor

Where God and His temple abide

In the proud City of Jerusalem a

People reside whom He

Long bore with His grace and love

Their safety lay in rules and

Traditions, refusing to accept

The King and His salvation

~~~

With a fountain of tears

A woeful man cried, pleading

Forty years he warned this

City

Only to be scorned and beaten

His message ignored, he

Wrote a book called

‘Lamentations’

But no one listened

How lonely sits the city now

Like a widow in sackcloth and

Ashes

Ravished by a heathen nation

Her walls of protection and gates

Are broken

Her children taken bondage to

A Babylonian nation, worshiping

Other gods forbidden

These men had turned

Their backs and hidden their

Hearts

~~~

Could this holocaust that has

Stricken our lives be a warning

We who may be living in the last

Tribulation?

Can our cities be restored, their

Gates and walls of truth and right

Be reinstated?

Oh Jeremiah, you who wept for

Your broken people, will you weep

For us as well?

Read more at: www.donnaspoetry.com

Bottles Of Tears

“Where Flowers Bloom So Does Hope”

Last spring I noticed a very small plant that

Had been a volunteer from last year. It had

Come up through a tiny crack on the patio

Cement. I didn’t think much about it and

Just watered it along with the other plants.

“Just A Tiny Seed Grew Through A Crack In The Cement”

And then it began to grow and today it has

Blossomed into a very beautiful plant.

It made me think of the hope we have, though

Our lives have sprung through the cracks and

Crevices of our life experiences

Our seed laying dormant in the confined soil

Dependent upon our restricted environment

Unaware of our significance

Dependent upon a Source to nurture

And sustain us.
****

There is a tradition in biblical times

When those who suffered a loss

Of a loved one, weepers were hired to

Grieve with tears collected in bottles
****

“Our Tears Are Never Wasted”

When we suffer a loss, whether a loved

One or perhaps the trials we bear

Our sufferings are never wasted

Our tears are

Stored in God’s bottles and

He knows just when we need the

Sprinkling to moisten our loss

That we may grow stronger, our

Roots deeper, experiencing deliverance

And freedom from our confinement

To this earth’s worldly existence!
****

A short poem of different
Traditions in the loss of
Others –
Mourners are called to weep

Lifting up their cries

Preparing for a burial

As the custom was when

Someone dies

She was just a child

Suddenly becoming ill

All that they had done

Had not made her well

Washing her body with

Sweet scents,

Painting her cheeks

Darkening her eyes

Placing rings upon her

Fingers and toes

A necklace of gold and

Bracelets of silver

Then wrapping her in

Linen

A procession begins

The mourners following

Close behind weeping

Tears in their bottles

To place in the tomb of

The child…

“He keeps track of our sorrows,
He has collected our tears in
His bottles” Psalm 56:8

Read more at: www.donnaspoetry.com

Resting Places

“The Laurel And The Poppies She Beholds”

There is an ancient Hebrew saying

“Faith is the confidence of things

Hoped for, the evidence of things

Not seen”

In my early conversion years I focused

On all the rules to keep, to be perfect in

All my ways, unless I might not reach the

Expectations of God and others.

To be lost was a terror I felt. It took

A long time for me to accept the idea

That perhaps this wasn’t true. Slowly

I began to let go of these expectations

(Though I still struggle with them)

The rules were like extra garments I wore

Encumbering my body. It has been a slow

Process. I don’t know if you can relate

And experience like me, slightly shedding

One piece of clothing at a time, like

Reaching for the door handle to be

With others and feeling just

A little lighter, a little naked, and checking

To make sure you are fully covered.

The serpent sheds its skin to allow for

Further growth, to remove any parasites

That may have attached to their old

Skin, often by creating a rip in their skin.

It doesn’t happen all at once!

Sometimes I wonder if we feel ripped and

Torn apart, by the lessons we have to

Learn to have new growth? Removing any

Erroneous ideas clinging to our minds.

Holding on to our old earthly garments?

