See Spot Run

© Jeanne E Webster All Rights Reserved


Watch writer dream

Sleep reader sleep

See writer think

Play reader play

Opine writer opine

Sit reader sit

Plot writer plot

Rest reader rest

Write writer write

Eat reader eat

Scheme writer scheme

Recline reader recline

Sweat writer sweat

Relax reader relax

Edit writer edit

Nap reader nap

Publish writer publish

Read reader read.

(Contrast between a writer’s efforts and that of a reader’s.)

Prideful Pricks


Prideful Pricks

©Jeanne E Webster — All rights reserved


A thorn in the flesh is healthier

Than a clot of pride in the heart.

A thorn will prick your attention;

Pride vainly numbs your smarts.


A thorn seeks immediate care

To purge the prick of its pain.

Pride probes for its pacifier,

Suavely sucking its own gain.


How quickly we yank the thorn;

It is most troublesome at best.

We leave fleshly plump Pride

Feathering and fluffing its nest.


Thorns set off many red flags,

Panic buttons and alarms;

Pride smugly veils its soul

Concealing its ways of harm.


Give me a thorn any old day,

Within my flesh or without;

I’ll rid it of its harmful deed

And quickly give it a shout!


But Pride, O me, O my, I cry!

Is a need I must have for sure.

Please spare me just a little bit.

How else will “I” ever endure?!


Saturday Satire

©Jeanne E Webster-All rights reserved


Once there was a lady from Big Creek
Who went to church every week
She always arrived late
T’was just her poor fate:
Though she hurried in like a streak.

The good folks were certain to peek
Things began to look bleak
As she walked the aisle
No one smirked or smiled:
Not even that nice fella, Zeke!

She swayed down the aisle so chic
Bouncing her shapely physique
You could hear a pin drop
As into the pew she’d flop:
With a thump, rumble and a squeak.

With a pungent perfume she did reek
Wore a neat hairdo and red cheeks
She would always complain
Whenever it would rain:
Her perspective needed a tweak.

One day the pastor did speak
To this sweet lady from Big Creek
He gave her some advice
The folks became nice:
She ended up marrying Zeke!

Have Mercy on Me

©Jeanne E Webster- All rights reserved


Bartimaeus, the blind beggar, sat
Beside the Jericho road,
Crying out to those passing him by
For alms to lighten his load.

One day a great crowd swarmed on past
He inquired, “Who goes there?”
When told that it was Jesus the Christ,
He shouted into the air:

“Son of David, have mercy on me!
Oh, please have mercy on me!”
Some of the crowd tried to quiet him
But he still cried out his plea.

Jesus heard him and looking around
Commanded, “Bring forth that man!”
Bartimaeus rose and dropped his cloak
And grasped for the Master’s hand.

Jesus asked, “What do you want of me?”
“Oh my Lord, that I might see!”
Jesus replied, “Then go your way;
Your faith has set you free!”

“Son of David, have mercy on me!
The Lord had mercy on me!
I once was blind but now I see;
Christ Jesus has set me free!”

Are you stuck by your Jericho road,
Tired of your life full of sin?
Cry out to Jesus; He is the door.
Open it and walk right in.

The crowds may tell you it’s all in vain:
“Be quiet; let Him go by!”
But open your heart and pray out loud;
The Master will hear your cry.

“Son of David, have mercy on me!
The Lord had mercy on me!
Oh, what joy is ours, what peace divine
When Christ Jesus sets us free!”

Based on Matt. 20:30-34

(I have written the score for this song also.)

Why All the Hurtin’?

© Jeanne E Webster. All rights reserved

A friend of mine just called to say
That her dear mama died.
I heard her words of sorrow, Lord,
And hung my head and cried:

Lord, why all the hurtin’?
Lord, why all the hurtin’?
So much in life is painful, Lord,
so hear my prayer tonight.
I know your angels took her mom
Home to be with you;
My friend is lost and weary, Lord,
She needs to know this too.
This friend of mine, so full of love,
She just shines, she just shines…
So help her through this bad time, Lord,
For she’s a friend of mine.
I love this friend so very much,
It hurts me so I cry.
I lie awake alone at night,
Just wond’ring, wond’ring why:

Lord, why all the hurtin’?
Lord, please stop the hurtin’?
So much in life is painful, Lord,
Please hear my prayer tonight.


(A song I wrote shortly after a friend called to say her mother had died. I have written the score for it also.)

Rose Garden Antics


© Jeanne E Webster—All Rights Reserved

Rose Garden Antics


Enjoying a swing on the patio

Sitting in our little “Rose Garden”

Looking at that pale blue sky

Rain’s gone now, I’ll pardon


Blurred with white chalky scrapes

Overhead is a see-through image

Last night’s leftover half-moon

Must ‘a lost the rest in scrimmage


Hummingbirds all a’ squeak

A winged rush hour traffic jam

Zooming like mad robotic bees

Deftly loving the ambrosial jamb


Gum trees shake off their sleep

Casting shade all over the hills

Cicada males not yet awake

Dreaming of their mating skills


Melodious call of an oriole male

Not yet sipping of the nectar

Crepe myrtle in fuchsia regalia

Rose petals, the sun rays detector


A blue jay is squaring off afar

Probably out protecting his mate

Neighborhood roosters a’ crowing

Pleased that the showers did vacate


Dull thumping railroad cars

Mulishly moving down the tracks

Loaded with sooty coal, I guess

Heading up north, a’ clickity-clack


A hummer just flew past my nose

Stopped on a dime then returned

Saw my bright red shirt, I reckon

Inching closer, drooled and yearned


Ready to propel even closer now

Till I uttered, “I don’t think so!”

Off it flew with a squeak and snip,

In a blaze of its slinky chapeau


Bathed my two Cavalier Spaniels

Got my front end as wet as they

But I can’t run around the yard

And shake off and loudly bray


Certainly I knew I had better not

What would the neighbors think?

An old lady romping with dogs

Surely needs to visit a shrink


But when those baths are done

Oh, to become a little girl again

I’d chase my tail and play dog

Bark and run after the mailmen


I’d dance the day away… maybe

But I’m afraid this tired ole body

Would give out fast and furious

Put me to bed with a hot toddy


My knees would grate and grit

My hips would start to grumble

The hard ground would beckon

And I’d surely take a tumble


But jes’ for the tiniest moment

I would be all tickled and pink

For I’d soon be soaring home

In just about forty odd winks!