No one knew from whence it came
its pendants, tubes on dusty arms,
wires long coiled await in vain
for the power to show its charms.

It hangs there in a once-white church,
clapboards pitted now by blowing sand,
on the edge of a dry and windswept town,
the only spot of beauty in church or land. .

Inside the church, splintered benches
askew on dark and dusty floor,
ragged muslin curtained windows
masking it from light and more.

A waste of beauty in that deserted church,
that desolate town, hopes gone for rebirth.
Chances gone to connect with source
to reveal their latent worth.

Gus Daum


About degus221

A Kansan who has migrated to Oregon.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.


  1. oneta hayes says:

    Beautiful. You are such a good poet. I always love what you write. And my age probably lends itself to my appreciation of your subject matter!


    • degus221 says:

      Thank you, Oneta.
      And I always appreciate your comments.

      I guess it is safe to assume that you may have lived in some of my many decades.


      • oneta hayes says:

        Yes, if you are counting decades, I’m in my ninth, 81 years. Still blessed to have my spouse of sixty-two years. Just wrote a blog “Wonder of Wonders” regarding my love story of those many years ago. If you have a bit, hop over and read it. I’m still in the dark about links but maybe this will work


      • degus221 says:

        Yes, you are much younger!!!!

        I will try and access your Wonder of Wonders.


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