Poetry by Terry Presgrove
The poetry posted here is writen by
Terry Presgrove and is copyrighted
~ The Only One ~

If the world was a field of flowers
And I was a honey bee,
I'd pick all the other flowers,
So you'd be the only one to see.

If the world was filled with diamonds,
And I was a jewel thief's dream,
I'd steal all the other diamonds,
So you'd be the only sparkling-gleam.

If the world was an ocean scene,
And I was a fisherman of the deep,
I'd throw back all the other fish,
So you'd be the only one to keep.

If the world was wrapped in beaches,
And I was the tossing, restless tide,
I'd cover all the other beaches,
So you'd be the only sand that's dry.

If the world was a forest full of timber,
And I was a lumber lien,
I'd clear cut all the other timber,
So you'd be the only tree that's green.
1Corinthians 13 states that all human
knowledge is imperfect, and transient.
But Faith, Hope, and Love are Eternal.
And the greatest of these is love.

~ Love ~

Love is always patient and kind
When faced with our faults it is blind
Love is never in a jealous bind
Nor does it take on a boasting mind

Love does not insist on its own way
It will not lead astray
Love can never betray
And love will not accept pay

Love is not arrogant or rude,
It cannot whine and brood
Neither will love cause a feud
And finds it impossible to exclude

Love is saddened by the wrong of things
But rejoices when goodness springs
Love takes us under her wings
And carries us away as she sings

Through all things love will bear
Refusing to lose hope and despair
Love will forever declare
Things that are not as though they are there

Love shall cling to believe
It will not deceive
Love carries its load daily with each heave
And Promises for all eternity never to leave
Part Message bible translation and a little dab from TP.

God Cares!
( Psalms 56:8 )

When Heaven's light shines through
And the angels sing what's true
We shall find that He always knew
Keeping track of our every toss
And turn through the sleepless nights
Each tear dropped into His bottle
Each ache written in His book
1Thessalonians 4:13-18 :
Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall
asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe
that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with
Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. According to the Lord's own
word, we tell you that we who are still alive, who are left till the coming
of the Lord, will certainly not precede those who have fallen asleep. For
the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command,
with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and
the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are
left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord
in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage
each other with these words.

Just Like Any Other Day

I'm Cruising along singing a celebration song,
listening to 'Third Day' proclaim with praise.
But suddenly there is an ear piercing ringing,
the sky is splitting. Is that a horn I am hearing?
I must be dreaming? Twisting with a hard pinch,
but there is no stinging. Below, my car is a run-
away speeding. In shock my heart is pleading:
what's this? Wow! I can fly? I can fly! I can fly!!
Myriads are lifting above me; sweeter tunes have
never been exhumed, nor melodies serenaded.

Where did I get this robe that's shining white?
Life is magnified exponentially by His light;
the nearer His presence, the brighter the rainbow,
the deeper the hue, the sweeter the sound,
the more alluring the aroma. His majestic beauty
abounds; osmotic assimilation: the mind becomes
a soaking sponge, drinking knowledge in gulps,
thinking faster than ever achieved. Glory, glory
to the King, who I can see. I can see! I can see!!

Angelic creatures prance in the air with dance.
Heaven ignites, showering the iris with delight.
The sweet savor of a bouquet's soaring romance,
swims within the quantum senses enhanced;
Speed of thought traversing creates arrival before
the notion finishes nursing. In the twinkle of an eye,
All the joy in Zion can be simultaneously partaken;
and the saint's elated embraces are never mistaken.

Indescribable deliciousness only now can be appre-
ciated by the glorified: even the most sublime choc-
olate tastes a bit boorish in this realm. Emotional
tumultuousness is nonexistent. Celestial communi-
cations exceed  the old flesh and blood capacity  
to interrelate. Euphoric exhilaration far transcends
the sierra joy of the earthly, corporeal-integration.

At the Master's glorious feet - nothing else matters;
joining with believers whose pardon was received,
and participating in the divine forever fellowship,
as the prophetic agape' oneness is achieved;
In unison on our knees, squeezing my set of  
mansion keys and awed by the Celestial breeze,
yet to still be me, an individual He died for,
is enough to keep yours truly busy for all eternity:
singing His praises, and soaking in His unbound-
ing expressions of divine love -  receiving the
never ending comprehension of His essence.
The grandeur of all that is made by His hand,
simply fades into insignificance beside Him.

What started just like any other day,
has turned into a wonderful new Way!!
I’ve always been fascinated by the dimension of time.
The following poem is my contribution to the subject.

What is....

Stretching 'what is' along a line,
You find that the line is all of time,
A panoramic photo of its kind,
Which is not simply a point on the line,
It is a snapshot of all that's called time:
From the original conception burst,
An incomprehensible charging surge,
Triggering the Genesis second hand,
From infinity's asylum of naught,
To discover it is the first Tick-Tock,
The Alpha of a zillion clicks unlocked,
Marching to a perfect cadence clock,
Without the least threat of double talk.
Joining in a slow dance with déjà vu,
Echoing a two-step forever tune,
But suddenly, the ages old recite
Still frames the stunned afternoon,
Freezing the phase of the moon;
Alarmed by the shocking sight,
Gasping at the inscribed sign:
-It is the End of the Line-.
Who Was He?

