Paradise… you ask me to imagine this place.
Well… it’s far away. No one can touch this world.
It’s very beautiful.
Flowers are blooming into beautiful roses, white roses, black roses, yellow roses, purple morning glories, pink roses, pink morning glories, daisies, dandelions, and all sorts of shapes and colors of mountains.
With a beautiful mixture of colors in a sunrise over the crest of the mountains.
Causing a pink glow in the midst of a purple sky, with white clouds in the mixture.
You can pick the flowers, but choose not to.
Unless you pick the dandelion.
You see the multitude of loved ones. The ones who hold your heart.
And as you turn away, you feel as though it’s safe. Safe to runaway.
You come to the gate. A gate made of white gold, trimmed in brass.
Emeralds within the structures. With laces of black, white, and purple, and pink.
You can smell the seductive aroma of the perfumed grasses so elegantly growing and swaying in the ever so gently breeze.
You open the gate by the brass handle and enter into a world of ecstasy.
You lay down in the fields, flat on your back.
Looking up at the sky, all alone in the field, you just close your eyes and feel the comforting warmth of the shining sun, glaring down upon your skin.
You are soon lost. Taken to another world.
That will eventually leave a smile on your face.
And you are really happy. There is no faking it. You are perfectly content.
This is paradise.

Written by Gail Brookshire
Inspiration: A writing challenge from a friend asking what paradise meant to me.
I was 20 years old when I was answering this.

By The Knife

Lanced, deep within the soul,
So quickly, so fiercely,
Aching persists.
Creating my every thought, to be a memory of him.
The words, they were overwhelming.
And so very well chosen.
Blood, eases from my veins,
And takes my every reason for fighting.
For even if I wanted to… I couldn’t.
The blood soon rushes to the soil of my new home.
My tombstone shall be the tree,
My body clings to for support.
Alas, the wind breaks a limb.
And the gentle touch is the pressure to release my soul.
I have left.
This is what I have seen.

Written by Gail Brookshire
Inspiration: This was for a writing challenge 28 years ago

A Lot To Think About

A lot to think about…
in making so many decisions.
The best way to avoid scars?
Allow no incisions!
Yet the challenge to conquer fear
and stay in the fight
is much more the challenge
each and every night.
What is best…
and what can I actually do.
Sacrifice is worthless
if it only insults You.
Lord, be my Guide, my Comfort,
my unmoving Faith.
Help me to have peace
in my God given fate.
My weakness perfects
Your strength.
Help me to know
which path to walk in.

6-3-11 Written by Gail Brookshire
(by the grace of God)

Skies of Adventure

Airplanes transport people
to wherever they may go,
and balloons will go up high
whenever you let go.
Jets are fun to speed in
when you’re looking down,
and skydiving feels so wonderful
as you look around.
The only thing about
these pleasures in the sky,
eventually you have to land
until you once again fly.

9-24-89 Written by Gail Brookshire
(by the grace of God)
PS. By brother Charlie challenged me to write this poem.

Pinto Beans

He pointed at the pinto beans
and said, “Pinto beans.”
So I’m doing this to make him happy,
though I don’t know what he means.
All I know is they’re small and round,
and in a bag of many.
And if they’re ever cooked one night,
I’m sure there will be plenty.
They can be very tasty,
even though they cause gas.
But I hope when the room is crowded,
the moment will not last.
If this poem of pinto beans
makes no sense to you,
ask my friend David about it.
He’s the one who told me to.

9-24-89 Written by Gail Brookshire
(by the grace of God)
PS. Homey (aka David) challenged me to write a poem about pinto bans. 😉

Permission to Pen

So freeing is the pen that dances on the page.
So beautiful is the ink that displays.
So strong is the paper that supports.
So refreshing are the words that convey.
How does one go without the pen?
How does one restrain the ink?
How does one avoid the paper?
How does one refrain what they think?
It is such a challenge not to pen.
A challenge to keep the ink dry.
The paper waits in agony
To let the mind cry.
“Here am I. I do exist! My thoughts are burning within!”
They wait for God’s Holy Spirit to permit, “Begin.”

written by Gail Brookshire