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Twenty Minutes of Special: poetry by Mike R. Hall

Painting: fanciful painting of a llama in a forest clearing, the clearing is a soft blue-green, the trees in rich orange and yellow autumn colors, image by André Santana AndreMS, on Pixabay.

llama and forest, image by André Santana AndreMS, on Pixabay

A Young Mother’s Introspection


Before this holy season was celebrated as Christmas,

a young mother looked in awe at her newborn son.

She counted ten fingers and ten toes,

watched the child breathing… felt the beating of his heart.

The child gripped his mother’s finger,

their eyes meeting for the first time.

Words were not needed to express the love felt.

Her heart was overflowing with the joy of motherhood

as she offered up her thankful prayer for this gift,

not only a gift for her, but for humanity as well—

the Messiah for an oppressed and beleaguered people,

a savior for all who would call upon his name.

She treasured these things in her heart.




How was she to know the sacrifice he would make

   so all could receive God’s eternal promise.

How was she to know the sorrow she would experience

   as her firstborn hung on a cross to atone for all,

   suffering a criminal’s death even though he was blameless.

How was she to know the jubilation when he conquered death,

   fulfilling all that was prophesied so long ago.


As for now…


Mary just held the infant in her arms,

thinking of her place in this miracle,

feeling blessed as God’s chosen vessel.

Jesus, she may have whispered. Welcome, little one.

Admiring God’s handiwork,

she once again counted ten fingers and ten toes.




 Scripture reference: Luke 2:19




Twenty Minutes of Special


It was her favorite time of the day: nap time.

Not her napher three-year-old daughter’s,

not because the nap would give her a break

(although she welcomed the alone time it would give her),

but it was the twenty minutes before the nap that she cherished,

the twenty minutes needed to read to her daughter,

twenty minutes which would stir her memories

of a time when she would hear her favorite story read by her dad.


She could remember crawling up in his lap with her book of choice,

anxiously waiting for the story to unfold,

listening to her dad attempt to mimic the voices,

bringing the different characters to life,

making the story even more memorable.

This was her time to feel safe and loved, to feel special,

to be her daddy’s “little girl.”


Now her daughter came running with her current favorite book,

and climbed up in her lap with excited anticipation.

The book was old and worn,

showing its age from many readings.

The age of the book did not matter.

She knew it was her mom’s favorite.

She sat quietly, listening

to the words as they were read,

speaking only to remind her mom to do the voices.          






My Best Days


I gaze all around me, marveling at the sights,

trying to view the world from a new perspective,

going from the valley lows to the mountain highs,

thinking of my last steps taken to the summit,

my  anticipation growing as I neared the trail’s end,

taking a deep breath, reveling in the moment—

letting this feeling of satisfaction wash over me.


I look into the distance at the clouds drifting along,

stark white against the bluest of blues.

I see eagles soaring into the heavens—masters of the air—

and imagine what it would be like to glide by their side.

I look to the mountains towering in the distance,

their peaks with the last remnants of winter’s canopy.

I hear them calling to my spirit, challenging me,

prodding what is deep within me—

the part not willing to acknowledge the end,

the part refusing to submit to the limits of time,

the part telling me: age is a number.


I begin my descent in search of the next path leading up,

realizing I have another mountain to climb—

another challenge to tackle,

another search for the pinnacle,

another adventure along the next trail—

determined to press onward and upward,

chasing that euphoric feeling of accomplishment once again,

choosing to believe my best days are still ahead.

Mike R. Hall has authored two collections of poetry, 

Autumn's Back Porch and Thinking Out Loud. His work

has also appeared in Agape Review, Pure in Heart Stories, Foreshadow Magazine, Solid Food Press, Faith on Every Corner Magazine, Clayjar Review, and is scheduled to

appear in Modern Reformation in January. He wants his

words to encourage and uplift readers in their daily walk.

He and his wife, Cynthia, live in the Dallas area.

(December 2023 issue)

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23. Dez. 2023

Touching and inspiring poems.

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