When day has spent her justly time And night has come at last I am weary and footsore And think my duties past. Then on my pillow, soft and cool My head I long to lay So I make plans, as shoes slip off To swiftly hit the hay. Yet ere I reach my haven sweet To get much needed rest, A loud cry, "Drink Mom," in my ears puts my nerves to a test. I totter in with glass in hand And stumble o'er the toys That should have been in proper place Yet boys will e're be boys. As I dispose of each tiny car or block, until the dawn, I can't help think, with heavy heart-- How I'll miss our boys when they're gone. By Treva E. Stokes (1912-1980)
Could I, with this pen, convey to you, dear Marie, Not of my liking, but my love- no less. Of what your warm friendship's come to mean to me. And that it's brought me a genuine happiness? Would that I could but find the words, dear one, To tell how you're endeared within my heart. Tho I have other friends, it's really true That you are something special, set apart. Oft times the skys seem, oh so grey, And I feel so lonely, sad, and blue- That is when I need most of all, dear friend, An understanding soul like you. So I will not wait until the curtain falls, dear one For either you or me. But, I must need write now these hurried lines Of my love for you, for you to see.By Treva E. Stokes (1912-1980)
Our preacher is a goodly man, Real righteous, kind and true. Yet he can smile and laugh and joke 'Long with the best of you. Yet long with that jokin' man Some phrases often spoken, "Believe in the Lord and you'll be saved-" And believe me he's not jokin'. "Lay your all on the altar, friend, Confess all and pray thru." He speaks thus not to just one friend But, to the lot of you. Sometimes the sermon sets with one And then again another. Who knows when sin is easily hidden? Sometimes one, sometimes 'tother Yet gently, kindly, he does preach. If the shoe fits, then wear it. Don't be ashamed to confess your sin, Jesus will help you bear it.By Treva E. Stokes (1912-1980)
Where does the blame rest? With those who poked fun? With those who heard the jest? With those who owned the gun? Everyone wants to know why Life at school is so bitter cruel. To early the young say goodbye, To classmates left in a bloody pool. With seasonal shootings to recall, Softer we dare say, "Never again." Harder it is for the tears to fall. Shorter is our attention to the pain. We find ourselves in a perfect storm, Where unresolved anger and guns Can so unexpectedly transform The power of the unrestrained ones. Working for a superior gun control law, Wanting all our youth to know real love, Like Titanic our dreams have a key flaw. Within one must live a trust in God above.
By Alan T. Stokes March 7, 2001
If you have gained one friend today By being a "friend in need," If you've helped the traveler on his way By kind look, word or deed, If you've brought a smile to someone's face And did his burdens share, If you have fed the homeless waif And taught him-someone cares, If you have done any of these God's working in your heart And helping you to share with your fellowmen The love He willingly imparts. So keep walking ever in the light Down the pathways when He'd have you trod And before the dawning of another day Try bringing a soul to God!By Treva E. Stokes (1912-1980)
Many nights my body is tired, And I wish my camp gate was wired. The often cold and lonely walk that lies ahead of me, Is something few others will ever praise or see. But it's a journey I will loyally make, For security at the camp on Silver Lake. My dog will be in a very happy state, When he walks with me to the gate. I just hope B.J. is a good and clean dog, And doesn't go in the pond after the frog. As I'm on my journey I never know what I'll find, And simple lights left on drive me out of my mind, When it's late at night and I want to be in bed, But I'm sidetracked from my walk to the gate instead. Sometimes after I finish closing the camp gate, Someone will call me saying they've arrived late. Then I retrace my steps and open the gate for the guest, And accept the fact that tonight I'll lose some rest. There are many times I wish we didn't need to lock the gate, But I know that there are people in the world who rob and hate. So I thank God that my two feet are those of a healthy man, For I do this for my family, my dog, and the entire camp clan. By Alan T. Stokes August 20, 2000At Silver Lake Camp there was a 1/4 mile walk to the gate which was manually closed every night by the camp director at approximately 11:00pm CST. This is a task that Alan instituted in 1998 to improve camp security after he became camp director.
Death makes poets rife, But death gives the poet life. The loves of youth make each one a poet, But the children’s heritage inspires the poet. Teachers expect all their students to write, But from within a true poet the words must ignite. From the hidden tree the robins cry, “Record my purposeful song before I die.” From the quiet cemetery the stones contrive, “Remember our song while you strive.” Life makes people regret their words, But life gives flight to the poet’s words. Fame beckons people to guard their words, But anonymity lets a poet find the words. From the burning hearth the embers speak of, “Sharing the best song with those you love.” Health encourages a person to ignore death, But pain gives a voice to the poet’s breath. In a hectic hospital the air mimes, “You are not alone in these times.” When the tide arrives at sunset, Will there be peace or regret? How can one look at silver water, And not smile with a mother’s daughter? Sin makes the heart miss the free, But forgiveness helps the poet see. The sunrise calls with a new days notch, “Put on your Father’s gold watch.” It is not losing what is in the hand, But forgetting what is in the sand, That is each generation’s commotion Of looking below the deep ocean. Death makes poets dearth, But death gives the poet birth. By Alan T. Stokes April 11, 2004
