Bob Burnette Hueytown, Alabama

I have been writing poetry and short stories since I was in high school. Some of my writings have been published by the National Library of Poetry, and other national, local, and state fair publications. I have retired after thirty-seven years of federal service. I served in and with the US Navy, US Merchant Marines, US Air Force, and the Corps of Army Engineers. I am a member of the Elks, the Amvets, and an avid fly fisherman. My wife is Ann. Poetry gives us mortals a hint of immortality. Writing is one of my many hobbies. The poem "A River Rat Has Gone Home" was written as a tribute to a friend who died July 1, 1994. I worked with Tommy G. (Pee-Wee) Williams at Bankhead Lock and Dam on the Warrior River in Alabama for 24 years. We worked shift work. He lived three miles above the dam. He would come to work in his fishing boat or runabout night or day, good weather or bad, all year round.

Rain Drop of Eternity Our life is like a raindrop, It starts out clean and small Then gathers with other raindrops, To make a brook, as if to answer Creation's call The brook trickles to a creek, That passes over rocks and snags and falls The creek travels down to a river And is pulled into undertows, currents and swirls The river flows to a mighty ocean And joins with the land and sky, Then to form the world Our world is a tiny speck, in an endless universe, Around, below, and above All of creation is lost, only to be found again, "In God's eternal love"

The Timeless Potter When the final trumpet sounds, To hail the end of time, And we have crossed o'er Jordan Into Heaven's Golden Land, Upon the waters of the river that flows Through the NEW JERUSALEM, Will be the POTTER Still dredging mud and sand.

A River Rat Has Gone Home A stillness fell on the river's face one summer's eve. A dark cloud covered up the sun, There didn't seem to be a breeze. No more will he board his boat or step upon the muddy ground. The snakes, the frogs, the animals along the creek and river bank No more will hear his motor's sound. Tha waves from his wake ne'er again will wash upon the shore. His face again we will not see, His voice we will hear no more. His call for river traffic, up or down, never more will be. For the last voice he heard on his radio was God, "You will come and be with me."

All poems Copyright © 1996 Bob Burnette. All rights reserved.