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the poetry of Charles Fry

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8 January 1995

My Father

He holds my hand
for which i am grateful

He is my Father
and He leads me through the darkness

when my steps wander through desolation
always is He there
when trials plague my weary step
always is He there
when all the world spits on my feet
always He is there

but sometimes it is hard to remember
and i want to lie down and cry
in lonely bitterness

and then i hear His soft sweet voice
the beautiful voice of my Father
telling me to stand up
and take his hand
and with loving tenderness
i feel His Hands under my arms
gently easing me up
that i may endure again

 Here's one for ya.   go find yourself.   late again   skys passing wave raining clouds and offer healing sun   où es-tu   dim Mornings in the underground   memories   squirming on the bath room ceiling   open   the faces on the side walk pass me by   life and living   Song of Peace   from Time   the Mountain   My Father   so i painted a red cross on my chest   my living eulogy   my plastic house   alone again   frustrating   the Song of my heart as it grows and changes   In Dark Brick Dungeons   clanteba mortillia   Lonely is   my call to this Omnipotent generation:   friend (and, by now, even brother)   my PCC   Our Garden   Cognoscente   The Home   careFree   the Children   full moon   if I were a Painter   For You   Caterpillar March   Prison   As I Went Walking   Norwegian Cockatrice Lampposts   Departure   or   The Falling Apple   Peace