Jesus Christ was not just a superstar,
He is the one that hung the stars,
Jesus Christ was not just a man,
He is the incarnate God-man,
Jesus Christ was not just a prophet,
He is the one that fulfilled prophecy,
Jesus Christ was not just born,
He pre-existed from time immemorial,
Jesus Christ was not just a good man,
He lived without sin, the perfect Holy-man,
Jesus Christ was not just a religious figure,
He is the one that holds all things together,
Jesus Christ was not just one among wise men,
He is the storehouse of all ken,
Jesus Christ did not come the first time to reign,
He came to break the bonds of sin and to persuade,
Jesus Christ did not just cry out in pain,
He became that which He disdained,
Jesus Christ was never a cheat,
He hung on a cross between two thieves,
Jesus Christ was not just murdered,
He came on a mission of eternal purposes,
Jesus Christ's body did not remain in that grave,
He shook the earth and broke the chains,
Jesus Christ did not just conveniently disappear,
He walked among the five hundred ministering there,
Jesus Christ did not just vanish into thin air,
He ascended into heaven while witnesses glared,
Jesus Christ did not depart in despair,
He left in glory, going away to prepare,
Jesus Christ will not forget his heirs,
He knows everyone who clings to Him in prayers,
And He’s coming again to wipe away all their tears.
~ Pledge Of Mine ~

If you'd accept this pledge of mine
Happy would be the smiles that shine
When love cast down a weakened knee
And made time stop to watch the plea

If you'd accept this pledge of mine
This heart would dance a high wire line
Then breath would pause to catch a wisp
Of blue enthralled with cloudless crisp

If you'd accept this pledge of mine
Bright eyes would toast their glee with wine
As nature rocks a lullaby
That lifts kid kites beyond the sky

If you'd accept this pledge of mine
Our lives would come to intertwine
Become one beat - a blink in time
And wink that holds eternal rhyme
~The Proposal~

Your the One I have desired
For a myriad of lost years,
Trapped in a bunker of nightmarish fears,
Where only shadows had hope to cheer.

Deep down in the darkness
I grasp the faintest hope
That someday You might appear,
Then love would ignite and make right.

The long prayed for flicker of light,
Came with a thunderous sunburst -
So bright that I almost drown
In the sudden explosion of life.

Lisa Gaye Kelly - You are the One
I want to join in that timeless frontier,
The place where joy never ends,
And tears shall never again interfere.
Just about everyone of maturity has experienced the
anguish of great loss. I pray none of you have drawn this
close to the fellow in the following poem.

My Best Friend

My best friend is old Hartley Ache,
He was named after his namesake;
He comes to my house every day,
With a wily-grin that loves to sin.
He knows darn well he'll be fat-full
Before the night turns to dreaming.
But you see, I feel so sorry for him:
That powerful, awful, addictive pull,
Never seems to get quite satisfied,
By tears that fill the cup brimming,
Or a plate full of red-raw bleeding,
And his appetite seems to increase
With each dawning day's pleading.
Sometimes after supper, I swear,
I can hear that old boy screaming,
But the sound is a muffled-blare,
Like hearing what's inside the stare.
I know he sincerely cares about me,
Cause he never ever misses dinner.
I've got to thinking maybe it's time
For him to go ahead and move in:
We've got to be such good friends.
~ Tidbits ~

Red in nature sticks out like a sore thumb,
But it is sweeter than a Georgia plum.

Sorrow brings heartache and tears,
But laughter exhales the years.

Foiled desire can break the strongest heart,
But lovers cannot be pried apart.

The pain of divorce sizzles and sears,
But it lives six inches between the ears.

Preparing for a race is a pain to train,
But there's no prize to win in the lazy lane.

Each breath is the joy of a wise man's story,
But the fool can only hopes for future glory.

Life is far too short to cling to a thing,
But you must grab hold of what makes you sing.

The sun shines on every single one,
But living takes place within the shadow's run.

Sometimes you simply want to fold your tent,
But seeing things through brings the least lament.

The best things in life can become a yawn,
But you really don't miss 'em till their gone.
My mother, Janell Presgrove, passed away as a result of a tragic accident on October 13,
2005. I had written the following poem about a year before she died. Mother was quite a poet
in her own right, so you can imagine how proud I was when she smiled and told me how well
she liked it. But what makes the poem extra special to me is,  I was able to read it to her one
last time only moments before she passed.

