Vanita Allgood
Vanita Allgood Poems
Behind every life a Weaver ultimately
stands shrouding His plan for every man.
Dark threads are needful in the Master's
skillful hands for He knows the pattern He has planned.
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Wow what shall I say if you are out of whack no one to care physical therapy dares?
In sacrifice and elements that push you on with hope they bring a new dawn.
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Baby, baby small and bright tiny beams of light. A Tiny rose petals so slight unfold you will I'd hope to be a guide; I'd hope to help your steps that they don't slide. Clumsy hands are mine but helped by God as He unfold the rose I hold that each petal will fall in time, baby, baby, baby mine.
I pray that I teach you gentleness, goodness and love for what blossom can survive without the rain that falls from God above, the good deep soil in Him may you root and rapidly climb. As I hold you in my arms I'm filled with hope because of the design I'll trust him to unfold our moments in time baby, baby, baby mine.
In future year's thorns sharpen as they grow, for barbed thorns cut deep I pray that they be pruned away. The Keeper takes care that he remove those that hurt, the rose be bare its lovely fragrance to share. The yellow leaves get nutrients from above for the leaves expose the rose and the fragrance of its soul. You will develop with love in time baby, baby, baby mine.
Shall not the shoot of the root unfold another tiny fragrant rose to behold in time baby, baby, baby mine?
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Watch those buckaroos lose their insides when saddled to a wild one untied it's fer a sight when they ride. Yiddy -up was the wail when a bull of a devil left his trail some kinda fight on the road to hell.
No wonder I headed for Whiskey Row with some forty drinks down below
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Lovely eyes of Chittim in the Vale of Shiddim
Within each a need to reveal and a need to conceal
Because of the vulnerability we feel. As the wilderness, the desert, from the depths of the earth so is the heart in desolation, the
Vile poured forth but never in isolation.
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The Best Poem Of Vanita Allgood
Mama
Behind every life a Weaver ultimately
stands shrouding His plan for every man.
Dark threads are needful in the Master's
skillful hands for He knows the pattern He has planned.
What tapestry in mama's heart He wove, the
sacrifice self was decomposed. Love was
her goal, to train me up in ways I went with
Mama the time was well spent. His tapestry thread
of gold.
I've learned life's lessons when I've
grieved with lashes wet that God's plans
are right. Each life closes into
night and death has fused out temporal
light that this time is perfectly right.
The Weaver is interweaving the silver in the horizon of night.
The loom of which she's wove can never be diffused by
temporal light, for in thee does she repose. A crown of Glory she holds, she's the lily pure and white that He chose.
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4/24/2024 2:59:23 PM # 1.0.0.1119
What a wonderful poem! ! ! Really enjoyed! ! !