poem – Page 4 – sethlewis.ie

Another Chance (a poem)

It’s been months since I paid any attention to the long-lost autumn leaves that are lying in the grass alongside the roads and paths that I walk on. The glorious colour they impressed me with when they fell is nothing but a memory now. Then again, have you seen what frost can do to a leaf on the ground? This morning, every vein of every leaf is highlighted in white—the intricate patterns stand out in shimmering relief—and once again my eyes are drawn in renewed wonder. A few weeks ago, I would have told you that these leaves were far beyond their glory days. This morning, they shine unexpectedly with a new and different kind of glory. Our Creator can make beauty shine from a pile of dead leaves, and anywhere he wants, and long after we’ve given up hope of it ever coming again.

Hot And Cold (a poem)

Thanksgiving is an American tradition that our family will never, ever give up. The feast is amazing, but so is the logic: a holiday especially made for giving thanks! You have to give the pilgrims credit: they were clever. Giving thanks is one of the healthiest, happiest things you could ever do. Not just with a feast, and not just on the fourth Thursday in November—it’s a habit that can reshape our perspectives and grow contentment in our hearts all year long. That’s what this poem is about:

Thorn Bush (a poem)

This week I have a short poem for you about a plant in our garden. It’s about more than that, really, but I’ll let it speak for itself:

Thorn Bush

The bush in our garden
Is covered with thorns

The Weeds (a poem)

You don’t know how bad the weeds are until you try to plant and keep a garden. In a similar way, as C.S. Lewis put it, “no man knows how bad he is till he has tried very hard to be good.” These are the things I was thinking about when I wrote this poem:

Slowly (a poem)

Sometimes it’s better to slow down to stay with someone else.

I see him walking

Slowly

Across the field
He’s old
But not so old
To move so slow

My eye follows
The lead he holds
That leads to
His companion—
Whose tail is wagging

Slowly

A Living Poem

One of the reasons I love poetry is because of the power it has to make ordinary language come alive in new and different ways. But of course, when I say “come alive” that’s only a poetic phrase—I don’t actually mean that poems could ever really live. Or could they?