A Medley of Poetry © 1996  


Foreward--by Kristine Munsie: her brief critique and opinion on these poems.
Introduction--an in depth welcome which introduces you to my style of poetry.
Table of Contents--self-explanatory.
Miscellaneous Poems--simple, everyday poems about common, household topics.
Animal Poems--poems about various animals and how the world relates to them.
Nature Poems--poems about nature in general and how it relates to the world.
Seasonal Poems--poems about the different seasons and how they affect us.
Religious Poems--poems about Christianity and how it affects my life.
Personal Poems--"deep" poems about my own trials, goals, dreams, and ideals.
Poet's Note--a "word to the wise" for aspiring artists, writers and poets.


By Kristine Munsie

"My feelings about "A Medley of Poetry" are that Xenia Arrick brings her thoughts to life and gives each of them meaning, and her expression is so overwhelming that it brought tears to my eyes. I happened to really like the poem "Backyard Secrects", because it is so true to life; there are so many secrets to life that one does not have to go far in order to find a great adventure just waiting for them. It's almost as if every backyard is it's own "Pandora's Box". As for her animals, they seem to become more and more life-like with each word written. Sometimes one can almost feel what they are feeling, or even that one could reach out and touch them if he or she tried. I myself haven't read much poetry in the past seven years, and when Mrs. Arrick brought me her poetry to read I was awed. It brought something to life again inside of me that I thought was long dead. For this I am very grateful to her."


By Xenia Arrick

Welcome to the exciting, poignant, fanciful, ponderous, vengeful, magical, adventurous, depressing, romantic, blissful, awe-inspiring, and yet incredibly simple world of poetry! (And I say simple because even the deepest, most difficult to understand poems and riddles are presented in the simplest way they possibly can be.) Unless the poet is writing a diary, he wants their reader to fully understand what he is trying to say, even if it does take a little brainwork to accomplish. How else could the meaning of the poem ever be communicated to anyone? Next to art, poetry is one of the most creative ways of communicating there is. Prose, without any vivid description or action-packed dialogue, can often sound "dead". But poetry, especially when set to music, is a joy to hear. Perhaps you never really thought that the lyrics of all the songs you hear on the radio are actually just poems. But read the words on the inside of a tape cover and you'll see that they're really nothing more than that. Unfortunately, the poems in this book are only meant to be read, but if you're a true lover of poetry, that won't stop you from enjoying them! I have tried my best to give you a wide variety of poems to read, from very humorous and light-hearted to very deep and ponderous. (All the poems I wrote during my childhood have been included as well, so if some of the poems sound very childish to you, then that's why.) But as I said, they're all really quite simple; you just have to understand me and my style to understand them. I'll leave you now to your reading, however, do take time to sit and think about each poem once you've read it, for many of them have a much deeper meaning to them than is found on the surface, and this is especially true with the free-verse (unrhymed) poems...Well, enjoy! (Note: in order that you may learn the names of various methods of poetry, I have indicated before the titles of many poems as to what type of poem they are, be they pantoon, haiku, tanka, villanelle, arenga, limerick, sonnet, or ballad.)

Table of Contents:

Miscellaneous Poems:

Pantoon--To a #2 Pencil
Backyard Secrets
Tanka--Of Love
Haiku--Love #1 (The Butterfly)
Haiku--Love #2 (The Feather)
Haiku--Marriage (The Flower)

Animal Poems:

Past Pets
The Goldenrods
Rabbit Run
Buffalo, O Buffalo
Neither's Better
Where Do All the Moths Go?
Villanelle--The Old Whale's Last Caress
White Horses of the Moon
The Albatross (was published in 1991 in anthology of Tarrant Co. Junior College)
Why Do the Birds
Wild Horses
Eating Grass
Of Whales
Haiku--Timber Wolf

Nature Poems:

Wild Oak
The Krummholtz
Victoria's Eden
Plants and People (published in "Nightfall of Diamonds" by the National Library of Poetry)
The Grass
Dewdrops (published in "A Moment to Reflect" by the National Library of Poetry)

Seasonal Poems:

Watermelon Summer
Autumn Days
Something About the Winter

Religious Poems:

How Many (Hymn)
The Body (Hymn)
Trinity (Hymn)
The Eyes of the Lamb (Hymn)
Infinite Words
Prayer of a Fetus
The End of the Age
Temptation Has Ways of Lurking About
Premarital Pleasures
Forgiveness Is Forever
Knowing the Now

Personal Poems:

Sonnet--Of Thy Love
Ballad--The Tree of Love
Life Seasons
All the Wisdom of the World

Poet's Note

Miscellaneous Poems:


To be queen of a golden castle,
To ride a porpoise in the sea,
To soar with the mighty eagles
To an unknown destiny;

To see a silvery unicorn
Prancing high atop a rainbow,
To be a dauntless conqueror
With no longer any foe;

To be a famous celebrity
In a rich, exquisite place,
Or an adventurous astronaut
Launching into space...

All it takes is imagination.


