David W. Ballard: Professional Writer specializing in Web content writing, copywriting, feature writing, fiction writing, and poetry.

When God Purposes Our Seasons

Why does scarcity instill fear?
Because our greater numbers
Mean our resources are fewer?
What make you of this, believers?

The Master cited mustard seeds
To mark faith’s monstrosity
When we hold it abundantly.
What say you now, anxiety?

Abraham, the wanderer,
Become our many faiths’ father.
David, the poor sheepherder,
Become Godly progenitor.

Moses, a babe in the river,
Become a holy lawgiver.
Jesus, a poor carpenter,
Become our Lord and Savior.

Knowing them, it is treason
To dress economic lesions
With the world’s misguided reason,
When God purposes our seasons.

Why Do We Make the Afflicted Run?

For all His power, God’s son
Never wielded it selfishly,
But fought to the death did He
For sinners and peasantry.

Holding close the small and young,
He taught them lovingly.
Women, He gave, verily,
The seeds of equality.

But, in the flesh, He was undone
By the lawful Pharisees,
Who lived ever so piously,
Yet judged mercilessly.

Why do we self-professed Christians
Do the same, pridefully,
And make the afflicted run
From our Man from Galilee?

Sometimes, We Rent

Today, she said, “Daddy, let’s play!”
I sighed and put my book away.
“Yippee!” she said, “Daddy, sit here.”
I plopped down and smiled anyway.

She put the puzzle together
Placing the shapes with pluck and cheer.
When the larger picture looked right,
She smiled and clapped, appearing dear.

But when the pieces weren’t aright,
She stomped and whined with all her might.
“It’s OK,” I said, “be patient.”
She pouted, her cheeks burning bright.

After a while, her resentment
Relented, and she showed the sense
We all need gain if we are meant
To see our free will sometimes rents.

Mothers: We Give Thanks To Thee

If our lives could stand still
For a motionless day,
And the world’s heartache eased away
With time’s callous decay,
I’d make it Mother’s Day,
In honor of your will
To trip across valleys and hills
That we might feel fulfilled.

We’d keep you in safety
Far from obligations,
Interloping avocations,
And enemy nations.
Mothers of creation,
Full of variety,
You bear your children unselfishly.
So we give thanks to thee.

A Father To His Daughters – A Warning About Boys

Not until he reaches thirty
Is any man really worthy
Of romance or taking your hand.
Don’t give in to his entreaties

To bed him; you will only fan
The flames of his pride as a man.
Be aloof, distance is your need.
Curt and cool, make him understand

Your heart will not cede to his greed
But to kindness and noble deeds.
Be a pauper, poor toward him,
For many a cad will succeed

When he thinks you’re easy pickings.
But wearing scanty, tight clothing
Will only serve to draw him in,
And make his lust your only friend.

A Need in Poetry

Dancing like a Sugar Plum Fairy,
She turns with eyes fixed on me.
Looking down, I try write,
But she moves my head aright,
Until I am watching her again.
Now, she wants to play a new game,
And hide-and-go-seek becomes another name
For a father pursuing his smallest dame.
A moment later, she wants to play ball.
She lies on it, rolling around, trying not to fall,
Stopping only to lift her head again and again,
Reminding me with an endless refrain,
“Watch me, Daddy. Watch me.”
I look again at my little “B”
And capture her neediness for me
In a verse of poetry,
Saving it to memory
For the day I’m the one in need.