The Bouquet of Decay

©Jeanne E Webster – All Rights Reserved

What happened to gentility,
The quality of being refined?
(That modest act of civility,
We’ve somehow left behind.)

Morality has hit rock bottom;
Standards have bitten the dust.
Are we on our way to Sodom?
Or is it “Gomorrah or bust”?

Our language is so fouled
With words of depravity,
Best served with clean towels
And a lot less gravity.

The clothes many women wear
Are pure risqué “in your face”
Men’s rear-ends catch stares
As their pants fall from grace.

Body art exploits the skin
With tattoos, jewelry and cuts
Gothic vogue is definitely in;
Spirited shapes jauntily strut.

Don’t you miss the days of yore
When kids were girls and boys,
Untouched by porn and bloody gore
Or used as sick adult toys?

We’re seeing the destruction
Of the family building core.
T’is time we took our instruction
From the family “Bible” store.

We’ve gone so far off course
Is there no turning back?
Are there stirrings of remorse?
Things are really out of whack!

Pray, come clean and repent;
Some worthy places to start.
Let’s begin with one sentence:
Oh Lord, come into our hearts!


©Jeanne E Webster – All Rights Reserved


Today is Monday
The day after Sunday
The day before Tuesday
Near the end of October

This is the month of October
October is the month after September
The month before November
Near the end of the year
Two Thousand Eighteen

This is the year Two Thousand Eighteen
This year comes after
Two Thousand Seventeen
This year comes before
Two Thousand Nineteen

Like a rollercoaster wound
Years roll up and down
Across and around
Making no sound
Eternally bound
Till peace is found.

Spiritual Uplifting

©Jeanne E Webster – All Rights Reserved

Are you bruised, dear one,
Too much grief to bear?
Call out to the Son;
Give Him all your cares.

“My grace is all you need,”
Peace carols like a bird.
For you His heart did bleed
Lean hard into His word.

Consider the situation:
Which pain is greater to bear…
A body in degradation
Or a spirit in disrepair?

The body moans and groans;
Fails us more each day;
Wears right to the bone;
To dust it will decay.

But the spirit is eternal,
Lives on and on and on.
Mark it in your journal…
To God your soul belongs.

The body rises from ashes,
The rejected spirit, never.
Bodily pain soon passes;
Pain in hell is forever.

Reject His love and grace?
You bring forth His wrath;
From you He turns His face
You’re on a hellish path.

Thank Him for His love,
His pardon for all sins;
The Spirit ascends above,
New life in heaven begins.

Turn your spirit to God;
Grasp His love and grace,
Uplifting you as you plod
Into His heavenly place.


©Jeanne E Webster All Rights Reserved

Frank Sinatra’s tune put me in the mood for autumn ponderings.

“The falling leaves
drift by the window,
the autumn leaves
of red and gold,”


Flaming papery shards burnt to a scratchy crisp–

Floating kaleidoscopes of yellows, oranges and reds–

Flying vibrant pieces of parchment gravitating earthward–

Flippant shreds of tree embellishments settling to the ground–

Freefalling wax papery scraps rehearsing their aerobatics–

Fluttering colorful debris delighting in merry-go-round rides–

Fragile remnants intermingling, forming loosely knit piles–

Fragments of mighty oaks forced into the atmosphere and back–

Fractured leftovers from past sun-filled summer days–

Frolicking foliage dancing wildly in tiny wisps of wind–

Frivolous flecks of decaying verdure appearing here and there–

Fidgeting scrappy leathery rags scurrying across the road–

Falling shapes flip-flopping as they twirl down, down to the ground–

Fiery shapely bits, as ashes from a flame,

Filling the dusty atmosphere with musty sweet aromas,

Flattening horizons of hills, rills and potholes,

Freeing the once green giants from their thick outer coats, and

Flitting pieces of spent adornments returning to the dust.

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!