Everything that breathes
Has a right to keep

Everything that grows
Has a right to keep

Everything that lives
Has a right to keep

All this I know,
And it's quite well worth

Pantoon--To a #2 Pencil

While strolling through my school's parking lot
On a lovely eve in the month of May,
I saw a sight I wish I had not:
A golden pencil in utter decay.

On a fine eve in the month of May
To see a sight causing such unbelief:
A lost pencil in total decay,
Hardly seems a cause for any such grief.

The reason this caused my unbelief,
This pencil abandoned, shattered, rotten,
With no one but me left in such grief,
Knowing it's greatness is now forgotten.

This pencil, rained on, stepped on, rotten,
Once used to pass finals, or make fine art,
And now it is almost forgotten
As it lies crushed where the teachers do park.

It once passed finals, created art,
It once wrote stories, or poems such as this;
Now it lies in oil where teachers park...
And I ask it gently, "What went amiss?"

Yes, it wrote the words for poems like this,
And it is the middle man of our words,
I'll never be sure what went amiss,
But surely this is not what it deserves.

It is the tool of our unvoiced words;
A very powerful tool it can be...
So this cannot be what it deserves,
For the labor it does for writers like me.

For the powerful tool it can be,
It makes me quite sad to see it just rot;
When it does so much for those like me...
At least it's words will last where it will not.

It makes me so sad to see it rot,
Especially on such an eve in May,
But if it's words last where it will not
Then in vain this pencil did not decay...

So if strolling through a parking lot,
You see a pencil as decayed or less,
Please try to kick or step on it not,
For it might have once helped you pass a test.

Backyard Secrets

Someday when you are feeling small,
With no importance to be found,
Step out into your own backyard
And take a good look at the ground.
When you do, you will start to think--
Just who all lived here till I came?
Think of how old that ground must be,
And all the secrets to its name.

Think if the ground could only speak,
To tell of wonders that once passed...
Of forests gone and beasts extinct;
Now but remembered by the grass.
The people who once knew that ground
Were Indians, Conquistadors, Explorers, missionaries...
Even "cavemen" and the dinosaurs!

Think of the fossils buried there--
Those bones and weapons never found--
Think of all the mysteries
Lying deep beneath that grassy ground!
Perhaps there are better things,
Such as minerals or even gold;
But do not try and dig them up--
Secrets are better left untold.

Only the ground could know these things,
But as I said, it cannot speak;
It can never reveal all it once knew--
How lonely it must be!
Yet it is proud, as you should be;
It holds safe what is buried there;
It knew the sinners and the saints,
And now you are its rightful heir.

Though you can never truly know,
Try not to feel so very small;
Be proud to own your own backyard--
There lay the best wonders of all...
So when you are out searching for a quest,
You need not try so hard;
The greatest fun you may ever have
Could be in your own backyard!

Tanka--Of Love

Sometimes I wonder
If love was meant to be an
Unleashed loyal pet,
A flower sun-dependant,
Or an anvil on the toe.

Haiku--Love #1 (The Butterfly)

Love, the Butterfly
Caged, leashed, and in the stomach
Of a Nightengale.

Haiku--Love #2 (The Feather)

Love is a Feather
High on the breeze...in the eye
Of a Hurricane.

Haiku--Marriage (The Flower)

Marriage, the Flower
Hearing of a Drought, and yet
Expecting a Flood.

Animal Poems:

Past Pets

We had a cat named Julie once,
As sweet as a tabby could be,
But two dogs broke her neck one day,
Which I'm glad I did not see.

We then owned a yorkie named Sam,
Who possessed no visible eyes,
But we didn't keep that puppy long;
A hawk nabbed him by surprise.

Another cat named 'Mantha was
Quite dear, but rare; an odd-eyed white,
Thus I am not at all surprised
That she was stolen one Fall night.

We too owned a rugged white tom,
Who thought himself the King of Cats;
He'd pace the wall each moonlit night,
And then yowl, or chase down the rats.

Yet he was a practical cat,
So thus mere "Kitty" was his name,
He'd not go by his other terms:
(Garfield-Barfield...White Lightnin'...Worm),
And still we loved him just the same.


You can train a ferret,
And you can train a cat;
And if you try hard enough,
You can even train a rat.

Sometimes, (if you're really smart),
You can train a hog,
But the hardest thing in the world to do
Is to potty-train a dog.

They always love to lick you,
They always love to bark,
And they always, ALWAYS,

Love to go
          for a walk
                    in the park.

You know they love to be pampered,
Praised, and often pet,
And you know they

The only way to please a dog
Is to never chain him up,
And to give him lots of doggy snacks,
And to treat him like a pup.

The Goldenrods

Kitty's in a daze,
Cradled in her limb-nest;
The goldenrods are gleaming in the woods.

Dancing leaves cascade
All down and around her;
The scarlet oaks are burning in the woods.

I, in my tree-swing,
Am dozing beneath her;
The crimson sun is glowing in the woods.

The breeze-chime's singing
Almost right beside her;
The guilded birds are humming in the woods.

A light wind's floating
Her fur all about her...

And the goldenrods are gleaming in the woods.

