by Val Camenish Wilcox

On Choosing a Vocation

For the eager intellects,
The learners with more interests than hours,
Promises to be
Heaven indeed.

To a Missionary

What are you given, that gnawing,
That dull ache of empty remembering
Some folds of a foggy light that once
Held touch?
It makes you reach again to feel your hand close
on empty earth air …
Somewhere was a voice once, whispering
A plea, translated now to Call
With voice of fire in your heart
Gives birth to hope, and with your
Empty fingers, touch a warm again.
And like the Christ, you seek
His sheep you both now love.

Who’s Crazy

“You’re crazy,” they said,
“to aim for the stars.
The stars are
much, much too high.”
“You’re silly!” they shouted.
“Look at yourself;
You’re human,
you can’t even fly.”
And so as I jumped
and sprang and leaped,
they all stood around.
I did not reach the stars,
as they said,
But at least
my feet left the ground.