Debbie Chandler

A Christmas poem

During the night of Christmas Eve Old Saint Nick comes filling
the stockings and leaving something special for the kids.
Parents feel the Christmas spirit among the family.

The beautiful Christmas tree gleams in the child's eye.
Everybodyexchanges smiles to each other and knowing
grins of expectations to come in the forms of gifts.

As the child grows up and has a family of her own she
follows her family tradition's. Christmas holds a special
meaning for her family as well as past Christmases when
she was a child. The spirit of love flows and they remember
the meaning of Christmas. The parents pass the celebration of
Jesus's birth as well as His love and message.


The Hand that Reaches Down to Help Me

Several times when I feel down and depressed a hand reaches
down to help me.
Through the dark hours of depression I see his hand reaching
down to guide me.

He smiles patiently when I stumble through life's troubles and
He picks me upwhen I fall he gently tells me not to worry about
simple things.  He sits with me at night and we talk about the future.

I know without his hand I couldn't make it through life.
His hand is strong when he picks me up his hand is gentle when
he is compassionate.

Where would I be without Him?
I'd be no where without his existence in my heart.  I feel like going on.

I wrote this when I was in my early twenties also. I am a Christian. I was having a difficult time in my life back then. I turn to God for His strength and guidance. He somehow, I am not quite sure how, but he somehow gave me the words to write this poem. This poem is a thankful and praise mediation for what He had pulled me through. I have written some religious poetry back then and alot of the poems express my faith in God.


The Rainmaker

Rain leaves such a lovely smell.
Afterwards a rainbow appears to
light up the sky. The dewey smell
of fresh grass reaches the nose.

A walk through the fields and meadows
makes me wonder how rain could have
made such a beautiful picture for the mind.

Surely this is God's work, He is the the

I was very young when I wrote this poem. I may have been around the age of twenty one or twenty two. At this time we lived in Tucson, Arizona. I wrote often and sometimes I wrote in my room after I had gazed out of my window. I had a nice big window in my room and I loved to watch the birds and the sky. I still do. This is one way I get my inspiration.


The Tree's Are My Protector

Walking in the forrest on a beautiful spring afternoon I stop to sit under a tree to rest.
A light breeze brushes barely across my cheeks.
I close my eyes for a moment.
At that moment I feel the tree's in the forrest hovering over me protectively.
I don't feel alone anymore. Somehow the tree's make me feel safe.
An image comes to my mind, the tree's are moving together toward me to keep me from all danger.
A warm sense of contentment washes over me.
I sit there for a while longer savoring the moment.
Finally I open my eyes and look up admiringly at the tall and sturdy tree's.
These tree's are not just tree's, they are my ever faithful Friends.

I don't know when I wrote this poem. It was later, possibly in my late twenties. I don't think I was in my thirties. I love the natural world. Tree's are just part of it. I was able to see the tall redwood tree's in California when I was younger. It is possible I was thinking of them. I was impressed with their coloring. I know I was not writing about the pine tree! I have re-worked this poem some given the way it was in it's original form. I simply didn't like it the way it was and decided to write some new words to convey my feelings about tree's. I hope the reader enjoys my poetry. They were written back in the eighties and I was a different person then.


An Untitled Poem

The future is unknown. I stand at the abyss of fear.
I only see one path to take.
A path called, Independence.
This path can lead to new discoveries and knowledge.
Maybe even education. Fear draws me back.
The only real campanion I've had is fear. It keeps me safe for now.

Change is another road. It brings all kinds of twists and turns.
The road ahead is not one of smooth stones. Change can become exciting and scary.
I stand uncertainly at the fork of the road.
I never thought I would think of setting my foot on the path of Change.
Change has always been a rough road for me. Change brings new avenue's and opportunities.
There are new people to meet and unexpected challenges come along the way.
Change and Independence.......Aren't they really the same? Is there really a fork in the road?
No, I believe they are the same. It is really just one road.
The road of Independence beckons me.

I really don't know when I wrote this. I may have been facing a decision I had to make. Sometimes I just think on all kinds of things and try to imagine myself in certain situations and how I'd react. I also analize quite a bit. I am serious thinker sometimes. I may just have been thinking and writing at the same time. My poetry is like that. I am figuring out or sorting my thoughts on a certain topic on paper. When I see it written on paper and can see the words I feel like I have been in therapy. Writing is like that for me. I don't always have the thought of writing a poem when I start out. Writing is a form of therapy because I am writing what I feel. This is what my poetry is in a nutshell. I simply write what I am feeling that day. I have read that poets need to learn different styles and rhymes and work on a subject to write a poem but I don't think that way. I simply want to write what I am feeling. I don't know what you call that but I call it writing. I am simply writing what I feel, and think.

His Beautiful Works

You made the beautiful flowers that sit
in the flower bed in the front yard.
You move the sun and rain above to make
them grow.

I see you in them. I see the smile on your
gentle lips.

The mountains look so big and luminous.
Clouds move around the mountain tops
and create a breaktaking picture.

And its funny, because I see your face in
the clouds. I see your loving smile.

How many people really take the time to
look at what you have made? We are so
busy in our lives that we forget to see you
in your creation's. We forget to see your
face, the face of beauty.

By Debbie, Age 42. MDS - I am a "Poet", Artist and Writer. (A Poet is an Artist. I like to paint ceramics too).