Rabbit Run

Your whiskers twitch,
Ears alert;
You scratch that itch,
Frisk in dirt.
You hear a sound,
Stand erect,
So any Hounds
You'd detect.
Off of the ground,
In a stir;
Faster than sound,
All a blur.
Run trough cover,
Jump through brush;
Insects hover
As Quail flush.
Pawsteps sounding
In the leaves;
Your heart's pounding,
Ill at ease.
Crack of thunder
Makes you jump;
Log you're under
Gives a thump.
Water dripping,
Falling round;
Log starts slipping,
Losing ground.
From the log you
Venture forth,
And the Dogs move
From the north.
Dark clouds raining
As you race;
Dogs are gaining,
Starting chase.
Down the hill you
Promptly flee;
Hounds race too with
Steadfast speed.
Your tail you raise
To warn the rest,
And you pray you
Did your best.
Fly in panic
Down your run;
Though you're frantic,
Freedom won.
Into the ground you
Quickly plunge;
And the Hounds do
Try to lunge.
But you've a berth
From attack,
For you've the Earth
O'er your back!

Buffalo, O Buffalo

Buffalo, O Buffalo,
Mighty and strong;
Your temper's as fierce
As your coat is long.

Buffalo, O Buffalo,
Charger of kills;
Prairies provide you
With long, heavy meals.

Buffalo, O Buffalo,
Fighter of Steer;
You're nigh six feet high--
Much larger than Deer.

Buffalo, O Buffalo,
Brawny and stout;
Why then, O Bison
Were you dying out?

Neither's Better

The Zebra is a type of Horse,
Striped black from head to tail you see,
But underneath the blackest stripe
He's white as white can be.

The Quagga is an Equus too,
(He's like a Zebra and an Ass)
Though head to neck his stripes do go,
The rest just seems to pass.

The Quagga though, his body's white,
And his head's a reddish-brown,
His stripes are white instead of black,
Yet hunters shot him down.

So why are Zebras common still,
Though extinct now the Quaggas be?
Neither's better than the other...
It makes no sense to me.


There was a steel horse painted red
Which was fixed to the top of a shed.
Quoth a bird winging by,
"Where the wind lets me fly
It makes this run circles instead!"

Where Do All the Moths Go?

Where do all the moths go
When there is no porchlight?
In the balmy daytime,
You'll never find a one.

Where do all the moths go
When the night is over?
Perhaps they spread
Their velvet wings
And fly up to the sun.

Where do all the beasts go
When there is no darkness?
All the furry, quiet things
You never see in day.

Where do all the beasts go--
Bats, skunks, and opossums?
Perhaps the earth
Does swallow them...
What else I cannot say.

Where do all the birds go
When there is no sunshine?
And all the other creatures--
Hare, squirrel, mouse, doe and fawn?

Where do all the birds go
When the dusk is falling?
Perhaps they melt
Into the leaves
To wake up at the dawn.

Villanelle--The Old Whale's Last Caress

The wave that drums against his breast
Can, built-up, beat mountains down,
And to him it gives but a kind caress.

He floats as free as seagulls fly,
And some say that he lives so long
For he leaves his cares far beyond the sky...

The wind that tosses each waves' crest
Might once, unleashed, have leveled towns,
Yet to him it gives but a sweet caress.

Caught up in dreams, he hears no sigh
Of the steam from blubber boiling,
For he leaves his cares far beyond the sky...

The sun reveals his glistening sides,
And soon he feels the harpoon's kiss,
But he left his cares far beyond the sky,
For to him it gave his last caress.

White Horses of the Moon

From the Wind, Sea and Foam ye were born,
O White Horses of the Moon;
Ye art far whiter than the Ivory Horn
That knells the hunting tune.

Run, O Stallions! Run, O Mares!
In thy Fathers' steads ye fly;
The fiery spirit in the air
Doth gleam in every eye.

Like crescent moons, the tracks ye do leave
Upon the sandy, dark shore
Are like the water, which the sands do sieve;
They art gone an hour more.

Run, O Stallions! Run, O Mares!
So agile-legged, so fast!
Thy dark eyes shine like moonlit tears,
Thy grace is unsurpassed.

With a gale's strength on a summer's night
Ye art borne upon the wind;
The Sea can be tossed with all it's might
And yet know no other friend.

Run, O Stallions! Run, O Mares!
Leave all the world behind ye,
And do away with all the cares
That e'er sought to bind ye!

Ye need no mount nor rein to guide ye,
So fast and free do ye fly;
Stallions, toss thy heads; with Mares beside ye--
So wildly ye cry!

Yes, run, O Stallions! Run, O Mares!
Maintain all thy flying speed;
The souls within ye pride to flare
The spirit of ye Steeds.

