Soul Expression

If I write a poem,
Will I be set free,
Or will they read
And just judge me?
Should I let that matter?
It locks my soul within.
Being open is not a crime.
Expression is not a sin.
Yet I still care for God
All that I say or do,
For others attach God
To everything about you.
I want to set the example,
Yet I also want to express.
Could it be Godly
To share with the rest?
Could it be God’s will,
His gift for me to share
That others might see
For even our brokenness
He cares?
Dear Lord, I pray Your will
Upon my soul and pen.
If it be Your gift to me,
Help me to set it in ink.

12-20-2005
Written by Gail Brookshire

Write For Him

“Write to me. Write to your God.”
I hear You speak to me clearly.
“Write to Him. Write to your God.”
My heart speaks to my pen so dearly.
A letter, a poem, a song for the soul.
Create, praise, and teach.
Rewrite, reread, reproof,
Build, thank, and reach.
Whatever the message You send,
My pen and heart long to obey.
And when I know I’ll be the first to read,
I am eager to hear what You say.
Ink, paper, and God’s inspiration.
Tools that minister for Him.
Computer, email, and God’s intervention.
Ways to help share about Him.
Rhythm, rhyme, meter
Are not what makes the Word.
It is who wrote it and why,
As well as to be read and heard.

8-10-2003 Sunday
Written by Gail Brookshire

What I Think of My Thoughts

If in one moment I stopped and gave a thought
To the thoughts I carry within,
I wouldn’t think much of those thoughts
That aren’t so very nice, my friend.
The world has played its games.
The world has toyed enough.
I’ve got to get past this sweetness,
And remember to be tough.
God asked me to love and I loved.
I loved one another and the other.
But I guess the others forgot to love me back
Because I wouldn’t be their lover.
Oh, deception is a lie.
When you call that love,
You haven’t even tried.
So what would I have to say
To those, to me, and to my God?
The thoughts I keep aren’t Christlike.
I pray that they be not.

8-3-2000 Thursday
Written by Gail Brookshire

Cowboy Lance

Cowboy Lance was a good ole boy.
He took after his grandpappy and uncles when it came to being a man.
He got his manners from the women folk,
And you know his love for God did too.
His maw sure did love him from the day he was born.
He was the only baby I ever seen born on a horse,
With a gun in each hand.
If you ever run into him, you’d better be nice.
Cause he’ll zip right through ya.
But don’t you worry gals.
He’s still a heartbreaker.
Why he had a showdown with Billy the Kid himself,
On a’count Cowboy Lance stole his favorite gal.
Even married her.
But she died of smallpox.
The secret to Cowboy Lance’s heart is not a hard thing to find,
But he sure does like a whole lot of them,
So be sure to get a whole lot… Of sweet Roses!
So be sure to look for Cowboy Lance
Riding on his famous white horse.
His horse’s name is… Polliwog.
The End.

6-17-1996 Monday
Written by Gail Brookshire
(Cowboy Lance’s Mom)
Inspiration: my son use to sit in the computer lab where I worked.
My boss loved teaching him how to use graphics (when GIFs just came out).
He and I wrote this together when he was 8 years old.

I Resign

To my present state, I have to walk away.
I cannot portray an artist where there are none left today.
If all my writings were so great and really helped in relating,
Then I would have my friends and lovers, but instead I’m always waiting.
Nothing’s ever came of them, they never made my point.
I’ve still lost the love I had though I tried with a poem.
And though I made a mistake to love, I never really understood the lines
That I not only cared for them, but that without them I would fall behind,
And arguments that came between the lines we have shared,
Were times I tried to apologize, but never found they cared.
So if they really loved my writing and said I was expressing myself,
Why didn’t it ever mean anything? It never really helped.
So what’s the point of going on and writing as though I’m best?
It never stopped them from leaving. Instead I failed the test.
So to you all I must protest to the accusation
That I am such a perfect writer when it’s all imagination.
It never made you really believe that I ever really tried
To give you everything I have. I hated that you’ve cried.
So if I can’t express myself, or at least make you believe,
I resign from writing at all. The profession I now leave.

11-21-1990 Thursday, Thanksgiving Day
Written by Gail Brookshire

I WRITE

I write, I write, and I write.
I’ll write for the rest of my life.
I’ll write today. I’ll write tomorrow.
I’ll write when I’m somebody’s wife.
I write about the happiness
That I can find in a story.
And a lot of poems are drafted
On how our world destroys.

6-24-1990 Saturday
Written by Gail Brookshire

Time to Myself

Hours of the night I sat
Thinking about myself,
Finding all the good I could
And looking at what needs help.
I saw there were a lot of things
That I would like to change.
Yet glad there were so many things
That, fortunately, have stayed the same.
Time alone, all by myself,
It’s the only way I can think.
For I fall easy to ridicule.
With criticism I shrink.
Morning nearing, I grew so weary.
It was time to get some sleep.
But it felt great to feel good inside,
For the respect was running deep.

2-16-1990 Friday early morning 5am
Written by Gail Brookshire