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.

A BRAND NEW PATH
I don't want to walk in the footsteps from my past.
I don't want to think on these things that just don't
last.
With Jesus as my Guide, I've found a friend at last.
Now I walk with Jesus on a brand new path.
I don't want to talk about the things from my past.
I don't want to think about the things that just don't
last.
With Jesus as my Guide, I've found a friend at last.
Now I walk with Jesus on a brand new path.
I don't want to look at my life from the past.
I don't want to hear about it for I lived too fast.
With Jesus as my Guide, I've found at last.
Now I walk with Jesus on a brand new path.
Song by Thomas Howard

KITCHEN MUSINGS
The clatter and bustle of this once busy
family crossroads now seems far away.
In the darkness, the kitchen is almost quiet
the stove's turned off but the tea kettle
sings softly as it cools down,
and the smell of apple pie still lingers.
The old fridge gurgles and growls
and the deep freezer hums contentedly.
A slight breeze stirs outside bringing
the sound of a late bird on the way
to somewhere, calling to its mate,
and shadows flick across the walls
like ghostly fingers.
Fond memories drift from the darkened corners
conjuring visions of the cooks who
dished out tidbits of wit and wisdom,
good food, and dollops of love,
and with the memories comes
a sense of continuity, security, and peace.
Though changing times have altered its face,
familiar and beloved objects surround me.
I, too, will make changes and leave
perhaps a memory to some day
be recalled, and the legacy
of this old family kitchen will increase.
by Dorothy Miller Birdwell

THE MYSTICAL UNICORN
Coal black eyes search the meadow for man,
The day has dawned and it has stayed too long.
The unicorn begins to run,
Its hooves making a veil of dust.
Shadows lift from tree and grass,
Nothing remains to show
The unicorn was there.
by Jeanne Mancini