That dog won’t hunt;
But a pigeon will fly.
And the voice will speak;
What it sees with the eye.
The day of reckoning is about to come.
We’re no longer caught
By the tongue of the dumb.
The phone is in the hand,
And The finger doth speak.
It’s a new season and it’s a new day.
Things are gonna change;
That’s what we say.
Passing the buck is going to cease.
The truth will find its release.
Margarett Inez Bates
A Little Girl once held at bay
Received a call to a brighter day.
A gift was given, and received
Though hard to fathom, much less believe
No qualifications for the chore
Just a gentle nudge and an open door
Once she entered light did come
Sometimes to the point, it seemed to numb.
The flow of words always in Rhyme
Would come then linger at anytime.
She learned to capture each given thought
Each snapped picture or whatnot.
Once on paper a book would form,
And possibly prevent an unknown storm
Or maybe comfort some grieving soul
Or who knows the final toll.
That little girl is me,
Margarett Inez Bates
