Rita Jette

Cranston, RI, USA

My profession was working as a secretary, until I felt led into the ministry. At that time, I plunged into theological study. As a pastor, I enjoyed the preparation of sermons, teachings, and college papers. Thus emerged the excitement and challenge to write what had been dormant for years. However, I didn’t really comprehend it until May of 1997, when I received a writing aptitude test from Long Ridge. At first, I hesitated about the test, because of my age. After I enrolled, the deep yearning to write creatively began to surface.

Sunlight

Fruit ripe from the harvest, did not come this year.
The farmer did his best, but only reaped a tear.
His fields were all flooded, the rain wouldn’t stop.
The land like a riverbed, it could yield no crop.
He struggled through winter, with hardly a scrap.
Spring’s rain brought fear that his land was a trap.
He’d willed it to his son,
but could he still fight?
Tribulation had him undone, till the morning’s sunlight.

The Frailty Of Life

As the grass does wither, and soon fades away,
So the frail life here, in its limited day.
As the wind blows hither, and then goes its way,
So man in his sphere, visits a limited day.
As the clock ticks thither,
and pleads will not sway,
So death comes to gather.
The frail life in its day.

Rain

Rain,
it drips and drips,
to the tune of dismay,
so melancholy is the sound,
that pitter patters on the nerves,
till depression does rouse within,
and bring forth the black within.
Rain,
it pours and pours,
to the tune of violence,
so turbulent is the sound,
that slap slaps on the nerves,
till aggravation does rouse within,
and bring forth the beast within.