The poem for April 6th was “seeded” with a word picked at random, which suggested a Bible verse:
TreasureAgain, the kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field. –Matthew 13:44
Treasures are the swag of adventures,
what pirates and dragon-slayers have;
spoil and booty aren’t for the likes of me.
Dividends don’t smell of seaspray,
no glamor clings to a bank statement,
and legends don’t follow a 401(k), however cursed.
My wealth is a bodyguard, not a trophy,
and though it’s small, I hope it’s a David at need.
I’m not rich much anymore, not like when I was young:
my goods have spoiled me.
So tell me, Jesus, haven’t I paid the great price
for this burden, yea, all that I am?
Can I get through that needle now?
The poem for April 7th is a pantoum (if I’ve remembered the form correctly):
The year’s been moody:
bud, snow; blossom, freeze.
I’m just getting started on life–
bald shins and shaky hands.
Bud, snow; blossom, freeze;
the daffodils died young.
Bald shins and shaky hands,
what will they become?
The daffodils died young,
spring’s first fly came early.
What will they become,
dreams that dried on the branch?
Spring’s first fly came early,
sure of summer but hungry now.
Dreams that dried on the branch?
Still sweet, still waiting for me.
Sure of summer but hungry now,
I’m just getting started on life.
Still sweet, still waiting for me,
the year’s been moody.