A poem.

Marah Courteous

Solitude is all I ask,

As I wonder why it is such a task

To find a tiny bit of peace.


Why is it so difficult to understand,

And why of the pastor must you demand,

That he have no peace.


Maybe we can claim a Saturday night,

But to miss a social just wouldn't be right.

Where do we find that peace?


Surely a Sunday will be our own,

But no, working bees and picnics are all the go,

And with them go our peace.


Holidays come and I give a sigh,

But you can't let this opportunity go by,

And once again there is no peace.


Home again to the ringing phone,

The doorbell sounds and the children groan,

For there just is no peace.


Even at home there's always some chore,

And with three little boys, life's never a bore.

Will there ever be peace?


Will a pastor be left alone,

When his children are fully grown?

No, even in retirement there is no peace.