Toy Guns

we loved toy guns
on christmas morn
the smell of caps
a holster worn

some were shiny
silver or black
injuns or tigers
provided to wack


favored toys
designed to kill
though just in play
a power thrill

we humans sing
let freedom ring
as kids we learned
the gun is king

Christmas Mystery

born to poor
the story goes
a simple man
a simple life

his legend lives
in written word
his thoughts inscribed
for all to hear

and yet a mystery
still endures
though not of powers
long bestowed

more the question
how his church
though wrapped in faith
could lose its soul

and how the men
who preach his word
defend the pain
that they impose

Apology

it seems i heard
in days of youth
of signs observed
of sinful ways

and as i grew
the story gelled
though not betrayed
by godly men

a subtle screen
in silence rose
and you were lost
a banished soul

and still today
the truth obscure
though all aware
of buried guilt

so you alone
must feel the pain
of pious scorn
of love denied

Afghanistan

a distant land of rock and sky
of snow and ice and sun-baked earth
a place unknown before the strike
a place beyond the reach of time

a landscape carved by brutal force
that raised a stoic ruthless tribe
still wary of the outside world
and wed to laws that we decry

a place to hide from civil men
a place to stoke the fire of hate
invaded by an allied force
their legions rise to welcome fate

but can our soldiers offer hope
for what the modern world upholds
or is our war to free this land
a futile cause of death and pain

The Sycamore

it rises high above a stream
near the edge of woods and field
there it stands through wind and rain
through heat and snow and winter chill

from just a seed this tower grew
though many threats have come its way
from browsing deer to insect hordes
the tree endured beyond our days

and throughout life its gifts abound
from summer shade to winter den
its leaves refresh the air we breath
its branches reach to usher in

by spring the songbirds flit about
and flickers drum its hollow wood
in fall the nuthatch circles round
as raptors scout the fields below

in winter's dark the white wood gleams
and seed filled globes adorn its crown
through ice and snow the seeds await
their chance for glory in the sun