Christian Poetry
Poems by Dreama Ward

Dreama writes: "I am a 60 year old who has been saved since age 14. I love the Lord with all of my heart."

A Treasure Trove of Words
By Dreama Ward

Words are unpolished gems from deep within the mine of your soul
just waiting to become priceless, polished facets for yourself and others.
So, from my heart to yours, I write this treasure trove of words. . .

Touch another’s heart with the kindness of gentle words.
Soothe the pain from words spoken carelessly.
Grant solace to the depressed by speaking encouraging words.
Write those words spilling from a creative mind.
Mutter words inwardly to find the happiness that you seek.
Express the perceptions deep within yourself with distinct and audible words.
Foster a harmony within others by singing a melodic gift of words.
Anoint the bruised souls of others with a precious balm of refreshing words.

Be like the old sage turtle inside her armored shell,
protected from the wounding word bullets of others.
Be slow to retaliate with words of anger.
Win the relationship race by quietly whispering all the words waiting to be said.
Now, I proclaim to you.
Words are golden nuggets – your soul’s frankincense.
They are bejeweled arrows shooting from your very essence
penetrating others hearts with bedazzlement.
I have now given you very precious gifts – the very utterances of my soul
– just the right words to say today and every day.

(© 2014 Dreama Ward – All rights reserved. Written material may not be duplicated without permission.)


In the Garden of God
By Dreama Ward

In the garden of God,
You only see golden hues.
Pots that are vessels for the mellowed waters of
sagacity to quench your thirst for knowledge,
Ever present children resting languidly
by honeyed pools of luster,
Flaxen-hued mansions in the distance
Topaz gems scattered randomly about to adorn the golden paths
Golden rose light emanating from God’s illuminating eyes.

(© 2014 Dreama Ward – All rights reserved. Written material may not be duplicated without permission.)


Are My Heart Windows Open?
By Dreama Ward

I wonder if the heart windows of those saints' souls were opened or closed.
Sittin' side by side with rigid backs on pews lined up in duet rows.
I still see each one as they sat inside that little gray, shingled church prayerfully posed.
Did they ponder, just as I do, what God so wonderfully sows?

Burdened for souls in the hot burnin' air;
Whippin' funeral home fans as hard as they dared,
While listenin' to a searin' hot sermon of that feisty Jumpin' Jack preacher,

Him preachin' about the flames of a blazing hell!
He was makin' them feel the flames, sizzling red-hot!
The frightened children's mouths getting' ready to pout,
Then, the congregation exclaimed, "No! Don't change any of those words-not one little jot!"

Right after that, the preacher asked, "Are your heart windows opened or closed?"
That aroused the congregation's slumbering souls.
Thereupon, the flock in unison replied, "Our heart windows are opened."

Then, down the aisle came one lone saint praisin',
"Yes! I'm the Lord's "Number One Fanatic".
"Praise the Beautiful Rose of Sharon. He saved me and I ain't doubtin'! Amen!"

I see those wrinkled, shriveled up saints waving lily-white hankies.
All the children were squirmin' and gigglin' in their delight while their mothers, straight-as-a-ruler backed, sisters of the Blessed Savior, scolded, "I'll give you a spankin'."
So the preacher admonished, "You best be doin' some thinkin'."

He boldly stared at the stiff-upper lipped brothers,
with their ties, white shirts, and coats just so,
And chided, "What you been doin'? Have you sunk so very low?"
He shouted, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you
if you are to reap the harvest that you sow."

He fervently whispered, "Are ya sure your heart windows are open?"
Those heart windows were surely open.
Sinners came down the aisle by the dozen.

Later the church members gathered at the fork of a murky, muddied creek.
The preacher inquired, "Do you seek the Lily of the Valley?"
He cautioned, "Listen, listen, the Blessed Redeemer calls you from Satan's sinful den."
At that moment, the repenting sinners went to shoutin',
"Hallelujah! We're now God's children!

Brothers and Sisters! Amen!"
Everyone fervidly sang, "Shall We Gather at the River".
The young children went wadin' in the creek and taunted each other sayin',
"You're a yellow-bellied chicken!"
They didn't understand about heart windows being open.

I remember that the shivering, Salvation Army stood in a serpentine file for a moment gazin' at that blackened, guarding range of mountains.
The three "Ss" - saints, sinners, and saved - all of 'em were
silhouetted against the sun-kissed sky.
This saintly army in emboldened union marched to the edge of the swiftly runnin' creek.

The saved ones walked into the icy water with the preacher and he said, "I now baptize you in the name of God, our Blessed Redeemer, and in the Holy Ghost!"
He exclaimed to the joyful saints, "You are now soldiers of the cross.
Strap on the armor of God and boast of Him!"
Then, he admonished, "Don't allow Satan to win the fight.
Remember prayer meetin' is tonight."
He asked the congregation, "Will you keep those heart windows open?"