The Albatross

          the waves
           as if they
            were but beds
             to lie on, yet 
               they seem to be 
                 more like foamy
                  white stallions--
                   restlessly tossing
                    about, and leaping
                    over one another...
                    He rides the winds
                   with an effortless
                  soar--lazily, yet
                abandoning every
               care like molted
              feathers, with only
              hunger to trouble his 
              stomach, or boredom his
                 mind, or loneliness his         heart...
                     He shall hang round no disgraced man's 
                  neck, not this lord of the tides, for he is the 
  incarnation of freedom, of the sea, of the winds and 
of sailors' dreams to yet build a craft to ride the
                  waves as he does. As he guides
              them ever homeward  
            in the
                   of gales,
                      he asks

     herring          to spare.       His name:        Albatross.
 No wonder         why Aslan         himself        chose once
to be him, for even the King of Beasts dreams of being as free...               

Why Do the Birds

Why do the birds stretch their wings
And leave the earth behind?
Why do the hares seek the grass
Far from danger they find?
Why do the stags fear the ground
With each leg so agile?
Why do poets choose their lines
That can be so fragile?

Wild Horses

Wild horses, fast and free,
With such an endless grace;
Neighing briskly, filled with glee,
In their thund'ring race.
Morning sunshine on their backs,
Manes and tails all flowing,
And many moon-shaped, crescent tracks
They leave as they're going.

Eating Grass
(Written years ago when I was an avid animal-rights activist.)

Why do not the animals revolt against us?
This is their world...once ours--
Until we began killing them, eating them, poaching them;
Driving them back as we seize and destroy their land--
Driving them to where?
Where do we want them to go?
They cannot live where we live...
And we live everywhere.
What have they done to us?
They do not eat us,
Unless we steal their land, their food,
And thus starve them--
Why cannot we eat grass?

Of Whales

It is much more of an accomplishment
To be as large as the Whale,
And to never destroy anything,
Pressure anyone for survival,
Or vie for luxury space...
Asking only to feed upon
The smallest living food source
In the world--plankton--
Than to be the mightiest world ruler,
Conqueror of many lands...
Being insatiable of food,
Living space, wealth, power,
Lust and luxury.
And the gentle Whale--
Ever harmless to us--
They once killed almost to extinction.
Why? Not for meat,
Not for warm clothes,
Not for shelter, but
Instead for corsets, girdles,
Toiletries, and perfume for the rich.
Death hath never looked
Nor smelled so sweet.


Like piercing arrows,
The vicious bird speeds downwards
And clutches the hare.

Haiku--Timber Wolf

All was silent till,
Suddenly, splitting the night,
the lonesome wolf howls.


Ferrets are children
Who just refuse to grow up...
So fortunately!

Nature Poems:

Wild Oak

Standing tall, overall,
Master of the wood;
Reaching high, to the sky,
Seeming wise and good.

Like the sea, wild and free,
You will grow alone;
Storing rain, every vein
Works hard on its own.

For long whiles, birds for miles,
Come to you to nest;
Mostly crows chat in rows;
Others come to rest.

Graceful tree, can't you see
Your great strength and pow'r?
Standing still, on the hill,
Like a silent tow'r?

The Krummholtz

The Utah Manti Timber Line
Is marked by spruce and limber pine.
And what the weary trav'ler sees
Is the stunted growth of Krummholtz trees.
And dwarfed Krummholtz, as it should,
Is the German word for "crooked wood".

Victoria's Eden
(Note: the "But" in "Butchart" is pronounced "boot".)

A mere snapshot is all that I have now
To gaze upon--
A mere three by four glossy inches
Of glorious flora--
Which will someday yellow and fade
At the Hands of Time,
Even as the reality will whither
At the Hands of God.

Those gardens were a private Eden to me,
Even if manmade,
And though I am sure God once made His Eden
Much lovelier,
I have not now His Eden to visit--
Only this garden,
This limestone quarry of such breath-taking beauty,
Victoria's Butchart.

Even the roped-in sidewalks strewn across the scenery
Take not away from it;
They only seem to have grown there--not as weeds--
Alongside the plants,
As if buildings, streets, and parking lots
Could have grown in time
When given as much fine nurturing as those gardens
Daily received.

The colors can be seen at first glance,
A myriad of rainbows--
Hues of a fountain's spray, a pond's ripples,
A waterfall's cascade,
A rock's multi-hued lichens, the ruddy paint
On an Oriental bridge,
And of course the brightly-varied hues of the flora,
The trees, grass, and flowers--
There is, in fact, nothing at all in the Butchart
Which does not cast a rainbow.

I do not believe anyone could take a snapshot
Of those gardens
And not have it look like a picture postcard
Of Eden itself...
Even a blurry, vague picture would only seem
To have been of a painting,
Such as one from an Impressionist, in which
The flowers are but colored dots.

Yet I do Butchart no more justice by description than
The picture does...ah well...
One only has to visit it once to understand
And to believe,
And although that visit may remain a lifetime
In one's memory,
It will not be the last visit in that lifetime--
Not to Butchart.

For Butchart has a way of calling one's soul
Back to itself,
Back to Victoria over any number of miles
That lie inbetween;
Calling, pleading, urging, leading,
To Canada...Victoria...Butchart...and Eden,
And soon it shall even win my soul over
Yet once again.

Plants and People

People are a lot like plants--
The kinds grown in our houses--
We slowly and regretfully
Turn over a new leaf,
And even though we often show
Our green leaves with our brown ones,
The green we keep close to the top,
The brown ones underneath.

