I love my wife.

No, I mean it. I am just head over heels, school-boy giddy, make-a-fool-of-myself-in-public in love with this amazing woman – Sky Rector Ferguson.


In light of my stupid good fortune in the enormous out pouring of God’s great gift of my wife to me – I thought you might like to see some of the results of my heart being moved in romance. Here are a few of the poems I have wrttien for her.

My first poem for Sky, written for Valentine’s Day – Our first date.

(If Edgar Allan Poe worked for Hallmark)

The Valentinian specter looms
where blood red hearts like chambered tombs
imprison sentimental, love bound pairs

Till every drop of Adam’s life
pours out th’wounds from Eros’ knife
and no one dreams of running, no one dares

Afflicted, bound by steely chains
the heartsick, robbed of saner brains
befuddled and bemused fail to repine

Such ghoulish figures fill my eye
Still yet I pose my plaintiff cry
O Baby won’t you be my Valentine?

Here is a homey contrivance of poetic grandeur.

I rit my gurl a pome tooday
Sho’nuff, taint nuthin fancy
But pomes can shoore make pertty gurls
feel sqwooshy an romancy

And wen that haypens to my gurl
Gol-ly! it shoore is neet
Hur smile runns frum eer to eer
An showzes me bothe her teethe

And lastly, something a tad more conventional.

How Sweet This Love

How sweet this love
To labor not
Instead, to draw
to drink unfettered at this cool, clear stream
To slake my thirsty soul
not in sips and swallows
but to lavish in the luxuriance of this poured out heart
Finding satisfaction only dreamed
Relishing the thought of every granted moment together
Palpably aching for a gentle kiss
Yearning indescribably just to be near
Lost in the borrowed joy of tomorrow’s promises
even before the warmth of this morning’s whispered love has fled

And all this framed
in hearts both held by Heaven’s nail-scarred hands
To have it all of goodness and grace from God’s own throne
and not the temporal
To own it
and savor it as given from on High
To look ahead
to days of common privilege
To be used
but neither used-up, nor alone
To pray and praise and weep and soothe and Point to Heaven’s Crown Jewel
To serve conjoined in the Easy Yoke
How sweet this love