That congregation was like a communed field.
Hopin' to harvest the bountiful crop of the unsaved souls of the world,
Placin' their plows in a winding, hard-packed road,
Reapin' what they had diligently sowed.
Teachin' redeemed souls to till Christianity's garden right.

That church was a great force in a climate of love.
Placin' sickened plants into the light,
Puttin' 'em in the road that was right,
Girdin' them up so's to let them fight sin's blight,
Showin' the now livin' the Sweet Heavenly Dove.

Compostin' sin's stenches and turnin' 'em into the fragrances of heaven..
Seein' God's reflection in sin's muddied pool.
Through the years that congregation's heart windows remained open.

Now, delving into memory's baptismal, it makes me wonder,
"Long ago, why did they salvation's seed sow?"
And, I question, "Oh, have I sunken too low?"

Then, I pray, "Lord, let me study these questions for a while."
After that, I'll ask myself, "Am I that vile?"

"God, come unto me and linger."
"On my soul, lay your gentle fingers."
"Burden my soul with sin's conviction."
"Do not lessen its constriction."

I say, "Yes, those Christians' prayers destined that I would take up this pen."
Now, I let them know that their harvest has come because I write,
"Yes, my heart windows are open!"

(© 2012 Dreama Ward – All rights reserved. Written material may not be duplicated without permission.)


Mourning the Daffodils
By Dreama Ward

Oh! Great One, the Golden Orb of the Sky, kiss spring's nodding, buttered daffodils.
Their golden halos seem so lucid against the verdant background of prodded grass.
Fluttering in the wind their spritely shenanigans banished winter's disheartening shadows.
Their glimmering luminescence summons a hope that slips between winter's icy fingers.

Ah! Can't you smell their sweet, musky breath?
The Master Gardener flings their very souls to the far corners of the world.
He eternally blesses the earth with sweet bliss from their intoxicating essence.

Sometimes diabolical winter creeps fiendishly back into spring.
He waves his chilly wand over these glowing nuggets marring their looking glass beauty.
Great Daffodils, you become so translucent imprisoned in cruel winter's hoary crust.
The cruel fiery orb melts this icy archfiend's crust from your once honeyed cups.

Oh! We see such sadness when your lemony dresses
have blackened and have withered prematurely.
Such a waste! You symbol of chivalry!
Heaven's angels cry and mourn your demise.
Even though God's teardrops shower the earth bringing us May's flowers,
we mourn your passing, too.

You clothed in Paradise's radiance are like no other blossom.
You bring us such bittersweet delight!
So, each spring our souls pray:
"Divine almighty; give us these golden bits of the streets of heaven year after year!"

The Father's voice echoes with these resonant tones,
"The land never lies too fallow too long."
We then exclaim: "Regal-efflorescent Trumpet, fruity perfumed Soleil d' Or!
Come Great Daffodils dance with us in each gentle spring's embrace."

(© 2012 Dreama Ward – All rights reserved. Written material may not be duplicated without permission.)


Blue, My Soul's Hue
By Dreama Ward

Blue, that's my soul's hue,
Wondering if it is surely true,
Pondering why it must be so blue,
Asking myself why I hate my soul's present hue.

Screaming inside, "Why is this you?"

Indigo darkness of my soul,
Blue-black inkiness of depression's hole,
Certainly, the depression is taking its toll.
"Why, I ask you, should I take time to ask you to answer my soul's poll?"

I really don't think anyone knows.
I don't guess it really shows.
I see my soul in life's darkened cornfield waiting for the bluish black picking crows.
I watch them scavenge over my soul's ravaged rows.

Devouring my accomplishment,
Leaving my slumming soul without a tenement,
Flying away without no sentiment,
Why do I allow this predicament?

Can't I master the ways of life?
Will there come a day that I don't have any strife?
Wouldn't I really like to know all that life will be?
How can I overcome all this strife?

God, let my soul experience all that spiritual hype everyone talks about.
Remove my every doubt.
Bellow loudly the message that you want me to hear.
Remove all my fear.

I'll accept what you have to give.
Choose to live.
No longer will my soul's hue be blue.
Bright yellow it will be.

Everyone will see.

(© 2012 Dreama Ward – All rights reserved. Written material may not be duplicated without permission.)


Where Is the Balance of My Soul?
By Dreama Ward

Why is my soul such a dark star of extreme?
Why is it either seething hot or just an ember glowing?
Just cool and calm like a river gently flowing?

Where is the balance of my soul?

Why must it bide time like a metronome clicking to and fro?
Why does it swing from side to side like the nebulous pendulum of a clock?
Why does my soul barely whisper sometimes while waiting in a hushed milieu?

Where is the balance of my soul?

Why do I hope that some glorious dimension exists that I have not yet found?
Why can't I see in the mirror of my soul a crystal clear image of its essence?
Why do I cry within my soul and fret?

Where is the balance of my soul?

Why does it always seem that my heart's destiny is not yet set?
God I query most every day.
God, I believe most every day.

Is there no blatant answer to my question of where is the
balance of my incessant, agnostically embittered soul?
I ask God each day to speak to me,
But, I do not hear his voice over life's winds so foul.
It seems that he leaves me with a puzzled scowl.