And furthermore, we often
Try to hide our weakest leaves;
Through them we are vulnerable,
For they are new and frail;
And yet unlike our brown leaves,
The weak ones stay unhidden;
Instead they grow the farthest out
With all the world to hail.

Yet upon our upmost stem
Is where our joy and pride is,
And all our fruitful dreams and goals
Rests upon this tower;
This is what the world should see
When they first look upon us,
And so we gladly greet them with
Our one smiling flower.

The Grass

I see the rugged blades of grass
Struggling to sprout from the cracks in the pavement--
Vying To grow and to spread in spite of the walls
That hold them in.

Perhaps, proudly, they espire to become a lovely field,
An emerald meadow, or a vast, manicured lawn,
All trimmed with flowers just as we ourselves sport
Precious jewels.

Or perhaps, gererously, they hope to harbor in safety
Small insects and creatures such as we do with
Stray pets that follow us all the way home
In a storm.

Or perhaps, humbly, they merely wish and quietly dream
Of being nothing more than a soft footage,
A supple playground yard for our precious children;
A foundation for the homes of the very people who
Scatter the tiny seeds from which the grass does grow...
And the very people, who, with their concrete,
Wall it in again.

O, little tuft of grass,
You may be strong,
But have you the strength to break
The pavement walls?
You may find root in parking lots,
On streetcurbs, and in sidewalk cracks,
But can you farther spead?
Would you cover the earth if we were gone,
And if all of our monuments
Lay in mossy ruins? I think not.
Rather, we shall always abide together,
Being in need of one another.
So dream on, little tuft of grass...
Dream on.


The powerful towers of rock and earth
That have been here since the planet's birth,
Watching the centuries come and go,
Their roots go so deep, yet they never grow.


          are  so
        if the earth
       has no  need of 
     us, then why are we 
   here? if we are nothing 
  in this universe;  if our 
 lives  are but  dewdrops in 
 a vast  ocean, one  missing 
 will go unnoticed, yet many 
  leave it a lake, a pond, 
    a puddle...or a drop 
           of  dew. 


Eve is loveliest when
The sunset is a rainbow
Set against black trees;
Gentle epilogue to the day,
Colored with sunrise promised.


As the morning dawns,
And the dew drips from the leaves,
The woods awaken.


As quiet as sleep,
The sun sets behind the ridge,
And night settles in.


Deep in Austrailia,
Aboriginies die hard;
The old gaunt one weeps.

Seasonal Poems:

Watermelon Summer

Oh Watermelon Summer,
And a springy-turfy lawn,
Find yourself a gardenhose
And in it play till dawn.

Gambol in the bright sunshine,
Like the puppies born in Spring,
Oh Watermelon Summer,
The joy of everything!

A Watermelon Summer
Is the kind that all kids love,
They'll lie beneath the sunset
And mock a mourning dove.

A Watermelon Summer
And a child's love for life might
Be all you will ever need
To overcome your strife.

Oh Watermelon Summer,
In the misty, morning dawn,
The purple dusk of twilight,
The green-deep, hazy lawn...

Oh Watermelon Summer,
The cicadas in the trees,
The lazy, yawning porch-hound,
The crickets in the leaves...

Yes, Watermelon Summer,
In the balmy afternoon,
No one can help but agree
That Autumn comes too soon!

Autumn Days

Cool and sunny
Autumn days,
Dripping honey,
Golden rays.

Frosty grass,
Misty showers,
Geese fly past.

Eagles soaring,
Northern winds,
Creeks a-roaring,
Warm-dressed friends.

Hearts are stirring,
All unseen,
Days are nearing

Leaves all flutter,
Orange and red,
Bears go slumber
On their beds.

Butterflies bond,
Kids in school,
Summer's gone, with
Empty pools...

Autumn days are here again.

Something About the Winter

There's something about the winter...
It intrigues and facinates,
It brings forth pouncing, pranceful joy
And wistful, distant sadness.
And it places in the home and heart
Warmth, comfort and coziness,
While all around there is icy death,
And even the trees have become skeletons.
Sometimes they are glazed and hung about
With the glittering spikes of icicles,
And sometimes they are nobly mantled
In a hoary fur coat of snow...
The forest always seems mystical in the winter.

There is something about people in the winter...
The young and the old become the same age
At this magical time of year...
The young ponder deeply the silent white beauty,
And caught up in the glow of it,
Their scarlet cheeks reflect back the icy radiance,
Yet their hearts remain warm.
The old laugh anew and heartily,
Then leaving their heavy, stiff, wooly robes of age
On the seat of their armchair,
They try once again to play
And to find their innocence.
(People may say they have lost it forever,
But it never really goes away...
At least not in the winter.)

There is something about animals in the winter...
It is then that cats are most wonderful to have around.
Because of them, we never have to miss
An eve of midsummer lightning...
Their fur is full of it, and in the darkness
It seems they have an aura of fireflies...
Something else we might otherwise miss.
And their fur always smells dusty,
Like an old attic, or perhaps a path
One might travel on in late spring.
And dogs are ever playing the jester,
Always eager to please and full of fun,
While their hearts are near to bursting with love.
They perhaps enjoy the snow as much as children,
And if they could laugh along with us, they surely would.
Indeed, animals are wonderful in the winter.

