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About This Author
 Writing poetry allows me to exercise my imagination and share it with others. I strive to write for the benefit of the reader using carnival fun mirror images of my life's experiences.
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Sometimes I'd hide and pray to God, Please, Lord, let me know if you're real. Whatever it takes don't shun me, Because I don't know how to feel. I couldn't see, touch or feel him, So I went drinkin' and dancin'. That was the way I spent my youth, Chasing wild women and smokin'. One day, while chatting with a girl, The occult became the topic. I told of an old Ouija board, My critical thoughts were myopic. "That's nothing," she said with a grin, "My friends conjured up a demon. It's face burned into the curtains, When I was blessed by a deacon." I couldn't believe what I heard! Yet she spoke so matter of fact. The things she spoke of convinced me, This had to be some kind of act. She did agree to describe it, Since drawing was a skill of mine. It had a lion's head, goat's eyes As if horns, locks of hair entwined. I looked at it and felt as if, It was looking right back at me. A wicked knot in my gut grew, In despair, I wanted to flee. For a solid week, I, in fear, Would tremble as if being stalked, Fearful to tell anybody, Afraid and shy of being mocked. On the fifth day of my ordeal, Weary, weak, I failed at resting, A Southern Baptist friend of mine, Shared the Lord Jesus' blessing. I felt a rush as if water, In torrents, through my body did pour, Ever since then I've known God, He cleansed my soul forevermore.
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