Realistic Faith


No one is coming. No one can help. No one can take away the pain. No one can cleanse the wound. No one can wipe the tears away. No one can save the day. No one can call in the calvary. No one but the One who hung on Calvary. Only You.
Only You can rescue. Only You can save. Only You can wipe away all tears. Only You can erase pain… forever. Only You can set free the captive. Only You can cleanse the wound. Only You can heal… even the scars. Only You can defeat our enemies. Only You can defeat self.
There is no waiting for a place to belong with You. You have prepared a place for each of us just to be with You. There is no worn out welcome. No one is unwelcomed. All are wanted and loved with You. No one is ever…

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My Uplifting Light


Asleep, I walk the earth.
Darkness needing light.
I fumble through the trials
That keep me up at night.
Faint beneath my given load,
I fail to carry through.
The Light of Life lifts me up,
And says “I’ll carry you.”
He shines His Light upon my path,
And tells me He is The Way,
And that His Truth will strengthen me
Because He gave His Life that day.
He laid to rest my burden of self,
And awakened me to stand.
“No matter what I walk you through,
I’ll be holding your hand.”
Oh, Lord, when I can’t see,
Illuminate my sight.
I never want to miss Your whisper
Given for me to write.
The duty of my pen
Has always been Your gift,
But when the ink is heavy,
Only You can lift.
Thank You for Your compassion,
And for sharing Your Father’s word.
I believe and trust

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WTCR (The Competitor Rocks)


**The following is a short story I wrote for a Creative Writing class while taking summer classes in college. It was just for fun, and although I had no idea the class and professor would love it so much and publish it, I share it now with you and hope it brings you a laugh as well.**

WTCR (The Competitor Rocks)

“Ida! Ida! IIIIIIIdaaa!” Laura was screaming across the field, covered with a crowd of faithful listeners of the Competitor. Oh, forgive me, the unchallenged competitor, as the sweeper reads.

“What?!” cried Ida in search of the voice paging her name. “Who’s calling me?”

Laura Jamerson, a small girl, with shoulder length dark hair, waving both hands in the air, back and forth, cried, “Me, Woman! It’s Laura right here in front of you.”

Ida Ford, a perky young woman, with long curly dark brown hair, stood looking right at…

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Afraid of the Dark

reblogging my published poetry


On a late Friday night,
we walked into the park.
he stayed so very close to me.
She was afraid of the dark.

Another time we double dated,
she was out with Marc.
He wanted to take her to the swings,
but she was afraid of the dark.

There were many other times
we came upon the park,
but we would always go around
cause she was afraid of the dark.

Well last night as I thought
of how she’s afraid of the dark,
she somehow finally got the courage
to be murdered in the park.

8-9-89 Written by Gail Brookshire
(by the grace of God)

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reblogging my published poetry


Shining down upon the ocean,
the sun is sharing warmth.
The gentle wind is caressing
the trees in flower like form.
Wings of the passing birds
flutter to support,
to give flight to the little souls
that I am smiling for.
Tides of the ocean roll forward
to gently tease the sands.
The sands soften in such approval,
as if they understand.
The beauty of life is so refreshing,
ecstasy lay within the scene.
Yet if it weren’t for the way you make me feel,
I would notice a thing.

1994 Written by Gail Brookshire|
(published in Voices, Volume 1, NO.4 Issue, Sept.14, 1994, page 5)
(by the grace of God)

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You’re The Woman

reblogging my published poetry


You’re the woman who loves me, who loves my dad,
Everything about me good or bad.
You’re the woman who gave me life, gave me birth.
You are as precious to me as this God given earth.
God saw sight in Mary and Jesus was mothered.
There is no better gift, not even friend or lover.
Be ye great, my mom, for you’re the woman, you’re my mother.

1992 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Expressions, May 2, 1994 Issue, Page 2)
(by the grace of God)

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With You, Of Course

reblogging my published poetry


In the middle of our candle lit dinner,
you ask a question of me.
Of all the beautiful places in the world,
where would I rather be?
As I think of romantic Paris
and lover’s London too,
I see the warmth of beauty in Maui
and a trip to the Caribbean.
So to answer your question
with honesty and truth,
the only place I’d rather be,
of course, is right here with you.

