|Prayer of a Troubled Pastor|
|Lord, there are times I find no word from you|
To guide me in my work, as when today
There was a woman, old and sick, who knew
Her time was short, so sent for me to pray.
The question that she asked -- what could I say?
Her husband died young; she wonders how
He'll recognize her there, so old and gray.
She wants to look like she looked then -- not now.
I told her that since You are always kind
And know the human heart, its foolish pride,
That when they meet again I thought she'd find
He'd see her There as she was when he died.
Forgive me, Lord if I mixed faith with guile
For when I left she wore a peaceful smile.
|POTPOURRI IN POETRY Ordering information|
|The stable boy had finished work that day,|
Had filled the manger with new-fragrant hay,
Had fed the beasts, and usually would sleep
Snuggled for warmth among the placid sheep;
But not tonight, for he'd conceived a plan
To join a merchant's camel caravan
And travel to far places. He had heard
Exciting tales of cities, which had stirred
His longing for adventure. He would go
Where things were happening; his friends would know
Why he had gone. He often said to them,
"Oh, nothing ever happens in Bethlehem."
He looked back once, before they traveled far,
And wondered vaguely: Why that brilliant star?
|Farm Journal, Hallmark Treasure Books|
|The locust plies us with his strident song.|
The cricket overture is overlong,
While in the grasses lurks the katydid
Who groans monotonously, "She did, she did."The tasseled corn wears morning-glory frills.
A haze has come to veil free-feathered hills,
While man and bee and squirrel hoard together
The season's bounty, cached for bitter weather.
|The Harp, October 1929|
|Modern Farm Boy|
|He looks about ten,|
Certainly not more than twelve years,
As he guides the steel monster
Over the level fields,
A boy doing a man's work
With mechanical ease.
He glances up at the sky
Where a flight of metal birds
Moves in close formation.
The boy rests his machine
And watches, dreaming
Of the time he, too, can
|Saturday Evening Post, 28 April 1956|
|Nancy Comes North|
|She had lived south of frost her seven years|
And cupped her hands to capture flakes of snow;
Dismayed at their impermanence, her tears
Prefaced her querulous, "where did they go?"
I was not wise enough to tell her where
But told her why and led her by the hand
To see the brook, ice-silenced, and to stare
At tracks the fox made seeking contraband.
As wonder grew and lighted Nancy's face
I saw anew what had seemed commonplace.
|Kansas City Star, 1 November 1954|
|There was once a monk|
(So the story goes)
Who was given a penance
To cramp his toes.He must walk five miles
With beans in his shoes --
To shrive his soul
His feet abuse.He did his penance
As we might do --
First boiled the beans
He put in each shoe.
|The Kansas City Star, 25 March 1971|
|Realism for Mortals|
|The only absolute is change,|
Growth and decay;
Even the stones (though stubbornly)
This law obey.And Man, who oftenest rebels,
Learns soon or late
His need to welcome what will be,
|Kansas City Star, 17 October 1959|
|Shared Grief Over Prodigals|
|This is an old grief|
And a thief
Of parent sleep --
The budding child,
Grown knowing, not wise,
Who will not keep
Now discarded, spurned
As graybeard lies.This is an old grief
And one, we suppose,
God, also, knows.
|Kansas City Times, November 23, 1963|
|My friend is prejudiced; the law|
Should curb him with restrictions,
But leave me free to carry out
My personal convictions.
|The Villager, February 1958|
|Two snowflakes never are the same,|
The scientists agree;
But have they proved what they proclaim?
I watch the myriads that fall
And leave it up to chance,
That here and there among them all
Twin snowflakes dance.
|Web credit: Forensic-Evidence.com|
|Order Potpourri in Poetry, compiled and edited by the poet's daughter Bonnie Sykes Sullivan and published in 1991, by sending $9.95 plus $3.95 for shipping and handling to the poet's granddaughter and editor's daughter, Bonnie Krannig, 312 Foxcroft Circle, Holland MI 49423. Allow two weeks for delivery. Funds received are donated to the Alzheimer's Foundation of America.|
During a 60-year career she wrote newspaper columns, hosted a radio show, reviewed books, edited a magazine, and wrote plays and poetry. Jane Fifield Flynn about Velma West Sykes in Kansas City Women of Independent Minds.
Search The Kansas City Public Library, Missouri Valley Special Collections, for Velma West Sykes and Boxoffice Magazine. www.boxoffice.com.