I’ve been thinking about road trips I want to take and places I want to go in the next couple years and my mind just keeps going to nature.
I once saw a set of trees
That didn’t grow quite straight
And nearby on the ground
I saw a lonesome grave
It was one that of a patron saint
One that had no name
And he had been there far too long
Lonely in his grave
A man who lived by these trees
Told a quite old tale
A tale that said the trees were there
To grow high into the air
They were fertilized by love
Coming from the saint
It made them grow strong and large
Oh! They beauty they did paint
The trees they felt this love
Coming from his grave
And to get closer to it,
They refused to grow straight
For years and years
They grew and grew
High above the ground
Growing towards his grave
To turn the love around
*Slightly bent trees that inspired my post: Brugge, Belgium
I used to write a lot of poetry in high school, this is one that I wrote for a senior project.
I walk a parallel path with time
But I dare not touch it
It taunts and deceives me
Its hands are ticking at me
Telling me no
That I can’t freeze it’s frame
Or even slow it down
It takes me places that I have never been
Makes me see things I had never seen
It started me out as nothing
Has turned me into something
Then as the hands continue to go
It will then turn me into dust
But to time
When my end comes
It does not matter
For the hands of time do not stop
I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning..to the end.
He noted that first came her date of birth
And spoke the following date with tears, 1964-1994
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth..
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own;
The cars..the house..the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard.
Are there things you”d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what”s true and real,
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we”ve never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile..
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy”s being read
With your life”s actions to rehash..
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?
There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: “Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;
He’s a man who won’t fit in.
-Robert W. Service-