Celtic - Anabaptist- Ministries
                                  Poems by Michael Wrenn

The following poems, except the last one, are taken
 from my first book of original poems entitled
*Songs of Solitude*, copyright © 1984 by
Pathfinder/ Michael Wrenn Publications.
All Rights Reserved.


The trees are already bare,
And there's a cold snap to the air.
The Winds of Winter won't be long in coming;
They're quickly hastening near...
But just look over there!
And now over here!
See how the leaves ablaze
Which blanket the ground
Lying like a multi-colored carpet
And ranging all around,
Beckon you forth
That you might forget the numbing
Of the fast-approaching freeze,
The changing of the season,
The dying of the year!


Life is like a merry-go-round,
Spinning, spinning, whirling 'round;
Time is like a sailing ship
Upon an endless sea.

Everyone is on the ship
And on the carrousel;
To them the ride is only a game,
But I don't want to play.

I can't put into words, you see,
What's going on in the depths of me.
It's clear
That I just don't fit in here...

Yet, I was born into this life
To do the best I can.
I'll be here only for a while;
The world will not remember me,
But I'm not worried--
I have life.
They search for it
But cannot find it--
The answer lies inside them.


Why should I be this amazed
And taken aback by youth?
I've always believed the smallest thing
Reflects the largest truth--
It's just that it strikes me
As being very odd
That now,
After all these years,
The thing which moves me most
To tears
Is when my little niece--
Innocent, trusting, and kind,
Not burdened
By the world's woe,
Not knowing
Of the world's wrong--
Out of a simple act of love,
Brings to me
A carefully chosen flower
Which she has picked
Especially for me.
Oh, dear God above!
Would that our faith
Were half so strong!
Would that our eyes
Could be so blind!


Something touched me lightly on the face,
Showing me some lonely distant place.
Was it just the haunting wind
Or the spirit of a passing friend?
I still know that death is not the end.

Suddenly a Presence did appear
And said to me, "There is no need to fear;
She is safe, son, here with Me;
She is now completely free;
She has found her pathway to the sea."

Seems the day is brighter than before;
I can see her standing at the door,
Waiting...wanting to go in
To the Father once again;
Thus, the journey ends where it began.

My soul ascends as if to follow them--
Friends of mine who've gone to be with Him;
But human eyes can only sigh
When they look upward to the sky
And wonder what it's really like to fly.

Gliding there with silvery wings on high,
Looking down to see it's earthly tie,
"Live!" my saddened spirit cried
To my wounded mortal side--
But another friend of mine has died.

Now I know she's joined the rest of them;
My light, too, is growing ever dim.
If it should fade out some night
In the middle of my flight,
There'll still be a greater, guiding Light.

The passing of a friend has brought a tear;
The passing of a friend has left me here,
Feeling things that she will never feel,
For death is something time can never heal--
What is an illusion, what is real?


There you lie
With your hands on your lap...
So still, so silent, so cold,
Unlike days of old
When I knew you by your laughter.

Now above you the rafters ring,
Echo the sound of chapel bells...
And I just sit and stare,
Unaware they knell for me
As well as you.


The wind blows cold across the lake--
I think of you.
The chill seems to penetrate
Straight to the very marrow
Of my bones--
I remember you.
The crystal clear water,
Like a giant mirror
Lying on the surface of the earth,
Reflects the slate blue sky above--
I picture you.
The trees catch the muted rays
Of the sun...
The waves ripple...
The leaves rustle...
I divine your presence here--


Come away with me, my child,
To fields of wonderment;
We'll run, we'll play,
We'll laugh and sing
Before the day is spent.

We'll think not of the transient hours,
The day that's growing old;
I'll watch you, and I'll make believe
You'll ne'er forsake the fold.

But even as we share the sun,
The night is drawing near,
Forcing me to face the truth--
Alas! I cannot hold you here.

Although I love you, little one,
I have to let you go;
You must be free to seek your dream
And find your own rainbow.

But why should I feel such regret
And why a prick of pain?--
For once the babe has flown its nest,
It won't be back again.

So, come away with me, my child,
To fields of wonderment;
We'll run, we'll play,
We'll laugh and sing
Before the day is spent,
Before the day is spent.

Here is a poem about Enid Lake, a lake in north Mississippi. This poem
was published in Batesville The Magazine in its Spring/Summer 2014 edition:

(Near Dusk)

I stand upon the levee
And watch the sun break out
On the clouds of blue and orange
And purple and gray and white;
The air is crisp and clear
And feather-light.
The painted sky hangs low overhead,
And eastward it stretches
To where the water meets the horizon
Shrouded in the distant haze and mist.
The breeze comes sweeping
Over the lake;
There's a chill in the wind
As it whips against my face.
The waves are writing symphonies
As they splash against the rocks
Far below;
Their music brings a familiar longing
To my soul,
And I am cold,
Shivering cold.

Turning, looking westward,
The rays of the sinking sun
Reach their fingers toward heaven,
Trying to grasp and hold the day
While the sun itself is slowly
Being swallowed by the night --
The day is almost spent.
The trees which tower above
And all around
Surround the scene with their own
Deep mystery
And look silently on.
The earth is like a vast green carpet
Rolled away
To touch the sunset's crimson hues;
The cattle dot the landscape,
Grazing peacefully in the gathering darkness;
They are at home there in their world;
They know not discontent, disillusion,
Carnage or confusion,
Worry or woe.

Only a short way beyond,
The interstate highway runs,
And so does man,
As man has ever done.
I watch as the lights of cars and trucks
Hurry along, to and fro...
Who knows where they go,
Or why?
And yet I must admit
There is a certain sense of peace and security,
Albeit solitary,
In that steady stream of traffic --
But enough of that;
They are there, and I am here
Where I have always been,
And these sights and sounds
That I hold so dear
Will never fade from my eyes or ears,
And even though the daylight flees,
I do not regret that now,
For the night,
With which I am well familiar,
Has a glory all its own --
See there; the stars are already
Coming to the sky;
Come ahead, come on
And bring the moon along!
I am waiting...waiting
Alone...yet somehow
I am not alone.

Copyright © 2014 by Michael Wrenn

I hope you enjoyed these poems; poems are a way of connecting the solitary soul with others and with the universe. Poems are probably the oldest and, some would say, the purest art form. Poems are a gift from God. The Bible lists spiritual gifts; in some way, I think poems are spiritual gifts--certainly the writing of poems is a spiritual gift. Where poems come from is somewhat of a mystery; one could say poems come directly from God, but how and why poems come, and to whom poems come, is still a mystery. Poems can change lives and circumstances--poems are thus powerful means of expression. Poems are all these things, and more--still, poems are simply to be enjoyed and experienced.

Those who are blessed with the gift of writing poems should pass that gift on to others; that is my purpose with this page--to pass the gift of these poems to you.

You can get my book of original poems, Songs of Solitude, for a donation of $20.00 or more (price includes handling and shipping) directly from me at 266 Tallaha Road, Route 1, Box 114-E, Tillatoba, MS 38961. This is a 64-page hardcover book with dust jacket; it includes original artwork (my own)--in the book's contents and on the jacket. It is a limited edition book.