~ Mother ~

She is the essence
Of the very first memory
Life sustaining energy
My first love, friend
And original enemy

She is that scream
Of terror in the dream
And the sweetest sound
That will ever serenade
In a stereo-parade

She is the seasoned salt
That defines each shed tear
Always encouraging to persevere
And within her forever embrace
There is never a fear

I hear the resounding echo
Of her endearing laughter
In each day's chatter
And in every single chapter
Of my life that matters

She is best known
For those Sunday roasts
Being a prayer warrior of hosts
Desiring revival coast to coast
And the Savior that she boasts

She soars above the eagle's wing
Bathing in the sweet savor of spring
It's that mother nature thing
That passes on the genetic ring
And gives me the poetry to sing

She has set my foundations
Deep in the inward parts
And when I went astray
They pointed out the charts
That brought me home to stay

Her saintly wisdom shines
Through all the storms of life
Like a neon-truth rainbow
That flashes beyond the strife
To the pot of gold for my soul

I know that she misses dad
And at times she must be sad
But her steadfastness makes me glad
That I have a mother
Who finely raised a lad
Many years ago, I wrote the following poem about a man who acted in
desperation to close the darkest and most painful chapter of his life—so that
he might have the faintest hope of there being a next one.

The Crumpled Shoebox

With a raunchy rank whiskey stench
He downed memories on the rocks
The thing he'd always held tautly
He placed in a crumpled shoebox

Walked a lost lifetime of loving
Across a barren field in time
To the south end of the pasture
Next to an aging crippled pine

Took his favorite reflection
A long-ago image that morphed
And dug a shallow eerie grave
Under the twisted lonely dwarf

He tore heartsick from his clutches
Lowered the makeshift casket down
Molded the earth into a mound
Sealed the tomb with a gloomy frown

Set a limestone as the headstone
Knelt as a solemn statuesque
Mumbled a prayer without breath
In the shadow of the grotesque

Tried to tell this sad sad story
As very best as best can blurt
But words are a dying whimper
In a buried coffin of hurt
I wrote this at least a decade ago. It’s not a light read, but I believe it is more relevant today than when it
was written. It addresses the shunning and persecution in progress of believers who hold to the historic
Christian positions. Furthermore it hints at what is to come for those who refuse to surrender to political
correctness in the public arena of ideas (paragraph five). It’s long ( 7 paragraphs or just under a 1000
words) so if it interest you, make sure you have the time before embarking.

Black and White

Shades of gray, not black or white, varying
degrees of clouded light; remembering when
a spade was called a spade, a candy bar cost
a dime and bright white would hurt your eyes.
The thin ashen line was rarely perceived,
even less deceived, but today clarity changes
to a vapor like a sheet of burning paper.
The diverse creed jades, that way "in Jesus'
name" can be blamed. The enlightened say
black and white thinking, as if it was simple
mindedness to relate such things to basic
precepts of synthesis. But nothing else is
felonious; all Christian concerns evanesce to a
dull skew, i.e., " if it feels good— do it, eat drink
and be merry for tomorrow we die, who cares
what happens between two consenting adults,"
are merely tokens of the philosophy that has
seized this apostate country.

Modern man is so smart that he sees through
sound thinking, and widens the dreary from sea
to shining sea. Look what we have achieved!
See how our kids are better educated, how much
safer the schools, stabler the family core, securer
the fabric of society; no opium of the masses here.
Elevated to the plateau of the new god's imagin-
ation, "there are no moral imperatives,"
such human brilliance has brought western
civilized man to the pinnacle of godlike imaginary
capabilities. The smarter the dude the more likely
to undo what a child can conclude. Fool heartiness,
chest-thumping, throne lusting, ego seducing,
is there any guessing as to who gives the last rights
to the natural evolution of such a disposition?

They laugh at the decade of the '50's, but I don't
recall mass executions, kids going bonkers,
moms and dads rolling the dice with their
children's lives. The '60's brought the sexual
revolution, men putting women to task,
and today even children get to vote in this time
out. Adultery is on a massive scale, there's no
one that can deny that tale. America ate the fruit,
the Jones scam worked. Sure the pendent needs
to move, but gee whiz to the moon? After all,
who are we to assume or challenge the
communication-media boom?

Everything is fine, anything goes unless you
actually believe in Christ, then you get the ice.
Everybody is out of the closet these days,
except the assembly with the fish sign. Each time
we stick our head out and try to take a stand, or
even quote a bible verse, get ready for the media-
elite slam. They will chew you up and spit you out,
just like they did the pro-life fans. They changed the
movement name to anti-abortion, smart foes the
newsman, they know how to play the game, turn
thinking in on its head, upside down. Ever notice
how the pro-choice clan is always postured in the
most emotionally positive plight, while the pro-life
folks are cast into darkness of night, cruel hearted
and uncaring; talk about slanting the news!
Those media persons know how to frame their
argument, pretending to be impartial, isn't that a
laugh—Dan Rather taught us that. They twisted
protesters into fanatical-fringe, imbecilic-nuts;
it's no surprise that Christians withdrew into their
private huts.

Who else has their finger on the trigger of public
opinion, but the guardians, the protectors of the
new-found faith, that is built on the proposition
that all belief systems are created equal and have
certain unalienable rights, as long as they follow
the media and enlightened elite's politically correct
dogma, which honors the pagan commandment, "
thou shall not nothing," unless, of course, the not,
somehow violates the mathematical impossibility
of the nothing becoming some form or fantasy,
thereby offending any living entity or oddity in
our galaxy; except of course for the exclusionary
Christian rule which, when applied, nullifies the
preceding not nothing exception. The logical and
natural conclusion leads us to a time when we all
have implanted electronic legal diversity chaplains,
which will beep a warning at first then fining us,
automatically debiting our accounts for violations
of the universal "thou shalt not nothing code."

