Word.

(I'm trying to start writing poems again. And there is no try, only do. So every so often, you, dear reader, will be assaulted by some attempt at poetry which will, with time, prayer, resignation and patience, get better.)


Peace Within and Without.


It is a soft thing.
It comforts and calms 
Bringing warmth and joy.
It lives in the smiles of children, 
In the comfort of the home
In mother's cooking and 
In father's smile.


It is a hard thing.
It puzzles and perplexes
Causing wonder and awe.
It lives in the alleys with the rejected
It crawls on the ground with the rats
It warms itself by the fire with the homeless
It sleeps nestled in the arms of the fatherless


It is a strong thing.
It smolders and shelters
Guarding the weak and strong.
It lives in the child of the broken home
In the shells that burst a mile from the house
In the casket at the funeral of the father and
In the urn that holds the mother.


It dances upon the marble floors
It sings in the coldest alleys
It holds in the darkest moments


It passes understanding
It transcends situations 
It looks past the scars.


It is peace.
Within and
Without.








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  Of course I have to be that doo-doo head that completely annihilates any room for personal interpretation. But I don't think I will. I have to make one note, though. The words look kind of like a mountain turned on its side. Haha I just think that's kinda neat. Kaybye.