God's Truth Not Smooth Words

Legacy of The Third Eye ~~ poetic heritage

Legacy Of The Third Eye

©copyright 2004 Bonita M Quesinberry, R.C.


It all began with great grandmother,

on to mother’s grandmother, but no brothers;

then on to my own mother the legacy passed;

to her a curse, certainly a great task.

And, in some ways, it moved to me and mine:

strange events and portents of a kind.


Great grandmother had sixteen little ones;

but, times were rough and plagues often won.

The wall thumped like a heartbeat behind the bed:

they ripped it out, nothing there but dread;

upon the bed, a sickly child cried.

The thumping stopped: she of three died.


Another time, a snow white dove landed on the lawn,

and there it stood until dawn;

then under the house, beneath a room it cooed.

In there was a beautiful girl a man might have wooed,

yet unconscious she lay, hardly a breath.

The dove stopped, flew away: sixteen years at death.


But the most harrowing of great grandmother’s trials,

was her gorgeous brunette, full of grace and style.

So ill she became, lingering long near death;

then, a day came she seemed to draw not another breath.

They buried her, at just eighteen then;

and great grandmother prayed, enough death had been.


So common back then, they had to move her pine box.

A year later, they lifted it from among dirt and rocks.

Something did not seem right, on the side dried blood.

Gently, they prised open the lid: horror came in a flood:

for she had been buried alive… ALIVE, and she’d awakened,

struggled to claw her way out, feeling forsaken.


Great grandmother lost no more kids;

so passed to grandmother the legacy bid.

Mother’s father fell ill one day, only thirty-five,

believing grandmother that he would not die.

Grandmother’s bed began to thump like a heartbeat:

a brother tore it apart, but it didn’t skip a beat.


Mother wasn’t allowed to visit her Dad;

hospital rules, not because she was bad.

But, on this day, they said she could come;

so, grandmother dressed her like the sun,

bright and cheerful amidst the thumping:

stopping only to answer the phone trumping.


It was then the thumping suddenly ceased:

only five, but mother’s brow creased.

She watched her mother’s smile turn grim

as she laid the phone down, neat and trim.

Grandmother turned, “We won’t be going, honey.”

At five years old, death was not funny.


Soon, my mother’s turn the legacy to claim:

strange dreams for her, each time the same;

death it would be: of family, far or near.

At twelve, it was her mother’s that caused tears.

Mom often said she didn’t know if it were

gift or curse, the line between such a blur.


Finally, it was my time to inherit the fame

of visions and feelings, yet not the same.

The legacy now was purified, to use for the Lord:

trying sometimes, convoluted others, never a bore.

Prophecy and interpretation the Spirit gave to me,

that the world might hear, learn and see.

20 November 2006 Posted by | Armageddon, Birth, Blessings, Christian, Death, Dreams, End Times, Faith, Geneology, God, Grace, Holy Spirit, Jehovah, Jesus, Love, Mothers, Poem, Poems, Prophecy, Sign, Spiritual, Truth | 1 Comment

A Royal Wedding ~~ poetic heritage

©copyright 2004 Bonita M Quesinberry, R.C.


One of my grandfathers, thrice great or more, 
came from Britain to America’s shore.
British aristocrats, he and his wife, 
quickly gained rich ground without any strife.
They were English, this Questinbury clan,
whose own slaves worked their Quesinberry land. 

Soon there were daughters catching young men’s eyes,
and handsome sons: tall, strong, ready to ride.
The youngest set out to see this nation,
slave driving not to be his vocation.
He rode rugged, wild southwest trails;
weathered hardships and never got frail.

Then one day, he met the girl of his dreams—
and, he must have been made for her, it seems—
for with her father it soon was agreed:
“A royal wedding to be,” was decreed.
She was a princess with long silken hair,
graceful in stride with features fine and fair.

Young Quesinberry started his new life,
wrote that he would bring home his special wife.
Slaves rushed to clean and dust the plantation,
planning many gala celebrations.
That royal bride must see them at their best,
and it’s highly polished family crest.

The long awaited day at last arrived:
two riders rode up the long, tree-lined drive.
Rejoicing turned to dismay and alarm:
there was an Indian on this son’s arm.
They never would receive a Cherokee:
forgot Questinburgs had fled Germany.

Thus, this his youngest son, father disowned;
 him and her sent from family and home.
The name’s spelling again would get a change,
Cherokee blood would subtly rearrange.
There are only a few Quesinberry’s,
and some of those spell it Quisenberry. 