The prophets of the news waves set up straw
men, so to tear the person of faith down and
crush us to the ground. We sit and watch,
ignorantly unaware, in la-la land, the frog
gradually brought to a boil; assisted suicide by
striking the mark on our own heart. Whose heads
are in the sand of the plot at hand? We have clearly
lost the cultural battle, claiming dementia, because
we surrendered the morally high ground to the
politically correct crowd within the public arena
of ideas.

In Solomon's day, the watered-down diversity of
many faiths would eventually bring the temple
tumbling down. Even great leaders can be blinded,
so too our nation is a teetering house of moral
chaos on the brink of destruction. Led by
a group of highly educated, political motivated,
men and women in government, institutions of
higher learning, the news media, and Hollywood.
They preach from their bully pulpit daily on
diversity and equality, except for that segment of
Christianity which believes that Jesus Christ is the
"only way." We are dangerous bible thumpers,
literalist, living in the dark ages: black and white
thinkers who must be ridiculed in the public
arena of ideas. Why do they hate us so—
do you know?
Some might be surprised at what you can see in a painting.

Imagination Thieves

The yellow orb hangs
In a forever frame
Robbing the surreal
Of its daily evening meal

Beams of light reflect
The brilliant rays
That reach out to heal
And hear nature praise

Ghost and goblins
Lurk in the tree tops
Perched to spring
When the twilight is king

The shadowy figurines
From ominous dreams
Silently leap and tease
Childhood fears with ease

The crunching sound
Of stepped on leaves
Can be heard
In the vision that believes

The story is stolen
By imagination thieves
And is freshly sold
Each time the eye perceives

1Corinthians 13:12 says, “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to
face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”

Hang on Boldly

In the present race,
We cannot by faith
Reach face to face,
But we can grasp hold
Of His magnificent glory,
And hang on boldly
Till the end of the story.

Joy of Living

You've read it in a book,
Or heard the story told,
But the joy of living,
Is daily living bold!
Rapturous Glory!

The sun sets on the old man and the Son’s rays shine
on the new dawn in brand new ways: adorning with
an amazing praise-knitted shawl of brilliant heavenly
glistening— sewn together with sparkling needles of
indescribable kinetic-energy, overflowing, flooding
sensory perception with pure unadulterated celestial
ecstasy. Brilliant colors, never before seen, bath in the
spectrum lake and the iris illuminated is showered
with His majestic countenance. Fragrant bouquets
from the new creation, raise the olfactory glands to
mountainous levels of uncharted realms. The glori-
ous sounds of dancing notes sail to an angelic scale,
igniting and exciting the nucleus of our new shell.
Emotion is driven beyond the power of locomotion.
Goosebumps tiering from volcanic eruptions lift the
soul to heights untold—the senses magnified to the
umpteenth glorified, and in the midst of the ineffable,
there is a peace that transcends the comprehensible.
The Lamb and the Lion

The first time He came as a servant in disguise,
Although the angels announced His arrival,
And the babe came to earth divinely titled,
There was no mighty army that ensued,
Nor the insignia of earthly royalty giving proof.
While Jesus gave essential clues to His fulfilling truth,
The tribes misunderstood the prophetic crux,
Suspending His throne above the world in crucifixion,
Giving no visible sign of His glorification;
The Lamb crowned with puncturing thorns,
Disciples questioning why He had ever been born,
The Romans mocked and cast lots for His cloak,
Having Nailed Him to that foreordained oak,
Toasting His kingship by offering bitter herbs,
Divine destiny hung between heaven and earth.

But next time:

He will come as the mighty conquering Lord,
Having thrown off the garment stained with scorn.
His heavenly nature trumpeted, gloriously adorned,
The Lion of the tribe of Judah has been restored;
Son of Man on a white horse with flaming eyes of torch,
Celestial hosts rejoice as He brings with Him His reward,
The throng of redeemed return with Him in support,
Enemies destroyed by the brightness of His sword,
Demons retreat in fear of the horror they will absorb.
His throne is established and ruled with sovereign accord,
Attired in a majesty robe, acknowledged and adored,
Honored with a one of kind crown, cheered by the reborn.
Unbelief will flee His presence when the King retorts,
Every heart that has ever ticked a beat will hit the knee,
Acknowledging the savior and creator of the grand scheme.
Each and every thought or deed is paraded for all to see,
Eternal life in the balance, to be, or not to be?
Angels celebrate with acclaim, exalting His name,
And the saints will forever praise, gain knowledge and reign.


In the darkness of night
Or the brightest daylight

Being rich or poor
An opened or closed door

Flat of your back
Or flat out running down the track

Solid as a log
Or thick as a fog

Scaling the mountain top
Or in the valley at a dead stop

Riding a camel in the Sahara desert
Or having ice cream for dessert

Fighting bulls in Spain
Or crossing a meadow in Maine

A new born babe
Or old uncle Abe

Happy or sad
Being good or bad

Got the flu
Or don't have a clue

The maker is always there
And can be reached through prayer

He knows every hair
And will set matters square

We're just passing through
Nothing here to accrue

Might as well remove the glue
Cause you can't take it with you
My first poem (with minor changes) I wrote in late 2001.