There is something about the winter...
Something other than simply the holidays
That makes this season special for everyone;
Something that effects each of us
In the way that no other season can,
--Not even the vibrant and rainbowed spring--
And yet it is not one thing, but many...
No one can say just what it is
About this season that affects us,
As it lays its grip soft about us
And covers the sleeping, silent land in its quilt
That the world might rest more peacefully.

Religious Poems:

How Many?

How many sand grains to cover a desert?
How many candles to light up the sun?
How many raindrops to fill up an ocean?
To Mighty God I am only but one.

How many pebbles to cover a mountain?
How many stars to light up the night sky?
How many tree leaves to fill up a forest?
And yet He loves me...I still wonder why.

The Body

Some say it is a small temple
Where the soul can worship Thee;
Some say it is a prison That keeps the soul from flying free.

Some say it is a sensitive,
But very complex structure;
Some say it is a unit
That most anything can puncture.

I say it is a masterpiece,
Thy greatest work of art; a
Breathing shelter for the soul,
Indeed a small, but living ark.

Of course I know that where I go
It shall always come along;
Yet I know I'm just a soul
With a body to sing my song.


To say the Name "Lord" inspires such an awe,
As the highest of mountains,
As the tallest of trees,
As the greatest of storm clouds,
As the deepest of seas;
This Word is the most powerful of biblical law.

To say the Name "Jesus" reflects an innocence,
As the purest of honey,
As the white lambs of spring,
As the dew on a rose, or
As the first bird to sing;
This Word is the sweetest of child experience.

To say the Name "Spirit" implies a mystery,
As the fragrance of flowers,
As the breeze's soft kiss,
As the fleeting aroura,
As the foggy dawn mist,
This Word is the most mystical of all Names that be.

The Names are most precious of all Names abound,
The three halves of Good they make whole around;
The Father is for justice, protection and might,
The Son is for pur'ty, peace and for light,
The Spirit is for comfort, truth, and for life;
Between Them is ever known Love, not strife.
Yet it matters not, that the names are three,
For this Trinity is God indivisibly.

The Eyes of the Lamb

My Lord, I saw Thee as a gentle Lamb,
So wooly-soft, so docile and tame,
Yet Thine Eyes be not as the lambs' eyes I know;
They are rather like Suns set aflame.

O Sweetest Lord, with Love do They burn?
Are They Lamps set alight for Thy Bride?
Or be it Thy Vengence the wicked shall face
That blazes as Stars in Thine Eyes?

Yet whether Thy Guise be that of the Lamb
Or whether It be that of the Man,
If all the world's Candles soon blacken and dry,
There burns One for Thee still in my hand.

Infinite Words

If words may be eaten,
Then they probably will;
Though now you pledge "Always"
You might soon say "Until"...

Thus words are mere words, and
Time cannot stand still, to
Let you keep a promise
You once hoped to fulfill...

Oaths "Always" and "Ever"
May soon be replaced
By "Until" or "Never",
And in either case,

Be wise and remember:
(To save you disgrace)
These infinite pledges
Cannot hold a place

In our temporal minds,
And so must we face...

That they only be uttered by God.

Prayer of a Fetus

Lord, please allow my mommy to see
How much my little life means to me;
Oh Jesus, please let her understand
I don't belong in a garbage can.
I know she just can't afford my care,
But to take my life--it isn't fair!
And someday she may even mourn, that
She never allowed me to be born.
There are barren women in the world
Who would love me as their baby girl!
So Jesus, I just hope I prayed in time,
'Cause I know that You can change her mind;
For Lord, I wish to see the sun; I
Wish to smell flowers, and jump and run...
And I wish to see my mommy's smile,
So I pray she lets me be her child.
For Lord, You gave my mommy a womb;
So please don't let her make it my tomb.
But yet if she doesn't let me live,
That sure doesn't mean I won't forgive;
For Lord, if she kills me anyway,
I'll be with You that very same day!
And Lord Jesus, if my life should end,
Please give her all of my love...Amen.

The End of the Age

When the nations hear
The High Trumpet's call,
'Tis then God summons
His Great Earth to fall.

When the last leaf burns
As flames bathe the trees,
And rampant fire spreads
Through vast grassy seas,

The Blood Tide washes
The fish to shore dead,
And all people weep
As rivers run red,

When the red moon weeps,
And the black sun hides,
When the Four Winds howl
And the Horsemen ride,

When the clouds draw closed
And smoke fills the sky,
The men seek their deaths
As the Locusts fly,

When earthquakes roar, and
We tremble with fear,
The End of the Age
Is finally here.

The Seals are opened
(And there are seven),
Then some sink to Hell,
And some rise to Heaven;


The Bride of the Lamb
Need not be afraid,
For 'tis a plan God
Had already made.

Temptation Has Ways of Lurking About

Temptation has ways
Of lurking about,
When there is not
A soul left to shout.

