Posts Tagged ‘Sunday’


The children stood upon the stage
Each holding words upon a page
In turn they read a line or two
On what their Daddy’s always do

Dads fought crime, and Dads fought fires
One farmed land, and one sold tires
Jack was nervous when his turn came
And couldn’t remember his own name

Poor Jack’s courage was almost gone
So the congregation clapped him on
But he’d lost the paper that he had
So the Preacher prodded the little lad

What does your Dad do every day?
Jack thought a bit on what to say
Then the little boy in Sunday clothes
Yelled out, “My Daddy picks his nose!”

His dad, embarrassed, hid his face
And wished he was some other place,
When Jack, who then became alert,
Called out, “And wipes it on his shirt!”

5/1/00 Phyllis DeWitt -VanVleck

1’st … Arkansas NPD – 2000

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When memory takes me to the past

Sundays come to mind,

To countless chicken dinners

And rapport, as we dined.


Our table seated nine, back then,

With friends, ten or more.

We never knew how many guests

Would enter through our door.

The huge oak table beckoned us,

We each pulled up a chair,

Everyone bowed his head in thanks

And someone led in prayer.


The youngest sat on catalogs

To reach her cake-tin plate.

Two siblings shared an old wood bench,

One used an apple crate.

Blue oilcloth graced our table top

The plates were mixed designs,

Jelly jars served as crystal then,

The flatware had bent tines.


There was lots of smiles and chatter,

Not one unpleasant word,

With some good-natured chiding done

And stories to be heard.

Then after dinner was over,

Dad played his violin,

While we sang songs and danced a bit,

Everyone joining in.


The old house rang with laughter

And music filled the air.

The women discussed recipes

And kids ran everywhere.

Those times left vivid memories,

And if the past could speak

It would claim those Sundays as

The best part of the week.


9/13/90      Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck


3’rd … Indiana NPD 1990


This poem is based on my childhood.  There were three adults and six children in the house and Sunday company made for a crowded dinner table.  But, mom always had room for everyone. 


We called those cake pan plates, sideboards, and dad said they let you fill your plate full.  Times were tough back then too, but we were happy with jelly jars for glasses.  We didn’t know want because we had all the love we needed.

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Around the bend, there is a church

With doors that open wide,

Where young and old parishioners

Fill the pews inside.


Nestled among hills and ponds,

It’s christened Cottonwood.                     

It rings with glory and worship,

And defines the neighborhood.


The people in attendance there

Are the best that one can find.

“Just plain folks”, some would say.

Is there any better kind?


Blossoms in the woods out back,

Tall corn across the road.

A tiny curving brook, in spring,      

Near Pastor’s white abode.


There’s laughter in that little church,

And I think it makes God smile . . .

For it fits so well with the serious side,

And that’s Cottonwood’s style 


Walk through those doors on Sunday morn’,

You’ll love what you behold.

The messages uplift your soul,

As you’re welcomed in it’s fold.


I’ll look for you, each time I’m there,

No need for in-depth search,

Since you’ll be drawn to worship at . . .

The Cottonwood Christian Church.



    Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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