My staunch grandfather asked about my thoughts
concerning this tree his forefathers wrought.
Fearing my boldness, my aunt held her breath;
sure I’d anger him, even cause his death.
“They were a bunch of snobs,” I bluntly said.
His laughter roared as his face turned bright red.

So, I’m a little Cherokee princess,
Then another bit of German empress,
And a wee bonnie lass of Irish cream,
together with some French and Brit, it seems.
Oh, and a Castilian Spanish quarter.
All these should just about set the mortar.

Of course, they did have that big plantation;
so who can say who are my relations?
Who and whatever, I do love them all.
They were a bunch of snobs! That is my call.
Perhaps, she’s why I love nature’s features:
trees and flowers, and all of God’s creatures.



16 November 2006 Posted by | Birth, Christian, Fathers, Geneology, Humor, Love, Mothers, Parenting, Poem, Poems | 5 Comments

A Belly-Crawling Snake ~~ poem

©copyright 2005 Bonita M Quesinberry, R.C.  

He used a belly-crawling, dust-eating serpent

to bring temptation’s glitter to life.

God said, “Don’t eat of the two trees in Eden’s midst;

for if you do, yours is death and strife.”

Still, that subtle beast said, “You’ll not die but be wise,

be like gods knowing darkness and light.”


Did Satan speak the truth when he said they’d not die?

That they could gain all wisdom saintly?

Oh, how clever is that vomit-eating devil!

God never said they’d die instantly.

Adam and Eve lived eons, but not in Eden;

still, they will live in eternity.


It’s easy to spread deceit yet utter not one:

speak, write, imply without admission.

Satan’s tricks are truth laced with lies wickedly phrased,

manipulation by omission.

Think about how it’s done, those lies we’ve all followed.

Changing what is God’s is his mission.


“Like gods,” Lucifer had said while failing to add,

“but without God’s wisdom to use well;

for ultimately you will die, just not real soon.”

They’d suffer too, he deigned not to tell,

if Eve chose to go against their Father’s commands.

Oh, how bittersweet temptation sells.


Our Father took the time to warn what could happen

should we choose to disobey His Law;

but, Satan paints pretty pictures without bound’ries,

knowing full well these cause deadly falls:

save and except we decide to go to Father.

For God’s pure Truth, on Him we should call.


Christ said, “The Shepherd’s flock need not be taught by men.”

Yet, when His sheep share Truth, once forsook,

those who hear use men’s words to excuse fancy’s flight;

instead of opening Father’s book

while seeking guidance from just His Holy Spirit.

To bittersweet destruction they look.


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Genesis c.2 and c.3


4 November 2006 Posted by | Bible, Biblical Poems w/verse ref, Christ, Christian, Christianity, Church, Diety, Divinity, Evil, Faith, God, Grace, Holy Spirit, Jehovah, Jesus, Love, Poem, Poems, Redemption, Religion, Resurrection, Salvation, Spiritual, Spiritual Study, Theology, Truth | 1 Comment

A Golden Road

©copyright 2005 Bonita M Quesinberry, R.C. 


Will you listen, for just a moment,

to the soft voice of one?

He who pleads with you to follow Him,

before earth’s work is done?


His Father exquisitely made Him,

that you might love His Son;

for He teaches the art of caring

and how living is done.


He wants you for His beloved child,

to bless you ev’ry day

and see that you’re fed heaven’s manna.

Would you walk in His way?


Will you heed all that He said and did,

accept His form of pay?

The rewards are considerable,

the golden road His way.


He will build a mansion just for you,

with gardens in full bloom;

in ev’ry direction gorgeous scenes

viewed from each lovely room.


And, when you weep o’er pain long suffered,

with you He also cries;

though, He will comfort yet chastise, too,

with love deep in His eyes.


Will you turn a deaf ear to this world

and avoid all its lies?

He will show you God’s Truths and mys’tries,

if you’ll open your eyes.


Does any of this sound good to you,

to be free from earth’s doom?

Simply accept Jesus and for Him,

deep in your heart, make room.


Lay before Him each of your sins

and detail all your pain.

Sin no more and He’s sure to forgive,

then turn all to your gain.


But more, you’ll learn what life’s all about

and never feel the same.

His small price? That you love and obey,

His gift of life your gain.


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29 October 2006 Posted by | Bible, Christ, Christian, Christianity, Diety, Divinity, Faith, God, Grace, Jehovah, Jesus, Love, Poem, Poems, Remnant, Resurrection, Spiritual, Theology, Truth | 4 Comments