In corridors
With ominous halls,
It sneaks and creeps
Along the dark walls.

In dreams you walk
The long passageway;
In the walls are
Faces seeming to say,

"You shall never
Find your own way out,
So come, join us
In our silent pout."

Yet still you walk
Down the darkened halls,
Heeding not their
Mind-numbing calls...but,

The Voice of the
Last Face is so clear,
He traps you and
He draws you too near.

Blinded, you feel
For a Way Out; you
Break free and run
"Don't go!" he then shouts.

While you search 'round
For sign of a Door,
"Come back, don't leave!"
He rumbles the more.

You see a Stair,
Formed of purest Light,
And climb at once
This curious Flight.

A Door opens
As you come quite near;
You step through and
Gasp--in joy, not fear...

Soon the faces
Have faded away,
And forever
You wish Here to stay.

You shut the Door
Upon the dark Hall;
It starts trembling,
And begins to fall.

At last your smile
Takes its normal route,
Gone is the Hall,
The Faces, their Pout.

In Paradise,
Your dreams have come true;
The Angels sing,
The nightmares are through.

Jumping for joy,
You laugh and you shout,
And Temptation no
Longer lurks about.

Premarital Pleasures

It all began
With two half-grown children,
In a parent's car,
Exitedly parking in
An all too convenient parking space
Reserved for "Adults Only".

After parking,
They run into a nearby
Casino of Lust,
Their eyes ablaze with mere
Infatuation for one another.

In the Casino,
They gambol away their Innocence
Like so many scarlet-red Poker chips,
While drugged with Deception and
Drunk on the Wine of Forbidden Pleasures.

Then, high, breathless, and giggling,
They return to the their car,
Only to find a Ticket under the wiper,
On which is written the exact cost
Of raising a child;
The same child soon to develop
Within the young girl's womb.

Afraid, the children drive away
From the Casino and onto
The Highway of Desperation;
They soon find that the only Exit
Off the Highway is that of Marriage.

Thus reluctantly and yet unprepared,
They take the Exit to their new home,
Over which the black-clouded Storm
Of God's Wrath is churning,
Awaiting their pending Divorce.


When I think of Virgins,
I think of the "Olden Days",
When the Virgins,
Though highly honored,
Were sent to the lairs
Of Dragons and Minotaurs
So to be fed upon,
To appease the beasts,
Because their parents
Had no gold to give
In tribute to the beasts
In their place.
And yet the Virgins,
By the gallant White Knights,
Were always rescued.

Now, parents try in vain
To keep their Virgins
Sheltered from such beasts,
And yet they send them
To Public schools,
Send them, because,
Once again, they cannot
Afford something better,
Or something safer.
And at school is where
The beasts gather,
Flocking by the dozen...
The beasts call themselves
"The Popular Crowd",
And everyone envies them,
Wishing to be a part
Of that infamous pack.

The beasts in this crowd
Are intent upon evil;
They are gluttons for alcohol,
Gluttons for mischief,
And gluttons for destruction,
Yet they rationalize
The things they do
By calling it "partying",
And saying it is nothing
But a little harmless fun...
However, fools cannot
Ever fool the wise.

The worst of their habits
Is that they are gluttons
For sex...to them it is
But a game, an experiment;
And so they are intent
Upon ravishing every chaste
Virgin, simply to place
"Another notch on the belt"...
And to be considered "cool"
By the other beasts, perhaps
By even the Head Beast himself.

And there, at school,
With those of their peers,
Virgins are no longer honored,
Rather, they are ridiculed
For being what they are,
Ridiculed simply for being
What God wishes them to be,
But there is no pleasing
The beasts of today,
And there is no gallant
White Knight now to come
And fight the beasts, and
To come to the rescue of the
"Damsels in Distress".

The strange thing is,
The beasts try to leave
No Virgins in the world,
Saying, "A Virgin is
A terrible thing to waste,"
And later, when the beasts
Wish to marry, and are seeking
A Virgin wife or husband,
They then wonder where
All the Virgins have gone,
Forgetting it was they
Themselves who made them
An endangered species.

Forgiveness Is Forever

Forgiveness is forever;
It is not to give then take.
Were mercy a worthless endeavor,
It would but a pharisee make.

Forgiveness is forever;
Though it be a mighty task,
Give all of it freely and never
Withhold of your mercy when asked.

Forgiveness is forever;
If we desire not to burn,
We must now show mercy to others
To then receive God's in return.

Forgiveness is forever;
I hope you now see why we must
Give mercy and love to our bretheren...
Because Christ first gave it to us!

Knowing the Now

Most people know only the now;
Only today do they see...
They give no thought to tomorrow;
Much less to Eternity.

Most people know only the now,
Living for bodily pleasure...
They "eat, drink and are merry";
Sin seems their only endeavor.

Most people know only the know,
And think not to open their eyes...
Therefore when someday Death claims them,
Them shall It take by surprise!

Most people know only the now;
Just as Lot's and Noah's fool peers...
So likewise Death and God's judgement
For them shall be as severe!

