Inspirational Poems


La Salette[1]

Two years ago, Our Lady of La Salette  came into my life. As I was led to read up on Her, little did I know that a journey was to begin. Maternal hands set me upon a path leading to the light of understanding and healing. It has not been an easy journey; I am, by no means, done. Often, I fell and could not get up, because sometimes, the Light seemed too far away. All through it, like a true mother, Our Lady stayed with me, even when my emotions and lack of trust blinded me to Her presence. Gently but firmly, She explained why sufferings were needed, and in Her tenderness, helped me face the reasons for my trials. Today, on the Feast of Our Lady of La Salette, I share this poem that gently reminds us that our suffering is never for naught.

Blessed are They that Mourn

William Cullen Bryant (1794–1878)

OH, deem not they are blest alone

Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;

The Power who pities man, has shown

A blessing for the eyes that weep.


The light of smiles shall fill again

The lids that overflow with tears;

And weary hours of woe and pain

Are promises of happier years.


There is a day of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night;

And grief may bide an evening guest,

But joy shall come with early light.


And thou, who o’er thy friend’s low bier

Dost shed the bitter drops like rain,

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere

Will give him to thy arms again.


Nor let the good man’s trust depart,

Though life its common gifts deny,—

Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,

And spurned of men, he goes to die.

Cross Easter Christian Wallpaper Background[1]

For God hath marked each sorrowing day

And numbered every secret tear,

And heaven’s long age of bliss shall pay

For all his children suffer here.



A Sunday gift for those who see the road ahead as a bit much:


Life’s Lessons

by John Henry Newman

I learn, as the years roll onward
And leave the past behind,
That much I had counted sorrow
But proves that God is kind;
That many a flower I had longed for
Had hidden a thorn of pain,

rosee[1] And many a rugged bypath
Led to fields of ripened grain.

 The clouds that cover the sunshine
They can not banish the sun;

708cd-img_5101252822529[1] And the earth shines out the brighter
When the weary rain is done.
We must stand in the deepest shadow
To see the clearest light;
And often through wrong’s own darkness
Comes the very strength of light.

in_the_shadow_forest_road_nature_light_dark_1600x900_hd-wallpaper-1048196[1] The sweetest rest is at even,
After a wearisome day,

Noonday Rest by Jean Francois Millet

Noonday Rest by Jean Francois Millet

 When the heavy burden of labor
Has borne from our hearts away;
And those who have never known sorrow


 Can not know the infinite peace
That falls on the troubled spirit
When it sees at last release.

_MG_6996[1]We must live through the dreary winter
If we would value the spring;

And the woods must be cold and silent
Before the robins sing.
The flowers must be buried in darkness
Before they can bud and bloom,

wallpaper-crocus-flower-buds-violet-primrose-snow-spring-flowers[1] And the sweetest, warmest sunshine
Comes after the storm and gloom.  



When weariness binds each step, and people’s shenanigans get a bit much,

When every good done seems to come to naught, and hope begins to dry,

Another gentle hand on the arm, urging us up…..

The Peacemaker

by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886 – 1918)

Upon his will he binds a radiant chain,

For Freedom’s sake he is no longer free

It is his task, the slave of Liberty

With his own blood to wipe away a stain

That pain may cease, he yields his flesh to pain

To banish war, he must a warrior be

He dwells in Night, eternal Dawn to see,

And gladly dies, abundant life to gain.

What matters Death, if Freedom be not dead?

No flags are fair, if Freedom’s flag be furled

Who fights for Freedom, goes with joyful tread

To meet the fires of Hell against him hurled,

And has for captain Him whose thorn-wreathed head

Smiles from the Cross upon a conquered world.


June 14, 1918


I have a little place in my life where the sun does not quite reach in. Yet, there’s no sorrow there. No grief, nor tears. It is just where I sit and watch the world go by in a parade of achievements, banners of glory and victory unfurled.


From where I watch, I see fists raised in triumph and backs patted in acknowledgement of success. I see doors of opportunities swing open. I hear names being called. I hear cheers and the happy sounds of a winner’s feast.

And from my little cove-away-from-the-light, I watch and listen. I step out from time to time to cheer on those who need it. Sometimes, I try to whisper, “If you need me, I too can do the same….”, and I smile away my shame when I hear the excuses, and see eyes glaze over and smiles tighten. I know rejection in all its forms.


You see, I don’t belong to that golden group with the sun in their hair and diamonds for smiles. The people everyone wants on their team, the ones with the Midas touch. I’m the one who shuffles behind those who confidently stride ahead. My spot is in the shadows, whilst others court the sun and its glory. My place is where the winds come to rest, and water ripples end their bloom of circles.


For some reason, I can never make the crowd of the Sun gods. There is almost never a breach in the circle of gold wherein they reside. Despite my overall contentment doing what I do best, from time to time, a tiny pang of wistfulness finds its way to me when I nurse a dream of glory. When I ask, Why not me, O Lord?

My Jesus’ answer comes to me through Ellen M. Gates:


by Ellen M. H. Gates

If you cannot, on the ocean, sail among the swiftest fleet,
Rocking on the highest billows, laughing at the storms you meet,
You can stand among the sailors, anchored yet within the bay,
You can lend a hand to help them, as they launch their boats away.

If you are too weak to journey up the mountain steep and high,
You can stand within the valley, while the multitudes go by;
You can chant in happy measure, as they slowly pass along;
Though they may forget the singer, they will not forget the song.

If you have not gold and silver ever ready to command;
If you cannot toward the needy reach an ever open hand;
You can visit the afflicted, o’er the erring you can weep;
You can be a true disciple, sitting at the Savior’s feet.

If you cannot, in the conflict prove, yourself a soldier true,
If, where fire and smoke are thickest, there’s no work for you to do;
When the battlefield is silent, you can go with careful tread,
You can bear away the wounded, you can cover up the dead.

If you cannot, in the harvest, gather up the richest sheaves,
Many a grain both ripe and golden oft the careless reaper leaves;
Go and glean among the briars growing rank against the wall,
For it may be that their shadow hides the heaviest wheat of all.

Do not, then, stand idly waiting, for some greater work to do;
Fortune is a lazy goddess, she will never come to you.
Go and toil in any vineyard, do not fear to do or dare,
If you want a field of labor, you can find it anywhere.