The Older Brother
Remind me of what the
father said
to the older brother of
the Prodigal,
“You are always with me,
and all that is mine is
yours.”
Fellowship with You is the
most important,
plus I have access to what
You have
through prayer. Thank You.
Along the Bank
As a child,
walking along the bank
of Shannon Creek
near New Florence, Pennsylvania,
my last name Shannon,
I dreamed of walking along
the bank
of Shannon River in
Ireland
and one day I did.
Thank You Lord,
for making a child’s dream
come true.
Caterwauling
Her small two-story
white, balloon-framed house
sits on hundreds of acres
in Colorado, which has
been
in her family for generations.
She’s single, senior years,
alone, but not lonely.
One night, she hears
a sound that seems
to run up her spine.
A shrieking sound,
like a woman in distress.
She knows it’s a mountain
lion.
She prays for her alpacas,
her geese,
her goats, her Anatolian shepherd.
In the morning she goes
out.
Chisolm greets her with innocent
eyes
and wagging tail. He had
done his job.
Her animals are safe. She
thanks God
for her life in which she
is joyfully engaged.
Safari Tent
Our safari tent, yes, had
canvas sides
with zip up windows, but
differed
from a regular tent otherwise.
A thatched roof sat on the
tent like a hat.
The inside looked like a
motel room
two beds, end tables,
lamps, electricity.
A canvas flap set apart
the bathroom:
shower, sink, toilet with
a curtain.
Cozy and comfortable, but
the best
was when you got to bed in
the chilly evenings
and found that while you
were out on safari
the maid had placed a hot
water bottle in your bed.
And as you snuggled in
that warm bed
you fell asleep instantly,
waking early
and rested for the next safari.
A Time to Celebrate
As one who likes to
travel,
Sometimes when I roam,
I wonder if home’s
vacation
Or if vacation is my home.
I’ve been on the road
Five weeks today,
Arizona, Nebraska,
And Kenya way.
Next week in Colorado,
I will celebrate
Arriving home
At my own gate.
Beneath an Acacia Tree
In an open field in Kenya
under a murky sky
with a distant forest in
the background,
beneath a lone, thin acacia
tree
with umbrella-like shade,
lies a small graveyard.
Black headstones in rows.
Birth and death dates are inscribed,
as expected, but something
unexpected,
no surnames, just Rosey or
Jasper or Tuff.
Also listed is how the grave’s
occupant died,
usually shot by gun or
spear.
This is a rhinoceros graveyard
in an effort to raise
awareness
and to discourage poachers
who threaten the existence
of these unique animals.
And the Last Poem
Ninetieth poem
Written in a hurry
And a flurry
And a lack of enthusiasm
Or inspiration
But still, it counts.