1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Voices, Volume 1, NO.4 Issue, Sept.14, 1994, page 5)
(by the grace of God)

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Welcome Fellow Freshmen

reblogging my published poetry


Welcome fellow freshmen,
I’m really glad to meet you.
And as you journey through these halls,
I really hope to greet you.
You may have a lot to learn,
but trust me, that’s okay.
This may be my second year,
but I learn more every day.
It’s really hard adjusting to
a very chaotic pace,
but in the end you’ll win the race
standing in first place.
Your future’s on a roulette wheel.
You’re gambling on every grade.
But when you have succeeded,
you’ll see it was worth the effort you made.

1992 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Expressions, Sept.1, 1992 Issue, Front page)
(by the grace of God)

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To Be Of God

reblogging my published poetry


To be of God, we must be forgiven.
His son died to forgive us.
To forgive us… He must have a reason to forgive.
To have a reason to forgive… He must have been disappointed.
To have been disappointed… we must have done something wrong.
To have done something wrong… we must have went against His law.
To have went against His law… we must have sinned.
To have sinned… we must be sinful.
To be sinful… we must be weak.
To be weak… we must be human.
To be human… we must be of creation.
To be of creation… we must be of God.
To be of God… we must be forgiven.

1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Flight, Spring ’95, page 11)
(by the grace of God)

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This Little Girl

A story of this little girl, hiding in a closet.
Scared behind the broken door, she has tried to lock it.
Frightened of the things outside, making life a storm
Of violence, rage, and weapons, wondering what will form.

Screaming, hollering, sounds of terror, banging up the place.
If only you could see the look on this little girl’s face.
Tears are running down her cheeks; she cannot close her eyes.
For living in this nightmare has made her paralyzed.

Curled in a little ball, she’s waiting for the kill
Knowing if it never comes, it will be against her will.
Protect this little girl from him. He’s going to commit a crime.
You have to hurry and grab her, there’s really not much time.

Oh NO! He’s broken through the door and found this little girl.
It’s much too late to save her now. He’s going to take her world.
What will she do, now that she’s hurt and he has got away?
Tell me what to do for her, and what it is I’ll say.

Well now this little girl has got a gun within her hand,
And when she pulls the trigger, they will never understand.
Holding it at her side, she puts it to her head.
And though the man is running free, this little girl is dead.

1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Flight magazine, Spring ’95, page 12)
(by the grace of God)

The Time Had Run Out

reblogging my published poetry


We know you’re gone,
But wish we could have you back.
We know you would if you could,
But we lose again to your attack.

How unfair and cruel it seems
To have lost our reason for living.
It’s hard to adjust to returning
The love you were always giving.

Our children ask about you often.
It’s hard for them to understand.
I try to explain you love them still,
But live in another hand.

Tears of an aching child
Could break the heart of Scrooge.
And when they need your comfort,
Mine is not their refuge.

Oh we know you’re gone,
But wish we could have you back.
We know you would if you could,
But we lose again to your attack.

1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Flight, Spring ’95, page 16)
(by the grace of God)

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Out of the Grave

This use to be my dream
To live the live I’m leading.
All this child wanted
Was for someone to stop the bleeding.

To see a moment my attacker
Would be the one to lose
Simply by my forgiving
And living as I choose.

I never thought I’d see happiness
Or a day without a tear,
A day to stop my hunger
And ease my ruling fear.

When life was younger
It was so much weaker.
I had to give in to evil
In order to survive the seeker.

My pain was a pleasure
For someone insane,
But no one could stop
The endless rain.

I knew in my heart
From the way it all went,
It would only be my future
On which I could depend.

And now it is here,
My survival has come.
No more will I hide.
No more will I run.

The past is behind me.
The future ahead.
My freedom has arrived.
My conviction dead.

We win all along
The young ones abused.
For what you’re afraid of
Is by what we’re amused.

You can’t convict
A survivor of prison.
For when you are searching
We know the reason.

It’s all an endurance
To which you create.
You think you’ll love it,
But regret your hate.

You search for shelter,
But lose to the brave.
For those who survive you
Are out of their grave.