~Sorrow and Hope ~

Sorrow weighed heavy on his soul,

the warnings he had were many,

the choices he made broke the hearts,

and love seemed so far beyond his

extended reach as to have no chance in the

game that was rigged from the start.

But there is hope and life beyond the strife,

and in the end, the things he once thought

were grand, turned out to be like sand.

There is a light that shines so bright it blinds

the mortal man, but in the darkness there is

the faint glimmer of the dawn that is to come.
In many ways divorce is very much like a death in the family, except it can be even worse
because of the rejection. Long ago, after going through a hellish divorce, there remain-
ed the sobering reality that I had to deal with the over-whelming emotional trauma of
rejection and separation – spiritually, physically and psychologically. The good news is,
there is hope and life beyond the strife!

~ Life after Death ~

When going through great emotional torment,
everything else fades into insignificance be-
side the covetous bully: torturous pain. He is
the standard-bearer that measures all of life's
experiences, and easily sits alone on the throne
as the quintessential judge and arbiter of self
deluding reason. He dictates the prism that
we use to view our being, the essential core
of what makes us tick, and radiating externally,
interprets everything else we see or experience.

Agony is a vicious, jealous-abuser of reason.
Like the tyrannical husband, who demands
subservience from his abused wife, heartache
can swallow our soul unless we can discon-
nect from its control. It is only when we can
stand back from its manipulation, and para-
doxically get separation, or space between
ourselves and the affliction that we can then
perceive clearly. Otherwise, we fail to see
the forest for the trees and life threatens to
always remain the tragedy of a déjà vu tease.

Looking away from self to the object of our
faith is essential in producing the necessary
interval needed, as this allows us to catch per-
spective breath—if the view is from humbled
knees and not shaking our angry peeves. But
even then, breaking free from such an enemy
does not happen overnight. Small increments
over time and then the first baby step, grad-
ually creating a gap. The avalanche of horror
comes from the six inches between our ears
and must be seen as something that can and
will halt. There was a beginning and there is
going to be an end: the cessation of hostility
between our thoughts, our will, and our heart.
Einstein said, “God created time so everything doesn’t happen at once.”

Time is Relative

Time is relative.
Time is all encompassing.
Time marks the first whimper
and bemoans the last groan.
Time wakes us up
and tucks us in at night.
Time tells us when we're hungry
and marches us to work.
Time starts our journey and cries foul
when we overstay our welcome.
Time divides itself
into twenty four segments.
Time begins and ends all things kin
to the creature's soul.
Time limits speed of travel
to the light configuration.
Time was present at that microsecond
when the first cymbals banged.
Time will never end
till the last trumpet roars,
Then and only then,
will time be no more.
There are many mysteries in the bible. But none greater than God,
our creator, stepping out of the radiant brilliance of the heavenly
realm and surrender His magnificent glory to become one of us. And
Jesus is His name.
Who, existing in the form of God, did not consider equality with God
something to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a
servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in
appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to
death—even death on a cross.…

The Greatest Mystery

Out of nothing He fashioned the awesome universe
Stretching out the galactic canvas that He composed
But the greatest mystery in the bible verse
Is the God of creation wrapped up in swaddling clothes

He stepped out of eternity into a manger
Unimaginable light drowned for the love of His creature
Never once giving thought to His own pleasure
He became our flesh and blood redeeming Savior
Not everyone will agree with this poem’s conclusions, but for those
raised in small town USA in the 50s and 60s, it should hit home.

Beans and Rice Again?

The wind was to our back, Jesus Christ reigned
and strangers waved as they passed on the lane.
We did our ABCs in a three room school house;
people seemed to really care, charity was a fre-
quent dare, and Sundays were an all day affair:
Morning, noon and night the Word was shared.
There were tent revivals in summer time, which
kept the fans busy and nobody misunderstood
when the preaching was on sin. But the Times
said: God is dead and moral relativism set in.

We ate beans and rice one year for nine months,
they call that a recession these days, but we all
made it through just fine. TV was the craze, a-
dored those Three Stooges, the Little Rascals,
Spanky and Alfalfa. Sister tattletaled often and
learned a hard lesson; spankings galore, deserv-
ed and needed more. Mom and dad quarreled
often, but they stuck it out through hard times
and you didn't have to worry about there being
many crimes. Life was good, there was no need
for a legal finding as a man's word was binding.

Then the Jones moved next door, the priorities
changed, even mom went to chore; we all want-
ed more, a piece of the pie, the American dream,
but what fantasy was that? When men put wo-
men to toil outside the home, the family nucleus
began to unravel, with latchkey kids left alone to
their own devise. Did the material things become
our god, or where did we really go poor? Don't
get me wrong, generations need modulation, but
the pendulum swinging beyond the blue-yonder?