The following is a poem with words

I have not fully reached, but by hope

One day, though not here.

~~~~

Pressing on with hope, that

What I cannot see will one

Day come to be

In my youth I I had striven to

Excel in all things given

In after years I was slowly

Driven

All things in the past forgiven

Resting places have

Arisen

The magic number seven opens

The door to heaven

A busy week of six, one day

Given for rest

That all may be blest

This is new to be here, I knew

Not I would rest here

Laurel and the rose with poppies

I behold

Before I had not the presence

Of mind to see the beauty

They hold

The briar and the thorn no longer

Exist

Giving way the pricks to one

Eternal thought, preexisting

Doubts

Prone to share this heavenly

Splendor

I seek one like I to ever press

On together.

~~~

I know how lonely our journey can

Feel, if there are others like me I

Would love to hear from you.

~~~~

There is a saying

“Therefore encourage one another and build up one another”

Read more at: www.donnaspoetry.com

Child Interrupted

“Happy And Free, Laughing With Delight”

A memoir of a child who once was happy and free in the garden of life.

A mother and a father, proud of their child dressed in pretty clothes,

A special dress her mother had sewn, adorned with a bonnet and

Barrette and a smile on her face, her eyes lit with wonderment

And delight. Like a fairy tale story, surrounded with love, secure in the

little part of her world.

~~~~

A Game Of Hide And Seek

~~~~

What is this game, child, you

Are playing in the garden of your

Life?

A garden full of wonder and beauty

Adorned with flowers and trees

Sweet sounds of birds with

Babbling brooks, serene and calm

And filled with trust

Playing hide and seek

Running from tree to tree

Waiting in excitement to be

Found by those you trust most

When suddenly this garden becomes

Very still

Not a sound is heard

Not even the sound of a bird

In wonderment you realize that

Everyone is gone as you

Sit down and cry

Wondering where your father

And mother are

~~~~

Falling fast asleep

No longer your secrets keep

It is true your earthly family has

Left you, but do you not know, there

Is a Father up above seeking those

Like you, hiding from their pain

He is with you when

Your father and mother have

Forsaken you

He understands your fear and

Anxious thoughts

He is here to take the painful

Memories away

Do you not hear Him walking in

The garden of your heart?

~~~~

“Though your father and your mother have

Forsaken you the Lord will take you into

His care” Book of Psalm Verse 27:10

This poem is adapted from the author’s book ‘Child Interrupted’

Read more at: www.donnaspoetry.com

The Librarian

“Growing A Little Older, Another Rung Is Added”

When I started writing, I had no computer, iPad

Or any other devise. I actually started writing notes on

My iPhone, in cafes, even bars, (very unusual since

I did not frequent them) but anyplace that had WiFi.

And then I found the library to be my refuge.

I knew nothing about the computer and struggled,

Going home in tears, but always returning,

Determined to learn what I needed to

Tell my story. But for a very kind and caring

Nephew stepping in and running the technical part

Of this, my writings would not exist to others.

It was a long process, and challenging, since

I was writing things that were emotionally

Disturbing. Long ago a very strong disciplinarian

Set up residence in my head, and a battle raged

Every day. The child in me feared this person

And hid behind words and numbers I developed

As a tool (a component of OCD). I counted

Everything I saw and words ran through my

Brain, a serious mental disorder.

As I look back, I know God was in control, since I

Was out of control. Little did I know that the letters

And numbers I hid behind would one day be words

Of poetry seeking my mind!

~~~

This is a strange vault for a library,

Consciousness holding and

Unfolding histories and mysteries…

~~~

The librarian is dressed in black

Her hair sleeked back, spectacles

Enlarge her eyes

A ruler is used to prove her

Authority, she is very stern and

And makes sure these books of

Memories are learned, on

Shelves in a sea of words

Where thoughts are stirred

~~~

The child is little, she is small

Latched to a tall ladder day and

Night with no relief in sight

Too young to know what matters

Just following the instruction, with

pages worn

From many fingers leafing through

stories told

~~~

She can barely reach the lowest

Shelf recording the story of herself

The twelfth shelf she must reach

In time

Growing a little older with an

Inquisitive eye, another rung is

Added, another shelf is saddened

There is succession of speed as

Wheels turn across the

Floor, the ladder reaching to the top

Before it stops

~~~

The child flees in terror to the

Basement of this keeper of life

Events and is lulled to sleep

Consciousness turned to

Unconsciousness, it is

Apparent the child is no longer

Transparent!

