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Ruth E. Beverly Acrylic Artist

Poetry













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Poetry, another form of expressing inner thoughts and feelings, seems at times to flow from the same point of inspiration as the paintings on this site.  It is perhaps another view into the soul of the artist.
 
















When I Choose to Follow

What does it mean to follow,
To not see the road ahead,
To be watching the Shepherd's footsteps,
Eyes on him, not the path I tread?
Too busy to look at the wayside,
The pleasures and shadows are blurred,
While watching the Shepherd before me,
My heart heeds His every word.
I can trust in each step that I'm taking
For His path leads to heaven's fair shore.
No doubts on the path of His making,
For my Savior has walked there before.

Ruth E. Beverly

Copyright 2003 Ruth E. Beverly

 

bIPolar

Two years have gone since we began counting days of grief and pain,

days of turmoil and upheaval of routine,

days of stress and strain.

Two years of positive direction lost amid a sea of backward,

fearful thoughts.

It would be so easy to give up, to sink to the depths and drown,

to follow the course our son took when he fell below all light,

below all reason, down, down.

But remember now a wrinkled brow, the brown eyes large and wide that gazed up for so many years for reassurance,

strength and wisdom,

oh that!

We must not hide,

though now sometimes the eyes stare blankly,

comprehension gone to bed?

The wit, the laughter at his humor

lays dormant.

Is it dead?

Ah, but now a little light appears like dawn on clouded sky,

a single cloud alit above the others not so high.

No other conclusion can be made, but that the day's begun,

and like promise of the day's return, hope and promise for our son.

So whether two or twenty years, it matters not you see,

the little light shows boldly now, shows on and grows in me.

Copyright 2003 Ruth E. Beverly

 
 
Stagecoach Road Ride
 

An early morning mountain ride

was what was in the plan,

To take the horses up the route

where once a stagecoach ran.

Each horse the wranglers saddled up

for greenhorns one and all,

Bits and bridles, cinches tight

so none would take a fall.

The riders mounted up

and stepped their horses in a line,

One wrangler at the front of it,

and one at the behind.

The horses headed toward the trail

across the grassy yard,

When "Ho" was yelled and heads were turned

as horse and wrangler came down hard!

The wrangler held on tight

with hand on saddle horn,

The horse was sure determined

he'd not be rode that morn!

But the wrangler changed that horse's mind

and settled him right down,

All the bucks and kicks were buried

'neath the hooves now on the ground.

 

The trail wandered up a creek

and zigzagged up the hill,

The narrow path, its switchbacks steep

to test each horse's will.

A simple task for seasoned horse,

a boring well trod route,

But for the wrangler's greener horse,

he'd not yet lost the bout.

He plodded up the zigzag trail

and rested at the top

He acted as the others did

and grazed when riders stop.

Good horse he was,

to follow at the ending of the line,

As the others trekked ahead of him

he seemed to do just fine.

The pathway made a u-shaped turn

around and down the slope,

A steep descent and up again,

the gelding followed rote.

Then the wrangler up ahead

made all the riders stop,

Concerned about a downward turn

where mud had turned to slop.

Each one must go down separately

and guard his every move.

It wouldn't do to hurry here,

to upset horse and hoof.

The horses each went gingerly

and riders held their breath

'Til their horse had found its path

and settled for a rest.

Just as the final greenhorn

headed down the dreadful way,

The wrangler's horse behind her

let out a frightful neigh!

The greenhorn's horse picked up his gait

and hurried quickly down,

The greenhorn sure this escapade

would put her on the ground.

But that horse was as sure of foot

as the mountain was so steep,

And after all, 'twas the wrangler's horse

would make his rider leap.

The greenhorn hollered "Ho" real loud

to warn those up ahead,

And turned to watch the crazy horse

that could make his rider dead.

It's one thing for a horse to buck

objecting to a ride,

But to buck atop a mountain trail

is more like suicide!

The wrangler had an awesome trip,

and hung on for a spell,

But also had the common sense

to dive off up the hill.

As he was busy landing,

the gelding crow-hopped on

Came down that tricky piece of trail

past greenhorns one by one.

 

The wrangler had good fortune,

lit in a stone free space,

He got right up, re-caught the horse

and put him in his place.

"I might have stayed on top him,"

the man philosophized,

"But it wasn't the time to demonstrate

a burst of wrangler pride!"

"Besides, " he wisely added on,

"I'd rather be the one

to tell this crazy story

to my own grandson."

 

Copyright 2003 Ruth E. Beverly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 

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