And, I angrily shout once again,
"Where is the balance of my soul?"
Yet, I search on for the answers.

(© 2012 Dreama Ward – All rights reserved. Written material may not be duplicated without permission.)


From the Mountain Top
By Dreama Ward

From the lofty mountain top, I see God's imagery.
A tapestry woven in His delight with creation,
I am amazed at His handiwork.
The glint on the diamonds of the morning's dew,

Tawny barley spread beneath the sweltering sun,
Clouds bunched like thick, creamy roses,
Puddles of wonderful,
Sun resting lazily on the roof tops below,

Flaming scarlet flowers adorning the earth like burning showers, A frost encrusted silence,
Pipe-organ mountains that are rising up and then down - igniting the music in my soul,
Brownish yellowed stubs of corn in a fallow field in the late fall,
A sunset that ends a day like a multicolored theater curtain after a magnificent play,

The white blaze of a meadow of clover,
Dogwood blossoms illuminating Spring like millions of candles,
Swaying daisies dancing in a gentle wind,
Fields of golden mustard sandwiched between meandering valleys,

Cattle blackly dotted among the verdant and burnished patchwork of gently rolling hills.
From this loftiness, I'm longing to linger but having to depart.
Knowing that life embraces thy very lie of the land seen - every nook and cranny,

The folds of the hills, the sun, the rain, and all that is carried upon
the whispering winds among these mountains of mine,
As my soul sighs at the beauty, I wonder, if perhaps, the
flatlands hold their own beauty, too.

(© 2012 Dreama Ward – All rights reserved. Written material may not be duplicated without permission.)


The Morning Rose
By Dreama Ward

Wander down this winding, written pathway with me . . .imagine that:
A young man stands beside a crystal stream conversing with the Great Master.
Then, whispers imploringly this great artist,
"May I invite you to gaze upon my composition so rare?

Behold the peasant girl that rose early just as the sun kissed
eglantine roses basking in the sol of this morning so bright.
See the whipped cream clouds in the sky bunched like the thick, bundled petals of burnet roses so fair. In this sacred halidom, this White Rose covets the translucent pearls fashioned
from the dawn's dew upon the fine roseate "ladies of the field", Here they stand mingling with their ruddy-petaled cousins in this sanctified light.

And she is such an eloquent, simple rose, but horn hardy from work's plight.
Yet, most certainly worthy of a lover's tryst,
She's just a lowly, servant girl, but what a beautiful sight!
Lad, let me persuade you to look at this lass with cheeks like a crimson blushed rose.

Juxtapositioned solely for you by me in this blessed radiance just so,
She's captured only for you, laddie, in this transcendent pose.
Such a treasure for the soul, this Angelic White Rose, stands solo."
Subsequently, the Great Master expounded, "Wasn't it some poet that said,
'Gather ye rosebuds while you may?'

Look at the sunlight how it caresses her honeyed hair.
Her modest dress covers her rosebud breasts that are not bare.
Young fellow, notice her rough textured olive apron with a pocket to hide a keepsake dear.
Should I place a Beau-To-Be just so in my painting to pay her homage just to be near?

Don't you think that it might, at this moment, be right for me
to paint some red rose petals at her feet?
Do you see how well this Lovely Cabbage Rose
tends these sumptuous purveyors of perfume?
So, what are you to presume?

Could these comely 'maidens of this Eden' be dressed for a wedding with the wind?
Now, my lad, come spend more time with me.
Let's stroll farther down this rocky garden pathway that she trods. Watch the roses swaying provocatively in the melodious morning breeze.

Pray I that you this moment seize.
Alas! It is no surprise to me that her conscious she prods.
This ambassador of love, this Damask Rose, plucks just one dew-kissed bud.
Dear lad, which tender debutante favors ye?"

Hesitantly, the young man, the Beau-to-Be, gallantly replied,
"I'll pick the virginal, alabastrine one that seems to touch the skies.
Then, he writes this message for only the Fair Rose's eyes to see:
"Let us meet by moonlight for you are the pure and only rose for me.

Sweet Angel Rose, it seems as though heaven has come to earth just for me." That night this courtly swain proffered unexpectedly to this Sweetheart-To-Be
a red rosebud intertwined with honeysuckle tied with a scarlet bow. Therewith, the young chap said: "Don't you know that my artist friend is the true Maestro?
You are His finest creation. Oh, may I be your beau?

From her pocket she took a white rose interlaced with love-knotted raffia and said,
"Yes, I know My Great Creator knew most definitely that I am deserving of you." Newlyweds, by meandering down this word path, don't you these facts misconstrue.
Always walk hand-in-hand in the Grand Master's Garden of Life together.

Speak these words each day to each other, "Whither you go I go. Whither you stay, I stay.
I pray that the beauty of your new found love will never wither."

(© 2012 Dreama Ward – All rights reserved. Written material may not be duplicated without permission.)

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