This poem is included in the book

‘Unshaken’

Read more at: www.donnaspoetry.com

Prodigal Mother

“Mother Had had Enough, Her Wild Desires Were More Important Than Her Child”

Messages are often sent to children even though

They are not aware, mixed message that are confusing.

Mothers play an important part, shaping their children’s

Thoughts and character.

There roles are often influenced by the missing parent,

Creating insecurities, and often the child thinks it is their fault…

~~~~

School is a difficult day after

The night before, words were

Confusing, people screaming,

Bottles strewn about the floor.

What are these people doing

That is so distressing?

~~~

No time for breakfast, running

Out the door, fearing she will be

Late, she can’t remember when

She last ate.

Taking a seat on the bus, the

Girls laugh at her dirty hair and

Clothes

Standing at the board, the teacher

Shames her for the questions she

Does not know.

The bell rings, but she is afraid

To go home.

Each time she goes she is not sure

What she will find.

Reluctantly opening the door,

Gathering courage to walk in, it is

Strangely quiet, as she calls for

Her mother.

Going from room to room, panic

Sets in, calling louder than she

Did before.

Mother had had enough

She couldn’t take it anymore.

Her wild desires are more important

Than her child.

Tears begin to fall, if only she had

Been better, if she had only been

Good

It is her fault that mother has

Left.

~~~~

There is a strange story told of a

Land where a certain man dwells

He has a special message to tell

Given by God to share with his

People

But no matter what he said no

One would listen, even though

He pled with them night and

Day

Then one day he awoke

Distraught, he must leave this city

He is too tired to carry on

Pleading with God his strange request

“Surely You can strike them dead”

God sitting quietly by is horrified at

Hosea’s words

But He has a plan for him

Strange and hard to understand

He is told to marry a woman

From another land

A woman who does not love His God

His eyes are big and wide

Where shall he go to find this

Woman?

Knocking on doors, asking

“Where can I find this woman

God has for me?”

Coming to a tavern in the late hours

Of the night

Tables are lit by candlelight

He is directed to a brothel where

She sits drinking wine

Dressed in red satin and

Enticing

He is not sure but he follows

God’s plan

Taking her home to be his wife

She bares

His children teaching

Them wrong

Taking them to strange altars

To pray

She is not happy with Hosea

And her children and one day

Returns to her evil ways

Though his children’s mother is

Gone

He loves his children even

Though they disobey

Feeding and clothing them

Hoping one day they will

Turn to his love

~~~~

Though sometimes we stray,

We are ever on His mind

With the call,

“Return to My love and be saved”

Read more at: www.donnaspoetry.com

Earthen Vessels

“I had become marred in the hand of the potter”

I have spent much time at the potter’s

Wheel, becoming marred in his hands,

Falling from grace, but with a love so strong

He left me not that way, forming me into

Another vessel.

With rotating, circular motion, making me

Dizzy with the busy motion.

Taking his paddle with a scoop of clay tempering

It on his spinning wheel. The process hurts,

His knife scraping away the unneeded clay.

Baking me again in the furnace of affliction,

Shaping me as seemed best to him.

I have become a new vessel in the hand of the

Potter.

“As chards of broken clay”

Are not we all earthen vessels,

Chards of broken clay

Lying upon the earth for

All to see

Since that good and evil

Tree?

Fractured minds, injured

Souls

Enclosed in an earthen

Vessel

Filled with holes

Coffer’s of treasures

Not of silver or gold

Hold those chosen to

Unfold

The suffering

Of this earth’s souls

~~~

“Like clay in the hand of the potter

So are you in My hand”

Jeremiah 18:6 in God’s Word

Read more at: www.donnaspoetry.com