1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Flight magazine #3, Spring ’94, pages, 107-109)
(by the grace of God)
P.S. For those about to attack, I suggest you release your victim.
They may me the destroyer.
PSS. This was the first time I had allowed myself to speak openly about being abused in any way. I was surprised from the outpouring responses, especially the ones from an office full of male social workers… thanking me for writing it… saying so many people needed to read it and that so many people needed to be spoken for… including myself. They said it as if they were accepting personal acknowledgement for hard work that went unnoticed. It was so surprising, so touching, and unexpectedly comforting, though I wouldn’t recognize for years that it had been comforting. I didn’t even know I needed that comforting. I didn’t think I needed anything from anyone. God did. ❤

Longing To Be There

reblogging my published poetry


Over so many miles away
Someone is longing for you,
But wonders how without you,
They’ll ever make it through.

I miss you, Darling, every minutean
That the clock is ticking on.
Yet I tell myself to believe
This distance will make us strong.

I just hope you’re thinking of me
And long for my touch as well.
You know if I were there with you,
Our love would set sea to sail.

Know that I am laying down,
But my dreams will be of you.
And as you start your morning off,
Say you miss me too.

1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Voices, Volume 1, NO.3, Aug.1, 1994 Issue, page 5)
3 of my others beside it on same page were
As I Watch, Forever Apart, Courtship
(by the grace of God)

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School is Too Cool

*Just so ya know… this one is a little long*

School, it’s cool, but so is the snow.
Playing and sleighing, and snowballs to throw.
But oh, wait a minute, I can’t get out.
The weather is freezing and the power went out.
How can I eat? The stores are closed.
The roads are icy and the pipes are froze.
What? No water? I can’t take a shower?
Oh well, I’d freeze in this bitter cold hour.

Friends trapped, to stay inside alone.
Thank God, for the only thing left, the phone!
Talking it through together, trying to survive.
The cruel and bitter struggle to stay alive.
Boy, it sure is dark. I can’t see a thing.
It’s been hours since I’ve heard the phone ring.
People I love are too cold to move, becoming sick.
After the radio dies, I hear only my watch tick.

I find some batteries I forgot were stored away.
Now to hear what the news had to say.
Car accidents, fires, people are stranded.
Voices talk of the streets and says they’ll be sanded.
Yet still voices beg, pleading to all,
Stay at home safe and warm. Don’t get out at all.
It’s dangerous to be exposed to this degree of cold.
Don’t try to be a hero. It kills young and old.

Now it’s hypothermia the voices start to teach.
How many homes and people will they reach?
Finally, it clears a little. The streets start to melt.
God is saying it’s okay now. Here’s the sun to help.
Temperatures rise again. How good it feels to be warm.
Now it’s off to the store. I fight within the swarm.
I see the shelves start to bare, then start heading back,
And in the empty parking lots I see a lot of tracks.

People had been playing in the snow with their trucks.
Doughnut marks and sliding streaks showed, they played without getting stuck.
Oh Hallelujah! The water’s on and the power is too.
I can take a nice hot shower… oooooooh!
My freshly dryer dried towel and warm pair of jeans.
And oh yes, how good it feels just to be clean.
Cooking something warm to eat, I lean over the stove.
Now this smells good to my thawed out nose!

I finally get to watch the news and see how bad it is.
Boy, was this worth all the school I have missed?
No, not at all. The world has fallen apart.
Let’s go back to school before things get too hard.
At least we have heat at school and the streets are good to go.
I’d much rather sit in class, than to be a prisoner to snow.
Many people are in tragedy just to feel the cold.
When it come to education over tragedy, Hey, I’m sold!!

1993 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Expressions, Jan.31, 1994 Issue, Front page-page 2)
(by the grace of God)


reblogging my published poetry


It came before.
It came too soon.
It came beneath
The pale lit moon.

It started now.
It started then.
It started after
The winter wind.

It went away.
It went again.
It went straight
For the end.

Was all a lie.
Was all a game.
There were no rules,
But it had a name,


1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Voices, Volume 1, No. 2, July 11, 1994 Issue, page 5)
(by the grace of God)

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