With the dawning of each fresh new day,     
I huddle with my closest friend and Lord
and ask his forgiveness, and then I pray
for strength to keep each evil lure ignored.
For each temptation, that I sweep away
insures self approval as my rich reward.
A tiny seed is wishful sown
in God's hungry, eager earth.
It germinates, not on its own,
since warming sun must beg its birth.
If its roots reach deep enough
in somewhat loosened common dirt,
it nurtures from soil's rotting duff
and comes alive in mystic spurt.
Our relationships are just like this,
and we expect, they fervent grow.
Dark clouds bestow sweet moisture's kiss,
but cannot set what fates bestow.
As with anything that's sown,
there comes a harvest we must reap.
Sometimes only weeds are grown
and we must learn which crop to keep.
There's great soundness in God's design,
yet I question the porcupine.
Fierce mosquitoes we sure don't need,
and hungry fleas are tough to feed.
I don't expect he'd plan for junk,
but then I wonder why the skunk.
Maybe our God makes booboos too,
so he's patient with me and you.

We are both linked prenatally,
but now my body constantly
throws reactive fits convincing me
its working hard protecting me.

My favorite foods are all suspect
of bearing allergens that vile collect
in all my parts where they expect
me scratch each itch most circumspect.

The batch of pills I take to mend
my immune system so it will end
such stalwart efforts to defend
the me, its most essential friend.

I am not seeking sympathy
but this stark truth is plain to see
that body and me must both agree
that it has grown allergic to me.

Sometime between now and never,
Time will forget my youthful sins,
and I will face a pristine forever,
once my genuine regret begins.

Removed from guilty intentions,
with commitment I've long postponed,
I will sacredly seek redemption
delaying death from debts still owned..

Why put off tomorrow's workload.
toward forgiveness I have long delayed
works undone will make a rocky road
from stopgap promises weakly made.

I know not how long life's course will run,
but  just until my last good deed is done.

When all is said and done,
the race through life, you've run,
count not the petty honors won,
the web of gold that you have spun,
is family.

Some people really love to speak,
and they just ramble on and on.
All the listeners that they seek,
soon wish that they were gone.

If they posed questions while they spoke
good conversations could begin.
When others talk or tell their joke,
these bores think, listening is sin.

A needed surprise rain
concludes the arid drought,
that withered spring grain
and curled green corn leaves,
turning pagans more devout.

This rain dancer believes
in thanking all of the Gods,
slighting none who might decree
that nimbus cloud tightwads
dump their water for me. Confident

The God who feeds the poor,
is most gratefully praised.
Convinced, my own prayers soar,
and this days needs are raised
which seems to matter more. 

I believe most religions are energized totally by the faith of their practitioners, and each worshiper remembers vividly when their supplication was answered, because of their faith. When their petition falls unheard, the unworthiness of their faith is blamed. A busy God maybe relies on the function of faith, to actuate all the zillions of petitions impossible to address fully at any one time.

I believe this potent and magnificent faith is the structure of our own internal God. When benefits are derived from our pressing our faith, our devotion swells. Nothing builds religiosity like answered prayers.

Perfection shines in God's design,
yet I question the porcupine.
Fierce mosquitoes we sure don't need,
and hungry fleas are tough to feed.

I don't expect He'd plan for junk,
but then I wonder why the skunk.
Maybe God makes some boo boos too,
so he's patient with me and you.

Fly fishing addicts you like drugs,
so I will ignore your puzzled looks,
sharing my art, despite your bored shrugs.

You can search in all the fishing books,
and not one describes how to catch bugs.

I fish a lot without lakes or brooks,
trolling skies with kites and insect plugs,
that drag my special midget hooks,
since all flies flown have but tiny mugs.

When tepid March winds start to blow,
they melt old drifts of winter's snow
and bless farm fields with fertile mud,
or rivers poised for springtime flood.

Exhausted wind by All Fool's Day
bring April clouds of sodden gray,
to dump spring rain on sleeping seed
that sprout and green, with sunshine need.

Come days of May, the sun burns bright
and Lilac blooms perfume the night,
while anxiously new lovers kiss
presuming love's brash genesis.

Ah June, the month when lover's vow,
they'll love forever, not just now.
When truth prevails, and lovers part
we blame brash spring and not faint heart.

My suit is ages old but fits me great,
so I don't care that it is out of date,
since fashion is not my strongest  trait.

My truck was new in nineteen sixty-four,
and I watch the road right through the floor,
a safety feature that I'm happy for.

My rifles are racked where you all can see,
so few folks choose to tangle with me,
and mind their own business sensibly.

When my working day at the mill is done
I load up my dogs for work out run,
and we tromp the woods, for hunting fun.

My family agrees that my choice is  right,
when we're together we always fight,
so that's why I go hunting each night.

All the past sins you must berate,
I have already laid to rest.
Quick judgment often leads to hate,
don't count the sins I have confessed.

Self-forgiveness is my strongest trait,
and my own pardon, I 've finessed.
Tomorrow's deeds we should debate,
good intentions describe me best

Thousands of homeless no longer compete,
vanquished by life, they parade in my street
coming from alleys where they humbly sleep
summoning nerve for the passing elite,
pleading for money to buy things to eat,
this prime example of our economic defeat.

Paying for their bad choices, they fester in jail,
crippled by lack of training, destined to fail,
judged then by courts where revenge is the tale
since there's no reforming a wayward male.
When they're released, did crime we curtail?
Cons are made meaner, for policeman's travail.

Fools fault the schools when this war is lost,
not the companies whose ethics were tossed,
to harvest the rich bounty from weaponry cost.
Cash from the lobbies mad house members bossed,
and we are the public their wars double crossed,
taxed for assets turned ash in war's waste exhaust.

       A NEW DAY
This morning when I rose to greet the dawn,
I heard rejoicing doves, not ever here before.
What brings you out to dance upon my lawn,
when all around vain men prepare for war,
and where have the marching soldiers gone?

A cheerful sun surveyed the new day's world
and did not seek a cloud to hide behind.
Perhaps it saw a flag of peace unfurled
on streets where vengeful hate's refined,
when mankind's trigger finger came uncurled.

I found an envelope blowing down the street
and it halted right before my feet,
I stooped and carefully picked that trash,
quite curious was it filled with secret cash.

It was blank, No hint of sender or of addressee
but a palpable lump revealed, was not empty.
I looked, and saw just one lonely seed.
Could it be a flower, or was it just a weed?

I planted that seed and hungered to see
how that mystery plant would relate to me
New people we meet are just like this.
Should we greet them with stones, or a kiss.

We learn from the past, some do not,
     and it is a shame
     they must touch the flame
      to find out if a fire is hot.
We too ignored, our leader's flaws,
which we had seen before
and pledged nevermore,
permit them trash, our nation's laws
COME JOIN WITH US...Gerald and Jacky Bosacker, Quakers and Humanists are seeking Society of Friends members or interested seekers to congregate weekly at Cherokee Hills, Arkansas.  They also wish to gather similarly inclined writers, prose or poetry, to meet in Cherokee Hills, Arkansas, or post on this site.