My streams of thought meet here
YOU SEE THE ODDEST CREATURES
Laid out on the highway
its feet in the air
I take a good look
as we pass it. No hair.
Just bumps on its back,
curled spines on its tummy;
its mouth sort-of open
its snout looking gummy
I ask my chauffeur
“What creature is that?”
He says with a chuckle,
“A dead rubber rat.”
He rarely speaks before a crowd;
he doesn’t teach a class;
but when he comes to Sunday school
he brings his friends en masse.
He cannot sing to save his life,
and stammers when he prays;
but always his jalopy is
just crammed on each Lord’s Day.
So, though he’ll seldom sing or teach
or boldly lead in prayer,
he listens well, he wears a smile,
and he is always there.
and offers rides to all who’ll come
collects folks near and far;
God’s work is greatly prospered by
his consecrated car.
A NEW DAY
Crest of a wave on the eastern horizon
a barely discernible glow at first
seeps over to inundate the heavens
driving night to the west end of time.
As it travels across the sky it washes
away the pain and sorrows of yesterday
prompts pardon for past wrongs
effects forgiveness in its undercurrent.
The sun arrives to shake the sleepyheads
insisting on new designs and dreams.
People open their eyes to grumble, moan,
or thank God for a new day!
— Christine Goodnough
aflame now
in the fire pit
a gnarled old log
like a shaggy buffalo
its whitening bones
carried by the breeze
ashes of a warrior tree
drifting into the garden
returning to the earth
to rise next spring
in flowers
by Edgar Guest
Gettin old’s not hard, I say,
if it’s done the proper way;
when you’re finding’ out how much
joy is in the common touch,
learnin’ from experience
and the book of common sense
that a man, whoe’er he be,
richly dressed or poor to see,
really’s tryin’ hard to do
just about the same as you;
when you’ve found the worth of gold,
then you’re glad you’re gettin’ old.
When you’ve come along the years
with their smiles and bitter tears,
and have seen through clearer eyes
many things you used to prize
lose their value, and you know
much you didn’t long ago;
when you’ve learned that creed and birth
are not real stamps of worth,
and you’ve scraped through the veneer
of the sham and pomp down here
to tell the truth you want to hold,
then you’re glad you’re gettin’ old.
When you’ve come at last to find
joy is born of bein’ kind;
when you’re learned to disbelieve
tales which make another grieve
and to them you shut your ear;
when you are not quick to sneer
and have turned from selfish strife
to the gentler ways of life,
in your wisdom finding out
things you never dreamed about
in your youthful way days and bold —
then you’re glad you’re getting old.
Gettin’ old’s not hard, I say,
if it’s done the proper way,
youth is made with haste and blind
to the peace which old men find,
but when you have traveled far,
come to know men as they are,
when you’ve learned through hurts and aches
all the errors hot youth makes
and have found the lasting worth
of the simpler joys of earth;
when life’s purposes unfold,
then you’re glad you’re gettin’ old.
by Edgar Guest
Bees are in the blossoms,
birds are on the wing,
roses climb, and summertime
is kissing every thing.
Little pansy faces
wink and smile at me,
and far and near there’s not a tear
that human eye can see.
There’s beauty in the garden,
there’s beauty in the sky,
the stately phlox and hollyhocks
have put their sorrows by.
The gentle breath of summer
has blown the cares away;
all nature sings, for morning brings
another lovely day.
Yet some are blind to beauty
and some are deaf to song;
the troubled brow is heard to vow
that all the world is wrong.
And some display their sorrow,
and some bewail their woe
and some men sigh that love must die
and summertime must go.
From the book, Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest
© 1934 by The Reilly & Lee Company
