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A poem about my 2014.

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Another humble birth.

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Before we are born we are quiet, then we are born and we scream.

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This poem is how in life we all start a journey, and they all end at the same gate.

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Man must work to accomplish everything, because nothing is given. If we remember that there is no true handout, our lives will be the better for it, although we will sweat to get there!

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This poem is about the city where I was born. Btw the term "Roshuneer" is the way my parents and grandparents would call roasting ears of corn. Roasting ears became ROSHUNEERs. It was the peculiar Scots-Irish pronunciation of the term "Roasting Ears" that became Roshuneer.

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An infant is born. There is a hand to guide you. Call on Him.

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A poem about the birth of my neice.

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The King has made a way.

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God gave us the greatest gift of all, his love and salvation, and he started that with the birth of Jesus, which we celebrate at Christmas!

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