The sergeant

He stood at the end of the table, his hands clasped behind his back in the manner of one who knows no proper form, but feels that it is right.  He was different than the other men standing around the strategy table, being rather small and heavily scarred.  He did not share a past with the others there.  In the upper right corner of his forehead there were a series of little scars, so many that they permanently marred the skin. These, the scars of a harsh and long apprenticeship to a stone cutter, summed up much of his early life.   He had learned in this work a thousand truths, each beaten in with a blow from his masters tawny hand .  When the old stone cutter died Wayne Forest gave up the trade, unable to keep up with the business, and became a militia sergeant, distinguishing himself in the Asoangtu disturbance as a disciplinarian and a man who thought on his feet.

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Fear Not

What kind of
Command is that?
Said so many times
“Be not afraid”
Confidence

 

(this short, syllable poem came after a discussion on fear while preparing a lesson for a Child Evangelism Fellowship course, so it’s in tribute to squirrels101)

~Miss Joyous

 

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Poem on everyday heroism

Who is the hero of our day?

Certainly, not the hero of yesterday,

Whose role is already played.

But the hero whom our day calls

Is the hero who gives time,

And whose willingness to give his minutes,

Even the years of his prime

Makes him more a hero than he who gives his millions.

Who makes more of a difference, he who uplifts another soul,

Or he who helps his brethren poor?

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