Longing for the much simpler black and white;
not the overwhelming gray that we see today,
but humanity has evolved, godlike commission,
there's talk of a new creation with prosperous
motives, not to mention weapons of mass de-
struction. But some things are exceptional: folks
flying planes into towers, killing distant neigh-
bors by the thousands; MAD seemed to lurk,
but a new paradigm is manifestly in the works.

There are many faiths called the great religions,
but whatever happened to Jesus? God Bless
America is in vogue, all the fashion, but there
is confusion on authorization. Prayer is judicial
in the sanctuary or the drawer, but Christ is
offensive to the media crisscrossing. Maybe
time has past me by, but I don't like this new
god, devised by the politically correct, hallow-
ed-ground crowd. Hungry for the former things,
hard times ahead, maybe beans and rice again?

The following poem is dedicated to all the singles out there who are
searching for “their soulmate,” and won’t settle for less.

~Nightly Rendezvous~

She is out there somewhere,
tossing and turning,
with little fanfare,
searching for me,
like the rain needs the sea,
or a flower the bee,
calling out my name,
burning like a flame,
absolutely unashamed.

In her dream we grasp
each others hand.
Our eyes and ears demand
a tender conversation,
filled with golden treasures,
both relishing in the measures,
enthralled with the temporal,
and adorning every syllable
are precious jewels.
For the love of one another
we have become fools:
laughing and giggling,
planting in her hair a white lily,
chanting together and being silly.

She takes hold of my soul,
squeezing me whole,
intending never to lets go.
Wrapped in soft pearly sheets,
tapped into all of the sweets,
the two sharing all of their treats,
merging what is known
with every nook
and cranny being sown,
as they reign from their throne.

But when she opens her eyes,
she finds no skies,
the mirror never lies,
it says "the vision is a guise,"
and to her surprise,
it is herself that is alone;
my flesh and sinew are gone,
having faded back to bone.

At that moment I cry,
reaching out with a sigh,
having awakened in the night,
connected to her plight,
now cursed by this blight,
and being robbed of her aroma,
leaves me sleepless in Oklahoma,
aching for a fleeting kiss,
shaking from the withdrawal abyss.

Suddenly the flesh
returns to my hands,
i reach out to touch
the desire of our demands.
My heart prances,
and affection dances
across every nerve sensor
that gives pleasure,
filling to the utmost measure,
ecstasy beyond rapture,
my soulmate has been captured!
But then - an alarming blast!
My head snaps up;
must I drink from this cup?

This can't be.
Not Déjà vu?
Two dreams are true
in the twilight hours - connecting,
but the daylight powers
respond with rejecting:
each morning - condemning,
and then once again spinning
in a revolving door,
heartbroken ritual chore.

And though I knew,
peering through this surreal view,
that we could never rendezvous,
i would still wish
for a forever nightly due,
and that it come exactly on cue,
rather than risk saying adieu
to the idea of you.
There is nothing quite like a Harley Ride!

~ The Harley Ride ~

The spirited wind is blowing a glorious gale,
Goose bumps are dancing and drinking strong ale.
Happiness is grinning an awesome mile wide,
The heart is pole vaulting with ecstatic pride.
Laughter reverberates deep down inside,
A friend’s reflection is securely near by,
And always the roaring of the engine's reply.

Touching artistic expressions of God's creation:
Diving into the strokes on the canvas of the nation,
A sight seeing, majestic, Three-D animation;
The orange globe setting—entices fascination,
A bright full moon draws an eerie-infatuation;
Up and down the mountains and valleys,
From east to the west—coast to coast rallies.

Bouquets of flowers become a treasure trove
Of puppy breath mornings inhaled through the nose.
Hours of riding make an aching butt scold,
But soft sensual pillowing never gets old,
As sweet thing, inclining, takes a tight hold,
And heart-pounding accelerating,
Trumpets the adventurous soul bold.

Mother nature is boasting exhilarating forces.
Cavalry prances in formation as warrior horses,
Snorting in preparation for the colossal attack,
There’s absolutely no contemplation of a fall back;
The senses are amplified in an adrenalin flood,
Envisioning “The Charge of the Light Brigade”
On this magnificent, mighty-lunging stud.
My dad, Denton Presgrove, has been gone for near eighteen
years. I still think of him often and miss his wise counsel.

Letter to Dad


I sure don't mean to embarrass you, but a few things never quite
got said. No son or daughter in the annals of the history of man,
ever had a better dad. Your love for us kids transcends any world-
ly sense. No earthly father could ever love us more than our dad—
Dent. Tears trickling, can only hint at the gratitude and no amount
of consideration on our part, could ever make a dent on what you
have done in love for us kids. You know, I served along side of
some of the most decorated Marines in Vietnam and yet, I tell you
in facing life or death, I never crossed paths with anyone on this
planet that even came  close to exceeding your courage and
display of everyday bravery.

