Thursday, November 22, 2012

In Memory of My Aunt

In memory of my Aunt Joanie, who passed away on this day four years ago following a hard fought battle with breast cancer. To the end, she still talked about dancing....


A DANCER’S LEAP


Poetry in motion is the woman we celebrate.

A life choreographed by Christ we now commemorate.

 

The curtain parts and the recital begins,

A sunbeam with a smile takes center stage and spins.

She twirls and jumps, flutters and darts,

Pure energy, sincerity, nothing hidden, all heart.

 

Here a plie¢, now an arabesque,

Freedom, joy, and love her only quest.

Modern dance becomes Spirit-filled ministry

As she pulls others onstage to join her moving legacy.

From classics to jazz she’s a fluid song,

Even when the music changes her performance goes on.

 

And now we’ve come to the grand finale.

The audience – her loving friends, her cheering family –

Stands and roars with thunderous applause

At Joan Kruythoff’s final curtain call.

Bouquets in hand, “Bravo” the chants.

But wait – there is still one more dance:

A performance she’s waited a lifetime to give,

A routine she’s perfected every day she’s lived.

 

We hold our breath and watch in awe

As she gets in position, waiting for the Director’s call.

Eyes steady, feet ready; she’s starting the encore.

And there it is – her leap from our stage to heaven’s floor.

Oh the beauty, the perfection, the riveting grace

As she joins the eternal dance troupe of celestial praise.

 

Her father is there to greet her and catch her with his hands

And escort her to her Lord who’s been waiting for this dance.

Though our eyes are filled with tears this sweet memory we can keep

That we were blessed and privileged to witness

A beautiful lifelong dancer make a once-in-a-lifetime leap. 






(c) by Leslie J. Sherrod
November 2008
All rights reserved

Saturday, July 21, 2012

VICTORS

VICTORS


We fight.
And then claim victory
Marching proudly
With hands upraised.
Victors.
When all that’s left around us
Is broken buildings
Bombed out buildings
Scarred, blackened buildings
Shattered glass
Broken hearts
Death mounds of buried bodies
Flags of every color
Waving over brokenness.
We fight.
Centuries have passed
And still we fight.
Welcome to the
Human experience
The human idea
Of
Victory.


Leslie J. Sherrod

Friday, June 1, 2012

Sometimes...

Another oldie but goodie from my teen years :-)




SOMETIMES

Sometimes it takes the rain,
To make the flowers grow.
Sometimes it takes real pain,
Before real joy one knows.


Sometimes it takes tomorrows,
To understand days gone by.
Sometimes before the laughter,
There comes a heavy sigh.


Sometimes it takes the midnight hour,
To value morning light.
Sometimes it takes the longest mile,
Before things come in sight.


Sometimes you often wonder,
Why your heart can get so sore.
But it's the rocky paths in life,
That make you cherish smooth roads more.

(Written when I was Leslie J. Datcher) 

 

Friday, April 20, 2012

Childhood

I also wrote this one when I was a teenager. There will be no literary prizes, but it did bring a smile to my face with the memories....


Childhood


I close my eyes
And reminisce
Of the years of my life
That were full of bliss.
No worries or cares
To dim bright days,
No responsibilities
Except to happily play
Games and laugh
At funny faces,
Hear neat things
And go neat places.
Ride old bikes
Down alleyways,
Sing crazy songs
And ride the MTA
With Mommy
To downtown Baltimore.
Oh what a thrill
For a child of 3 or 4.
I remember well
Those Little Debbie snacks
And bologna sandwiches
That were carefully packed
In my Care Bears lunchbox.
And what a joy
To eat Crackerjacks
And find the greatest toy
To trade at recess:
That jewel of the school day
Where all I had to do
Was go outside and play
Hopscotch and jacks
And that run-in-circles game
That we made up
(We were a little insane).
Back home we would jump rope
But only in the yard
Where we’d also ride our Big Wheels
Cause we couldn’t go too far.
We’d play kickball in the alley,
Watch old boys hoop in the park,
Build a secret fortress,
And be back home before dark.
Yes, those were the days
When everything was fun,
You’d get held and called cute--
Just ‘cause you were young.
No other time of life
Could come close to compete
With those carefree days of childhood
That were awfully sweet!
 

Leslie Datcher
10/11/94









                       

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Where Does the Sun Go to Set?

Going through some old files, I found this poem I wrote when I was 14 years old. 
The message still applies today.

WHERE DOES THE SUN GO TO SET?

Lord, I can’t wear no heart-warming smile,
Cause my heart - Lord - words can’t explain.
Where does the sun go to set?
Lord, please let it rise again.