Personal Poems:

Sonnet--Of Thy Love

Shall I write of love betrayed or dying?
Shall I write of despair or loss of hope?
Shall write of my mind in vain trying
To revive mem'ries fled that I might cope?
Shall I speak of sorrow or long suff'ring?
Shall I speak of mis'ry too great to bear?
Shall I speak of the vast, empty nothing
That fills my heart and on my soul doth wear?
Shall I dwell on cov'ting others' blessings?
Shall I dwell on pity for what I've not?
Shall I dwell on these woes I'm confessing
Rather than pleased be with what I've got?
...Nay, I shall instead of thy dear love sing,
...Which lone can joy to my sullenness bring.

Ballad--The Tree of Love

At one time I had been afraid--
That once past Heaven's Gate should we
Know not each other as I now
Know you and you know me?

I thought perhaps, though Married, we
Should cease to be in Heaven, yet
Now I know fain, with joyous peace,
There was no need to fret.

To ease my fear, a Dream God gave,
In whence a Garden Trees did grow,
Save for one Place bare to the grass;
He this to me did show.

The Center of this grassy Glen
Revealed a Hole of fresh-tilled earth,
In which Two Seeds lay side by side,
Awaiting yet there Birth.

Upon His Word, the Seeds did sprout;
Their Roots probed deep, their Tendrils high;
The Two Stems twined about themselves
Till One was growing nigh.

Soon I beheld there grew One Tree
Where those Twin Seeds had sprouted twain,
And It held fast through Storms of Hail
And blind Bullets of Rain.

"Now see," quoth God, "what happens if
An Axe is loosed on Half the Tree."
And to my shock, an unseen Hand
Did hack with Blade carefree.

Then I dared look upon the Tree
And saw that Half was chopped away,
Leaving but what One Seed had grown;
On ground the Other lay.

The new-grown Tree, without the Half
Of the Other to make it Whole,
Did soon expire with withered Leaves
Turned brown as if by cold.

I saw that this was not to be,
And on God's Word the Trees did live;
Again Two Seeds did One Tree grow;
God Love to Them did give.

And I knew then the Second Tree
Is the Tree that is you and I,
And Together in Heaven we
Shall as Bonded Souls fly.

I am fain to know, in Marriage,
When two New Souls become as One,
That once past Heaven's Gate, indeed,
They shall not be undone.

Life Seasons
(As remembered by a deceased soul)

I remember once in the Spring of my life,
Sunshine brought feeding and Darkness brought sleeping...
Life was new to me then.

I remember in the Summer of my life,
Sunshine brought flowers and Darkness brought crickets...
Life was good to me then.

I remember in the Autumn of my life,
Sunshine brought hard work and Darkness brought passion...
Life went on for me then.

With each turn of the Seasons,
With each year that passed by,
I grew and I knew yet more;

And each time that I looked back
Upon all of my days,
I saw what each held in store.

Then I looked forward until I did find,
Until I at last could see
The final Season in this life,
The One that did close all for me...

I remember in the Winter of my life,
Sunshine brought Angels and Darkness--
Well, there was no Darkness--
For life did end for me then.

All the Wisdom of the World

It is so sad--
So many people have died,
Are dying, or will die...
And I never knew them,
Do not know them, and never shall...
I shall never get to hear
Their tales, learn from their experiences,
Partake of their knowledge,
Wisdom, and advice.

All of their memories--
Their lives' treasures in their minds--
Will die and be buried with them,
Forever gone;
Never to be told or heard or remembered
To me, by me,
That I might have a memory to share.

It is sadder still--
So many old people,
Simply because they are old,
Are looked upon as already dead...
As vacant, doddering, babbling fools;
But their minds and their hearts and their souls are full
Of memories, of tales to tell;
That is all they have left to hold on to,
And they do not want to die
Without having shared with someone
All that they know.

They cannot see why they had to learn so much
If it was all to die with them,
And so they babble of what fills their minds--
To themselves if no one will listen--
Perhaps teaching themselves something
They failed to learn the first time
From an experience.

If only everyone would listen,
If only I could get a chance
To talk to all of them in the world,
I would have learned about the lives
Of thrice that number of people
From their memories alone.
And all the wisdom of the world
Would be mine to share in turn
When it was my turn to share.

Yet the saddest of all
Is that I know I will never get the chance
To talk to all of them,
And to listen tentatively as they babble their wisdom;
Thus their memories unshared
Die as they are dying now...
And have died, and will die
Until the end of time.

Xenia Arrick

Poet's Note:

"A word to the wise for all aspiring poets, writers and artists: remember--artwork is done best at midnight in a chaotically cluttered room; likewise, your best prose is done on impulse at three o'clock in the morning when you scribble down whatever nonsense boots you awake by plaguing your subconscious brain. And for poetry, well, all I can say is never throw away anything--not even the most absurd limerick of all time scribbled on a wadded-up piece of grocery bag paper...It all can be edited later, and I promise you it will come in handy someday, for this very booklet was first composed on such things as folders, schoolbook covers, algebra book pages (I detest algebra), titheing envelopes (for sermon-inpired poetry) and even restaurant napkins!"

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