Your son,

The Majestic Queen

The alluring female is effortlessly tantalizing,
Seductively appetizing and serenely irresistible.
See it in the way she walks with royal eloquence:
The stirring, streaming, fluent proceeding.
Her breath-taking stature summons his every design,
Beckoning, magnetizing—their eyes meeting.
The cobra dancing, mesmerizing,
Hypnotic suggestions that are dazzling,
Magnifying the senses, testosterone flowing,
Endorphins releasing, poisoning,
Then paralyzing his very soul,
Encasing volition in obsession stone.

Her victims are many—
Stretched out from here to antiquity,
Prostrate beside the time gates of history,
Taking the breath of more men of destiny
Than all the bullets fired by adversaries with enmity.
Ninety eight pounds of dainty femininity greeting,
And defeating two hundred pounds
Of indefeasible masculinity with ease.
She is the “Trojan Horse” in heat,
A consuming viral disease,
Making the healthy male bedridden
Without complaint or doctor's plea.
She is the timeless seductress,
Who has captured more hearts of men
Than the sum total of all the generals
That have ever marched to the drummer's beat.

Uncontrollable addiction to her mating call,
And no antidote to deliver us from natural law,
Who will save us from this wretched slavery,
Deliver our sanity and dignity or are we impaled
To predestined perdition—
Forever chained to our desire for her?
Compelled and driven to taste her wet lips,
Feel the soft contours, rubbing ever so gently,
Snuggling within the skin, spell-bound once again,
Drugged by the olfactory manipulation
That brings pleasing with teasing;
Playing the game instilled in us—
Surrendering to her,
Relenting, admitting and confessing:
She is the Majestic Queen,
Who devours the Tarantula King.
Early Morning Ride

The insatiable puppy breath smell,
saturates the fresh fall atmosphere—
only heartbeats from a gusty, morning gale.
Immersed in breathless acceleration,
and the swirling of its invisible, tickling caress—
overwhelms countenance.
Goosebumps collide exponentially,
creating a knee-jerk smile,
so profound— it exhales many years,
and lingers the duration of the glorious miles.
There is a lot of fear-mongering going on today by secular climatologists and
religious would-be prophets of doom. But Christians have read the final chapter
and know how the story ends. The good news is: it ends with a brand-new

Who Knows?

By divine design, the earth spins,
And the moon guides the restless tides;
It rains, it floods and then it dries,
Cycles repeat and earth provides.

Sometimes a wintry blast sneezes—
The cold wind blows and blows then wanes.
The hot sun roasts and the earth cracks,
Our climate goes through many pains.

The seasons come and seasons go,
And sometimes it rains, sleets or snows;
In the ice age, it even froze,
And the atmosphere can explode.

Oceans rise and the masses cry—
There are roaring and tossing seas.
The stars at night flicker and dim,
And this fear causes hearts to freeze.

There’s hope and life above the strife;
He who rose gave us the logos.
How long until the globe death throes?
Only God above truly knows.

Elements melt in fervent heat,
Brand-new earth and the heavens greet,
And the Lord resides with His bride,
Together at the Mercy Seat.

There’s no heartache, pain or sorrow,
And there’s never again a tear,
Or worry about tomorrow—
We’re forever with God an heir.

2Pe 3:10  But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, in which the heavens
will pass away with a roar and the elements will be destroyed with intense
heat, and the earth and its works will be burned up.
Rev 21:1  And I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and
the first earth passed away, and there is no longer any sea.
Rev 21:2  And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of
heaven from God, made ready as a bride adorned for her husband.
Rev 21:3  And I heard a loud voice from the throne, saying, "Behold, the
tabernacle of God is among men, and He shall dwell among them, and they
shall be His people, and God Himself shall be among them,
Rev 21:4  and He shall wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there shall no
longer be any death; there shall no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain;
the first things have passed away."
Rev 21:5  And He who sits on the throne said, "Behold, I am making all things
new." And He said, "Write, for these words are faithful and true."
Al (Robert Albertini) and I went through the worst of the Vietnam
War together. He was killed in a motorcycle accident in October,
2019. I miss you, brother. For Al.

Semper Fi

Full of love for country,
We were young once and lean,
Trained to do our duty—
United States Marines.

It was the best of times,
And the worst of times—
Filled with blood, sweat, and tears,
We laughed, we cried and cheered.

He always had my back,
In every firefight,
Regardless of the attack,
Or fear of the long night.

I will not beg to lie,
And cannot say goodbye,
Love you as a brother,
Forever—Semper Fi.
February 22, 1969 was the bloodiest battle during my tour in the Vietnam
War and the most violent day of my life. I was a 19-year-old Marine
fighting with Alpha Company, 1st battalion Ninth Marine Regiment, 3rd
Marine Division, in the thick, mountainous jungles of northern South
Vietnam.  Alpha Company alone lost 12 KIA and 58 wounded bad enough
to be evacuated. I wrote the following— thinking about what that day was
like for me and my Marine buddies. Semper Fi

