Life is not a bowl of cherries,

It really is the pits.

You should have more ups than downs,

Or so say all the quips.


It’s hard, It’s unrewarding ,

And not a bit of fun.

You seem to never have much time,

You’re always on the run.


Life should be joyful, happy and light,

But you find it so hard from morning to night,

You run out of time for the things you must do,

No matter how hard you try you’re always in the stew.


You think things are running as smooth as can be,

But it’s these times you should watch out,

Believe you me.


You never get told when you’ve done something good.

You hear only when you’ve not done something you should.

You get kicked in the teeth ,

You get knocked in the head.

Your account at the bank seems to run in the red.


Things seem to go smooth for a minute or two,

Then bang, you’re right back in a pickle or stew.

There’s always a problem around the next bend,

And you wonder and ponder, will it ever end?



A perfect man once knelt to pray,

In a beautiful garden far away.

How great for us was His sweet love,

As he sought in prayer,His Father above.


Our sins to clear, our souls to save,

This was the Father’s plan.

So we could dwell with Him someday,

It took a perfect man.


The pain and agony that He bore,

In the garden and on the cross.

Was to pay for our sins forever more,

So not one soul need be lost.


He was ridiculed, scourged and hung to die,

On a cross between two thieves.

The soldiers cast lots for His humble robes,

While His friends and mother grieved.


He was carried to a borrowed tomb,

As the sun set in the west.

A huge stone sealed that Holy place,

Where our Lord was laid to rest.


The Sabbath day was clear and bright,

As the women came to see,

That the stone was gone and the Angel spake,

That our Lord has been set free.


He had risen as He foretold,

In three days from the tomb.

He had broken the bands of death,

And lifted the world from gloom


No greater love can ever be,

That our loving Savior gave.

He suffered much, He suffered great,

To save us from the grave.



Love can be quiet, Love can be loud.

Love can be by itself, or in a crowd.

Love is exciting, love is serene.

It is for all to see, or quite unseen.


Love is the good life or even bad.

It can be happy , though sometimes sad.

Love is the bride and grooms radiant face,

When by the alter they pledge their faith.


Later the mother with babe in arms,

Shows in her lovely face such special charms.

Love is the grandparents proud as can be,

Loving their little ones for all to see.


Love is so many things it could astound,

It shouldn’t be hidden but spread all around.



May 7 1998

The poets say that motherhood is really very grand,

I’m sure the poet who said that had to be a man.

You start out sick as sick can be,

Then you blossom out quicker than a tree.

The pains can make you angry and mean,

The hospitals the only place that treats you like a queen.

There’s diapers piled high and bottles to wash,

You quite often feel like a lumpy old squash.

You’re figure gets ruined you lose lots of hair,

Instead of a twiggy you resemble a pear,

There’s not any time from morning to night,

To take any effort to make yourself right.

You just get relaxed with the telly or book,

And a wail will resound from the wee babies nook.

A long soaking bath that you used to adore,

No longer exists even locking the door.

But time has a way of racing to fast,

And all the good times just hurry on past.

The first tooth, the first step, the new words they say,

The time that you walked them to school the first day.

The I love you mommy, the cuddles and hugs,

The times that they brought you the wonderful bugs.

The clock just keeps ticking away on the wall,

You soon see them off to their graduation ball.

Then the time really flies and collage draws near,

They’ll be leaving the home and you will shed a tear.

Time just keeps on moving at such a fast pace,

And you sometimes wish you were back in that place.

Of diapers and feedings and cuddles and loves,

Of rushing to dancing or to find baseball gloves.

Of stories and drawings that hung on the wall,

Of fixing the hurts whenever they fall.

But the job’s never over they still need you there.

With cuddles and hugs if ever you dare.

So we do admit being mom is quite grand,

That we are the ones who bring life to the land.

The poets are right when they talk about mom,

It’s the best job there is and a whole lifetime long.

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