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War at Tea Time

This poem is dedicated to all the souls of loved ones who have passed.  

 I lost my dad two years ago.  It still seems as if he's going to walk through the door any minute.  Then, I have to remind myself, no, that is but a dream.  My heart will always ache for him and his loving voice.  I will always miss his bushy beard and calloused hands.  When his hand held mine, I felt protected.  His hands, the emblem of hard work.  His hands, the signature of a true man.

   My dad was the last of his mighty kind.  He was a traditional Christian man, strong in appearance and in faith.  His teachings bore me to be a strong, Godly woman.  I did not receive a degree or diploma in my faith.  I did receive God into my heart, which surpasses any academic degree.  My dad always said, "This is just our temporary home, heaven is our eternal home."  That is our hope in life, to spend eternity with our heavenly Father.  I hope this poem, "War at Tea Time", will comfort the brokenhearted.


War at Tea Time

Tea time, light captures the day,
spritzes the substantial sky
Blush Pinks and soft lavender,
pencil the never-ending ceiling


Chit-chat shadow fluffy scones
The steam of Irish tea congregates
Plum jam rejoices with sugar
Jolly plops on the laced table

A day of thought happiness,
 and moments of Cheshire-cat smiles
A day of thought contentment,
and a round of merry giggles

 Alas, turmoil seeks, an illness peeks
 through the paned glass window
Rolling in, lightning, thunder,
clash with the bouncy mood

Sly cancer tempts and riddles
It tampers with an invincible man
 A Godly, passionate soul slings rocks
This day there will be a war!

With armor polished, the battle arises
A powerful warrior stands atop “Brave" hill
He kneels by tea and bamboo chair
He fights the good fight with prayer

Never having a spirit of trembling fear
Surrounding the sugar lumps is love and cheer
A man of bold courage, never cowers or rests
With scone in hand, he swats the cancer pest

Taking arch and swift bow in hand,
he pierces the wicked and evil enemy
Cancer taunts a God-fearing soul
The sword of power slices with bold

Alas, this war has sorrowful closure
A man of virtue, tells one last tid-bit tale
His bamboo chair is shadowed no longer
Scones for his tasting is baked no more

Cancer may realize it won the fearsome war,
yet, it did not win the battle of "Soul"
He rode his white stallion to the pearly gates
A spirit can now sip Irish tea with Almighty Fate

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