Wednesday, June 27, 2012


Trapped in a glass or pinned to a board,
Their beauty was something we thought we could hoard.
We laughed, we “Ooohh’d,” we “Ahhh’d,” with such wonder,
And never once thought God’s beauty ain’t plunder.

And only God’s best would do for our chest
Of treasures killed and pinned through the breast.
Ne’er once did they tell us it might be a sin;
The next afternoon, we’d do it again.

The lesson we learned was God’s humble Earth
Was ours to abuse for our own devil’s mirth.
How long can we use God’s world for our pleasure?
I think it’s in days not decades of measure.

                                               --Monty Wheeler

Written gratefully for NWCU's Wednesday Wake-up call

Wednesday, June 20, 2012


She wrote a poem then dared to let
One she thought a friend
See and read.  Then condemnation—
Her writing found its end.

She came nigh tears when he said,
“We’ll write today in class.
“Write a poem in any form;
“There is no fail or pass.”

The years had passed; she never dared
To let another see.
So painful-fresh the memory
Of criticism's glee.

“Tomorrow we will spend the class
In reading them aloud.”
She sat the hour with still pencil
And paper blank as sterile cloud.

At home she closed herself away,
Let fear consume her heart.
They’d laugh, she knew without a doubt;
She’d fail before she’d start.

She got her mom’s anthology
Down off the dusty shelf,
She’d read her favorites in that book
But always to herself.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning
And Dickinson were there
Along with Frost and Elliot
And Poe’s disturbing fare.

She read for hours, grabbed her pen
To write a simple verse:
“I write for better or for worse;
“My writing’s not a curse!”

They didn’t laugh; they didn’t clap
When she read aloud.
It didn’t matter to her though
She’d wrote again and proud.

                        --Monty Wheeler