A crude title for a poem about a crude problem

To do your duty at the pump
is cause for pain within your rump.
It steals your joy and robs you blind
and renders you a grouch.

Yes, getting gas can make you mad,
especially if you drive a Cad.
But even Honda owners cry
to give their car a drink.

The price tag on a barrel of oil
is nothing short of criminal.
It seems, though free, we’re hostages
to those who own the crude.

Yet in all things we can give thanks
although it hurts to fill our tanks.
For while, it’s true, we pump and weep,
we have the means to pay.

Why I hope Peter Jennings’ search for God paid off

The world tonight is still in grief.
A newsman loved is dead.
Toronto-born, Pete made his home
where we all live instead.

He smoked for years. He quit too late
and sadly died too young.
But when he gave his last newscast,
he’d reached his craft’s last rung.

Success’s ladder leaned his way.
But I could sense he longed
to find good news within a world
that daily bled from wrong.

In the name of God he searched for Him.
I pray he reached his goal.
For though Pete Jennings lost his life,
he has a timeless soul.

A lament for the victims of terror in Iraq

I’m weary of the carnage
that each day Iraqis face.
A dozen dead. Two score blown up
and even more displaced.

The Tigris and Euphrates
flow with blood like Pharaoh’s Nile.
And chances are it will get worse
when Saddam’s at last on trial.

The plagues of ancient Egypt
stole the lives of their firstborn.
And though their tears declined with time
those moms and dads still mourned.

And now Iraqi parents
are heard weeping through the night.
A plague called terror kills and maims
while mocking freedom’s light.

Dear God of Israel’s children,
of every tongue and race,
please bring about a settled calm
and dry each tear-stained face.

Unpacking the personal emotions of packing up and leaving town

The time has come to say so long,
but I don’t know quite how.
In ten short years I’ve put down roots.
I’d love to stay. But now,

a church out west has called my name.
They claim that I’m their man.
And though it hurts to pack and move,
it seems to be God’s plan.

I’ll miss our home and neighborhood,
our church and friends and school.
And though my mind has settled peace,
emotions often rule.

When memories come, my eyes tear up.
My gut knots in a ball.
To leave a place you’ve grown to love
is like a death. That’s all.

And yet I know such sorrow’s sweet.
The pain means lives have touched,
that love’s been offered and returned,
not seldomly, but much.

This hurt’s a sliver in my heart
I don’t want tweezered out.
The ouch will help not forget
a town I care about.

As strange as it might seem to some,
I’m grateful for the pain.
It means I felt embrace by you.
Perhaps you feel the same.

Such sadness is a part of love
for those who risk to care.
It is the proof that those who reached
found ways to really share.

So thanks for letting me draw near
to share my heart with you.
And if you would, please pray for me
as I begin brand new.