I am no poet. But there was a period of time several decades ago when — impelled by what forces I know not — I wrote a poem. One poem. I’ve not shared it before, but it seems to fit on this Easter Sunday. Here it is.
How I wish words would poetically pour
forth, that my pen with beauty and
power and clarity of thought would paint
the blank paper with unforgettable
images that express what I think and
How I wish that I could find within myself
that well which artists find
and drop their buckets in
so not only they may drink from what they draw,
but also the thirst of others is in some
How I desire to be called “creative” and
seen as a man with a heart as
well as head;
as a man who not only
sees the stars and speculates on what possibilities
they contain, but also
sees the stars and wonders in awe-filled silence
at that Hand which gave them life
— and him as well.
And yet I am content.
I am at peace with me.
It is as if the words of the sixth day
are forever resounding within my heart.
I am not the brightest blossom of creation, but
am its most beautiful bud — never fully flowered —
becoming more beautiful each moment, more graced
today than yesterday,
and tomorrow more…….
(c) Tim MacGeorge, 1992