People, Lord, they hurtin’ so bad,
Depressed, wounded, and filled with pain!
Where does the sun go to set?
Lord, please let it rise again.

Lord, I feel their agonizing misery,
Their confinement to grief-filled chains.
Where does the sun go to set?
Lord, please let it rise again.

Just can’t tell no day from night,
The eyes of time are flooded with rain.
Where does the sun go to set?
Lord, please let it rise again.

Lead the weary to your arms
Where new strength, peace, and freedom they’ll gain.
Lord, you know where the sun went to set,
And yes - you’ll make it shine again.

Oh, you weary, worn, and lame,
For you the Son of God was slain
Let go of all your hurt and shame.
Look- the sun is shining again.

                            Leslie J. Datcher
                            4/15/91

Saturday, March 24, 2012

#CantKeepQuietNoMore


It's a chilly, rainy day, and I had the audacity to allow my 9 year old son wear a hoodie, and (gasp) he wore it with the hood up. According to Geraldo Rivera - on the sole basis of my son's brown skin - that article of clothing alone is supposedly enough to make the shooting of a young black boy understandable.

I am so SICK of the stereotypes and misconceptions that plague our country. The tragic death of Trayvon Martin - and the aftermath that continues to follow - only brings to the surface the larger issues that still permeate our national consciousness and identities.

Yes, I do take comments about black men personally, because I am the wife of one, the daughter of one, the mother of one. The black men in my life are some of the greatest men I know - not because of their skin color, but because of their character, their wisdom, their hearts. I don't even think of them being black. I think of them being men. When you say something negative about black men, you are saying something negative about the men I love. So, yes, I do take it personally.

My challenge to the body of Christ - black, white, Chinese, Latino; rich, poor, or just trying to make it to the next payday - let's show the world how Christ really loves. There is no box to check your "race" in the Lamb's Book of Life. We, as Christians, should be the first ones free of stereotyping (in either direction). We should be the first ones who aren't tied to shallow perceptions of other human beings based on superficial characteristics like skin color. That black skin, that white skin, all skin, turns to the same thing: dust. If we can't get it right in our (largely segregated) churches, why would we expect the rest of the world to do so? We're asking for a type of love and acceptance that we haven't figured out ourselves.

My heart is heavy for the grief, pain, and finger-pointing that is going on across this nation right now. Let's move beyond assumptions, stereotyping, profiling, us vs. them mentalities. America is over two hundred years old, but that does not mean we've grown up. As long as we keep stumbling over colors like toddlers fighting over crayons, we'll never be united.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Sun Children

TO MY LITTLE ONES,
    CHILDREN OF THE SUN

Come here my daughter, come close my son:
Hear my words before you off and run
Into a world that may not always
See your smile
Know your name
Like your laugh
Play your games.

Come here my children, sit awhile as I explain
That your worth is not found on earth.
A jewel that’s rare cannot compare
To the brilliance or resilience
Of your precious
Innocence.

This world, you’ll see, won’t always be
Welcome to your raw beauty.
A diamond flashing fiery light
Makes some eyes squint or close real tight
Or turn away in jealousy, or question its necessity.

But don’t you stumble, you’re not blind.
Your skin is dark, but not your mind.
Don’t come undone, don’t stop your fun,
Don’t hide or run, my little ones,
For you are children of the sun.

So shine on, shine on, little rays.
Live for the day,
Pray through the night
And let your light shine bright,
Shine bright.

Come clouds or rain, hail or wind
Shine like little golden gems.
My precious, darling little ones
Remember
You are children of the sun.


(c) by Leslie J. Sherrod
All Rights Reserved

My Song

MY SONG

A living melody I am. 
On the staff of life I am
     a rhapsody of euphony.
And my inner melody
     keeps me on my feet
    to tap the beat
         and swirl and dance
to the sweet composition that I am.

The verse I rehearse until I get it right,
     perfecting routines
in the themes of daily life.
I improvise the rest and try my best to
     coordinate clashing chords.
I orchestrate with originality
    for I can only
sing the songs that I compose.

I write my own lyrics
     and keep the tune inside my spirit,
          poetry in harmony
         with the key of my soul.
And my song can be sung high.
And my song can be sung low.

I know the blues but I refuse
     to stay within one style.
Monotone is not my groove so I move
     and sing awhile until a smile
    breaks through
         my repertoire, and a
              symphony of ecstasy
accompanies my one-voice choir.

I sing solo to myself,
     sometimes out loud.
In a crowd I’m the one with a drum
to the side,
passing by,
beating rhythm and momentum
     as I hum along to my song.

And I can’t stop singing
my song, my song.

This poem is also available as an art print.
Click here for more info

(c) by Leslie J. Sherrod
All Rights Reserved