Firefight Chat

The sound of a raging firefight is tantamount
To being trapped inside a fifty-five-gallon drum,
and a hundred evil elves simultaneously
beating on it with ball-peen hammers.
In the midst of the foremost intensive-
sentient experience one can possibly encounter,
the eerie quiver of the Siren’s romance,
lures the mega-senses to a sadistic dance:
The five are magnified to the umpteenth glorified,
Then mortified to blind, numb, deaf and dumb.
Volcanic combatant-eruptions whipsaw emotions,
propelling fear to storm the citadel of reason,
while duty defends and then counter-attacks,
In a Kamikaze repeating nightmare-affect.
There is the ever-present: Life and Death,
Heaven and Hell in the teetering balance.
Decisions of historic proportion
Are made by young warriors in milliseconds.
Forever is measured between quickened heartbeats.
Time is trapped in a revolving door of illusion,
mixed in with the most sobering final reality.
Sorting out the two will mean the difference
between telling heroic stories to grandchildren,
and decades of family heartache
brought on by missing-link sorrow.
We of all people having walked that tight rope,
suspended between eternity and earth,
are well aware that the ultimate price paid,
demands from us, the ones who survived,
the utmost attention to live all our sacred days,
moment by moment—engorged to the fullest:
Squeezing every ounce of precious life,
that is humanly possible,
out of each breath that remains for us.
Many years ago, I struggled to survive a personal tragedy. And there’s no
doubt that except for the grace of God, I would have succumbed. The next
three poems address the rock bottom period in my life and are my earliest
attempts at writing poetry. In the second poem we begin to see that the
darkest days are broken by the faintest glimmer of hope. The most
important message of these poems is, if we (anyone that finds themselves in
this emotional hopeless place) can hang on till the dawn—there is genuine

Why is the Silence So Deafening?

Sitting alone in the absence of light,
Drinking a beer, rocking his chair,
Staring into a bottomless sullen glare
With heart-pounding red-line despair,
And why is the silence so deafening?

Suddenly without a conscious care,
Weird sensations from long-ago fears,
The faintest vibration of leftover cheers,
Laughter and intensive images of tears,
And why is the silence so deafening?

Someone is lying prostrate on the floor,
Pleading his case, begging and more
With promises galore, a bargain is sworn,
Soaked in gore with a seal on the door,
And why is the silence so deafening?

Opportunities are missed—a word here,
A word there, the stroking of her hair.
Memories rush by overflowing his soul,
But in an instant, he's back in his chair,
And why is the silence so deafening?

A quiver shy of the three pounds needed,
Grinding teeth with chalkboard screech,
Blind and aching for the cold steel's relief,
But his fermented courage fades to grief,
And why is the silence so deafening?
My mother wrote this poem a few years before she died. In it she
vividly captures the impact of war on the home front. In many ways,
the family at home suffers even more than the warrior abroad, for it
is the “not knowing” that can be love’s greatest torture. Mother
passed away as a result of a tragic accident on October 13, 2005.
We miss her dearly.

War, A Mother’s Perspective

by Janell Presgrove

A son, the firstborn
In my arms laid
His daddy’s profile
I wouldn’t trade.

The years come and go
As he grows to a teen.
One day he announces,
“I want to be a Marine.”

Boot camp is waiting,
We drive to the bus,
A hug, some tears,
Not too much fuss.

The empty place at the table,
His room quiet and still.
Adjustments are made
But the void is unfilled.

The weeks hasten on
As fast as they can.
He’s home on leave
Before Vietnam.

Too soon his plane
Is far over the sea
To a faraway land
A year there to be.

Life somehow goes on
But the fear is inside.
War scenes on TV
Makes it real and alive.

You try not to listen
To all that they say.
Yonder on the battlefield,
His nineteenth birthday.

Letters always arriving
They make our day
Then a whisper at night,
Better wake up and pray.

Dirt smeared envelopes
In the corner marked
How far they have come
To reach family.

A package comes in the mail
Wonder what it is all about,
Quickly it’s opened and oops!
A Purple Heart falls out.

Meal time is lacking
Though the food looks so fine.
Could he be hungry?
I wish he had mine.

Each day in his room
I pray for my son.
I receive strength from scripture,
Like Psalm Ninety-One.

I stare out the window
As if I could see
Across the wide ocean
To where he must be.

The telephone is busy.
I talk to family and friends
I urge them to pray
Until this war ends.

A glimpse of a young man
Who could have been him.
My mind plays tricks
Again and again.

When he played football,
He battled for the score.
In the game he is in now
The stakes are much more.

We trust he will be home
Just don’t know the date.
How true —
They too serve
Who only stand and wait.

The year drags along
But finally it ends.
He is on his way home
To see loved ones and friends.

We meet his plane
It doesn’t seem real.
It’s a moment of magic
How excited we feel.

War is no picnic
homefront hurts too.
Mom, Dad and siblings
Know God brought him through.
The Golden years are not always golden.

Humpty Dumpty

Where have all the good years gone?
I’m not familiar with this dawn,
So many faces that are blurred,
Once I knew every line and curve.

Confusion is the order of the day—
Awakened in the middle of the fray,
All my friends have committed treason,
What has happened to rhyme & reason?

My thoughts are scrambled letters—
Yesterday’s hidden treasure,
Memories come out of a shredder,
Who knows the secret countermeasure?

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,
All the good doctors, and all his good friends,
Couldn't put Humpty together again.