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Poets Among Us

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Kay Andrews

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He Rode A White Horse

He rode a white horse

Thundering hooves signaled his coming

The wind stirred by his movement

His presence unmistakable


A voice like thunder

The gentleness of a lamb

Piercing blue eyes that mesmerize


And when he went away

With him went

The air that I breathe

The sun from the sky

The direction for me

Copyright ©2018, Kay Andrews

North Carolina, USA


A Working Man's Hands

His hands, larger than I expected them to be

Rough, a working man’s hands

Strong, confident handshake


From Gueydan, said he didn’t finish college; expressed regret

Me: Well, are you happy where you are?

He: Yes. Perhaps others not the same


No taller than I, with a ready smile

Music carries him away

And when not, Gueydan High School janitor, maintenance


The hands, those worker hands

Reclaim wood, cypress and creates

Said the wood guides the creation

Those hands doing spirit work

From the heart of an humble man

Copyright ©2016, Kay Andrews

North Carolina, USA




How to bind our wounds

untouched by the light of day and

hidden from piercing eyes.


What manner of salve to heal the wounds

inflicted by slings and arrows

of hate and malice.

Copyright ©2008, Kay Andrews

North Carolina, USA


Out of the Darkness

He a shade darker than she,

Invisible in the dark

Except for the almost effervescent

White teeth and eyes.


Same bloodline huddled together

Emitting uncontrollable sobs and whimpers.

Taken from a mother whose

Heart is broken to the point of death.


Into a world unknown

And not by choice.

Sold not as equals of the human kind

But as objects, like chattel.


He a shade darker that she

Same bloodline

Joining hands for strength

In a world changed.

No more sobs and whimpers

But voices in a quest for equality.

The spectrum is filled with varying degrees of apathy and hate.

Copyright ©2000, Kay Andrews

North Carolina, USA

Yvette 07-21-2 Ageistry_edited.jpg

Yvette Patricia Cato

Just Grateful

There is not enough praise to go around

for someone, something, so profound.

So blessed to be in His presence, lights are brighter, 

sounds crisper, colors brilliant, love pronounce. 

The thoughts are rapid and clear,

each one coming forth so precious and dear.

Truly within His presence I must declare,

there is not enough praise to go around

for someone, something, that’s so profound.

While there may be periods of despair and worry,

they pass before the setting of many ‘a sorry’.

For I recall how, where, and when He met me,

reached out, grabbed hold, and kept me.

How low in the depth of a sorrowful pit I fell,

then reconsider I don’t ever want to return nor dwell.

In the light of His glory, my field becomes level again

ascending to a much higher, and brighter plain.

Where all senses are mine, His mercy to proclaim.

There is not enough praise to go around.

For someone, some essence, that’s so abound.

Grateful am I, yes, a thousand times over, yes

This manifestation of me rings true and best.

It’s who I aspire to be, one who can clearly see He,

The One, who created and molded this precious me.

Am I grateful, yes, a thousand times over, yes,

for there is not enough praise to go around

for someone, a presence, my Jesus, always aground.


Copyright © 2021 by Yvette P. Cato

Ocala, FL, USA


Oh, Perfidious Man

The ever-moving hourglass looms ominous

Its foreboding presence bears down on us.

It brings with it the aches and pains,

the reminder of flaws yet to be tamed.


Relentlessly we hope the sun would stay

And the rains of the years would not display,

That the bravado and blusters of yesteryears

Gave way to our doubts and after-life fears.


With our Bibles in hand we flock to the church

 Hoping for a verse that would help us approach

A reasonable facsimile of the The Everlasting,

The One, whose grace and light we could bask in.


With determined stride we approach our fellow man

Attempting to shine light on his flaws and peccadilloes

While preaching to watch out for the dark pits below.

What we do not understand, the flaws are steeped in our inner man.

This we disregard, saying, “For me, God will understand, He knows who I am.

Well, if not for His Mercy and Grace we’d certainly seal our faith

Never knowing how far from His plan we unwittingly stand.



Copyright © 2007 by Yvette P. Cato

Ocala, Florida


The Creator and Me

The Creator of birds and bees decree,

a beautiful black daughter I would be.

(I take poetic license here,

as I was assuredly told

I was not much to behold.)


Ensued a life of frilly clothes and fancy beaus,

sling back shoes, sheer panty hose.

Lot of tears and troubles they bring

throughout most of my spring.


Free will HE gave, but did I care,

my only interest being my hair -

pins me down, sin had made life all wrong.


Pray, Daughter, HE said, so my knees hit the ground -

running to his grace I recognize

HE was always in my life.

Force, nor great thinking needed to see

now there is a beautiful metamorphic me.


Father, Son and Holy Spirit defends

 while even in repose.  The rest, my sinfulness,

Forgiven! Ne’er to be disclose.

It is covered by the blood, you see,

His Son, my Savior, Jesus died for me.


Copyright © 2002 by Yvette P. Cato

Ocala, FL, USA


Shirley Greves



She paints her carefully manicured nails, and dons her silky mink,

And goes to play Bridge, leaving the dishes for the maid in the sink.

“That’s the doctor’s wife,” they say with a little smirk,

“Isn’t she lucky—she doesn’t have to work!”


“What mother can bring the snacks,” the teacher asks, “and arrange the parties, too?

And drive the kids on field trips to the museum and the zoo?

Now who can handle this—without going completely berserk?

I know, I’ll ask the doctor’s wife, ‘cause she doesn’t have to work!”

“Who can teach in the Sunday School, and serve on the church board,

Or lead the women’s group in their service for the Lord?

It must be someone,” they say, “who’ll make sure those coffee pots perk!

The doctor’s wife is dependable – and, she doesn’t have to work.”


“Who can lead the fund-raising for the United Way

And organize programs for the local P.T.A.?

The Doc’s wife can handle those projects – she’s not just any jerk!

We know she has the time, too – because she doesn’t have to work.”


“Who can we get to lead a bond issue for the new community pool,

And get the mill levy on the ballot for a much-needed school?”

“Whoever it is,” they say, “must tackle it like a General at Dunkirk.

The Doc’s wife is in the know and – she doesn’t have to work!”


Who will volunteer at the hospital, and work at the election –

And make sure that the charity bazaar is run to perfection?

They always need someone whose duties she will never shirk –

And they often ask the Doc’s wife – ‘cause she doesn’t have to work.


The Doc’s wife listens to the clock in the hall as it sounds the midnight chimes.

She’s still doing her ironing and has reheated supper at least three times.

She’s had no time to do her chores, and she has no “Hazel Burke.”

She wonders if it would be easier to be married to a clerk.

She reflects upon her life, trying not to let those snide remarks irk.

And she crawls into bed exhausted – thanking God that she doesn’t have to “work!”


Copyright © 1985 by Shirley Greves

Devils Lake, North-Dakota


Little Men

This poem was written during the early days of the feminist movement. I was not a hardcore feminist because it seemed that not all groups of women were supportive of one another. Since I had a couple of experiences with “little men” over a year, I became a little stronger in pro-feminist movements and wrote this poem. I used allusions to two children’s stories: The Little Engine That Could and The Little Red Hen.


Little Men


                                                            Little men, little men

                                                            Telling me what to do-

                                                            Little men, little men

                                                            Telling me I can’t, too.


                                                            Little men, little men

                                                            To mine own self be true.

                                                            Little men, little men

                                                            There’ll be no help from you.


                                                            To little men, from little red hen,

                                                            I think I can, I chid;

                                                            Do it all by myself,

                                                            Little men, pompous men; so I did!


Copyright © 1991 by Shirley Greves

Devils Lake, North Dakota