A collection of poetry by Hannah
She walks alone with eyes cast downward;
each footstep echoes a whisper of thought.
She travels untouched by the crowd that surrounds her;
not a one recognizes the battles she's fought.
Some look at her in pity and others in despise,
but no one dares ask why the tears fall from her eyes.
She walks alone with hands clasped in prayer;
each footstep echoes an ardent plea.
She travels unnoticed though her devotion is rare;
not a one recognizes this quiet mystery.
Some listen to her in wonder and others in disdain,
but no one dares ask why her words pour out like rain.
She walks alone with a hopeful heart;
each footstep echoes a longing for love.
She travels unhindered as the crowd steps apart;
not a one recognizes this new beauty from above.
Some look at her in awe, and others look in spite,
but no one dares ask why her smile now shines so bright.
She walks hand in hand with the one she's waited for;
each footstep echoes with joy and laughter.
She travels understood by her Lord whom she adores;
Not a one denies their true happily ever after.
Some look at them with joy and others in despair,
but no one needed to ask how their love would fair.
Rain in the desert is beautiful and eerie.
The massive forms of the Catalina Mountains are shrouded
In a gray, umbrageous canopy,
Banished to memories of sunny days.
Thunder rolls across the Tucson valley,
Echoing the numinous language of the monsoon.
Hail, wind and rain raise their voices above the thunder
In a three-part harmony.
Staccato music is heard in the midst of the deluge.
Its rhythm is the heartbeat of the desert.
Slowly, the intensity of the monsoon ebbs.
Globules of rain hang from cactus spines,
Appearing to be windows to a world of desert sprites.
Water settles into rippling mirrors that soon disappear
When the showering ceases.
Birds chirp their applause for the splendid show.
Clouds part like curtains,
Allowing the last droplets of rain to take their bows,
And let the first rays of sunshine peak through.
The sunshine glitters in resplendent droplet jewels,
And a rainbow stretches like a banner In the sky.
This poem was published by Creative Communications when I entered it in a contest.
I know I'm not alone because when night
sends Fear's Army to my bedside,
I send a prayer to my heavenly Father.
"Send fear away and let your peace stay."
That is my prayer. I hear the voice of the Lord say,
"You are my child, I'll protect you."
I see Jesus on my bed, holding his arms out to me.
I go to Him. He holds me close and whispers
in my ear. "You have nothing to fear from the night.
Darkness cannot harm you for the Light has come."
I cannot see Him anymore, but I feel His Presence.
The crickets, chirping and buzzing, that kept me
awake before, sound like angel's voices.
As I watch the sunrise I join in the singing.
This is the first poem I ever wrote. I was 8 years old.
As silver meets the flame
to burn away the dross,
so my life is filled with pain,
but only filth becomes my loss.
The Maker's eye is on my life
which He guides in His direction.
Though present sorrows may be rife,
I'll soon be His reflection.
Simple is the shepherd
Who stands by the lake in the twilight.
He gazes at the sky, awash in pale gold
And thanks his God in the modest words of a peasant
For a day filled of familiar toil.
Genuine is the God of the shepherd
Who rejoices in an honest heart.
He loves the simple shepherd who looks over his flock with care.
His blessings flow to that lowly shepherd
In more abundance than the stars.
Majestic is the church
That stands in the distance;
A light shining religious semblance of peace.
Where priests and nuns are confident in their holiness
And words flower abundantly in prayers.
Disappointed is the God of the shepherd
Who would be god of this church as well,
But is kept away by hypocrisy and preconceptions.
He cannot give them the blessings of the shepherd;
they have their own reward.
Note: I just want to say that this is not a poem bashing catholicism, or any other religion or denomination, it is simply speaking about God's desire for honesty rather than a religious front. The reason I used "priests and nuns" is that I wrote this poem about a painting that showed a shepherd with a cathedral in the distance.
To know this power fully
is impossible.
To use it fully
is yet beyond
my grasp.
To desire it fully
I've already done,
and desire is the first step
off the edge of the brink.
To a poet,
to take this step is to be
a bird loosed from a cage,
free to fly
in words and rhythms.
A timeless symphony of lyric
forgotton by all but a few
who are chosen,
lets me soar.