I wrote this poem so many years ago it reminds me how long I’ve been pursuing this writing-gig.

Hope you enjoy.

The
time to pray,

The time to write,

I cannot find it day or night.

I think I might just loose the fight,

of finding time to pray or write.

My children call me, need me NOW.

My house, it must be cleaned somehow.

I’m ready to throw in the towel,

to pray or write in life right now.

My solitude is on the pot.

The only quiet that I’ve got.

My children bang the door a lot,

but I must keep this quiet spot.

A minute or just two will do,

to give me time to think things through.

Insanity whispers a coo,

but memory calls that each day’s new.

My spot upon the pot will stay,

I’ll write in moments, night or day.

Such fun and freedom in this play,

when finding time to write and pray.

The time to write,

the time to pray,

I cannot give it up today.

Both for the soul, both for the play,

when I find time to write and pray