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Stanley
 




That is Stanley Garbingully
in the picture on my wall,
pencil portrait by my daughter
when Stanley was quite small.

We were visiting Papunya
in the Territ'ry remote,
where the North wind blows relentless,
rips the breath out of your throat.

Stanley's dad was Murphy,
the pastor-Lutheran
but born into the dreaming,
full-blood Lyricha man.

The lad and his five sisters
had been motherless a while
for she was Pitjanjarra,
victim of nuclear testing vile.

This little boy, to Murphy
represented future's hope,
urging him to do much better,
teach his sisters how to cope.

If I could have a picture
of Stanley's life today
it would likely show a dark skinned man
seeking his God to pray.

Stanley took the path exemplar
that his father took before
helps the homeless in the city
praying that he might do more.

That small dark child sits there smiling
on my sitting room's pale wall,
like he knew his future was secure
with The One Who loves us all.






By cherryk

© 2018 cherryk (All rights reserved)

 

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This Poem is part of a Challenge: - A special picture on the wall. (challenge has been closed)


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