Writers' Corner

If you have a poem, song lyrics or a short story and you would like to share it with the readers of The Statesman now is your chance.

Email or mail us your submission and look for it in an upcoming issue of The Statesman.
Happiness is a Sometime Thing
Happiness is a sometime thing,
It changes day to day.
It depends on other people,
What they do and what they say.
Happiness is gone in bad times
of sickness, loss, or despair,
Real Joy is always in my heart,
Knowing that God is there.
You can take away my happiness;
No one can take this joy from me.
Happiness is a sometime thing,
Joy lasts for eternity.
Happiness is of earthly things;
Joy comes from God above.
My joy is in my salvation,
Part of God's own endless love.
Happiness is on the outside
But real joy is deep within.
Joy came when God entered my
  heart,
Washing away my sin.
You can take away my happiness;
No one can take this joy from me.
Happiness is a sometime thing,
Joy lasts for eternity.
-- Myra Jo Teague
    The Treasure Hunter
I am an adventurer, and a dreamer,
I am an explorer and a traveler.
I am an optimist and an archaeologist,
I am an outdoorsman and historian.
I have a Code of Ethics I obey,
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
I feel sorry for those who don't understand
The true motives of a treasure hunting man.
It's not done for greed, wealth or treasure,
It simply gives me a rewarding pleasure.
I educate the youth of our wonderful land
When I show them the relics I hold in my hand.
Some see me as odd, or even a law-breaker,
But that opinion will be decided by my Maker.
Someday He will call me home,
But for now, I just wish to be left alone.
-- Submitted by Kyle H. Wright,
Chandler
Old Blacksmith Shop
The wretched building stands
Under a broken-down tree,
In mute decaying testimony
Of what once had been
And never again will be.
Its naked rafters exposed
Like bleached bones in the sun.
Ivy entangles the brick chimney
Of the crumbling forge filled
With tired ashes, its work done.
The bellows stiffened with age
Now home to a family of bees,
Weathered old wagon wheels hung
From the rafters above
Sway in the summer breeze.
Silence hangs like a heavy pall,
The voice of the anvil is still
The hammer lies idle now,
Its music no longer an echo
Bouncing off the distant hill.
It's forever lost to the future,
This fragment of the distant past
Fading still deeper into oblivion;
Just a victim of modern progress,
But, oh, how the memories last!
--Dorothy Miller Birdwell