Archive for April 29th, 2010

If your church


                were a “Transmission,”


Are you a 1st, 2nd, drive


                or reverse gear?   


– eab, 4/28/10 

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There’s something about being poetic,

That is more than perfect rhyming,

And it’s more than correct timing.

Poetry is more than marching words along a line,

It is more than some grocery jingle,

Or a climax that makes one tingle,

More than the dot and dash of accent, e’er so fine.

All the points attempted up above,

Could be used of human hate or love,

Could describe a soul in pity or “apine.”

All mankind’s thoughts of great importance,

Leave prose pages at least once,

To “suffer” a poet’s twist, twang, or entwine.

It’s not what you say but,

(Some would insist) how you say it,

Poetry’s the “limo” in which to convey it.

Be they grandiose words like yours,

Or simple ones like mine,

Old words, new words – imagination is the thing,     

Cranky words, kind words – make them stand up and sing,

Or make them whisper, wheeze, or simply whine.

Prose is permanent, it has won its place,

On continents old or new, among man’s rare race,

But Poetry – Ah Poetry, may it never decline.

                – eab, 4/09/08

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Be not angry with aging’s signs;

They’re but mile posts of life.

The fine, quaint lettering, interpret not with sting,
Nor quail from those neat lines

Etched by time’s trusty knife.


God in benevolent love,

Loving the yet unborn race,

(Imagine loving unknown, babies & adults full grown;

Only that God-like feeling from above

Enables man to care for an exposed face!)


God could love, lovingly He did,

What only God would do;

He made man so outward signs would show,

When life began to reach its “mid”

The Creator thus hinted what He knew.


He could’ve made man and his mate,

To stay life-long young,

To be in the prime all the time,

With no warnings of the date,

When death’s tolling had begun.


Instead, He planned that gradually

With force, man’s body would signal

An ultimate truth – the passing of youth,

Signs an individual would see,

Inward, outward, very hard to make null.


God knew we would rush madly apace,

Be engrossed in buying and selling,

Be coming and going, “to-ing and fro-ing”

So in wisdom, He planned the face,

As our clock for time-telling.


Be glad then for lines that planted

The crow’s feet and smile’s relief.

Your knowing brow signals the NOW,

Of life’s evening rays so well slated,

And knowing – there need not be grief. [1]

                – eab, Jul. ’80        

Stella Mae Scarbrough was born this date 4/29/1922, to Walter and Beulah Morgan in the great state of Tennessee.  In November of 1940 she married Carson Woodrow Scarbrough in Sweetwater, Tennessee.  She and “Woody” had three children, Martha Mae 1942, Woodie Carole 1945, Carson Lynn 1948.  I met her first around 1958 and in 1961 married her older daughter.  She became “Moma Stel” to me and has been a wonderful Mother-in-law.  Happy Birthday, Moma Stel!

[1] Poem is associated with my mother-n-law, Stella Scarbrough.

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