Tag Archives: Poetry

The Trails are Calling

The Trails Are Calling

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.


The Nature of Love

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

-Jessica Baker


*Slightly bent trees that inspired my post: Brugge, Belgium

I Like Poetry.

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

-Jess Baker-

Think About It.

The Dash

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?

Linda Ellis

The (Wo)Men That Don’t Fit In


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-