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Editor's note: It is fitting that this poem, my personal favorite, brings to a close almost three years of weekly poems published at this blog. It is fitting also in that it marks, to the day, three years since Dad left our world on June 24 (although it still seems like yesterday). To those who have stopped by for a weekly glimpse at his talents, I offer my whole-hearted thanks. I'm sure he'd echo that sentiment; nothing much gave him more pleasure than knowing that one of his poems had elicited a smile, or an outright chuckle, to brighten someone else's day. It's been a wonderful three-year journey for me, and I hope you'll come back once in a while. I know I will.
There's a long, long path a-winding
All along the way I've come,
Tho' I'll never be returning
Back to where I started from;
But others who may follow
Will perhaps discover where
I've gone along before them
And left my foot prints there.
I remember, in the springtime,
My stride was firm and strong;
My foot steps never faltered,
As I hurried right along.
There were places where I tarried,
And where I seemed to stray.
But then I straightened out again,
And proceeded on my way.
My earnest hope is others may
See where I've traveled thru,
And left some marks to follow,
And a few impressions too;
Thru the burning sands of summer,
And across the winter snow,
I'd like to leave behind me
Some foot prints when I go.
The trail is growing narrow--
Where it ends they'll put a stone;
But I hope to be remembered
Not because of that alone.
Descending down the mountainside
Into the vale below,
I'd like to leave behind me
Some foot prints when I go.
Editor's note: "Good humor is habit-forming, but sometimes it takes a little forced practice until you become addicted," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.
Smile all the smiles you can today,
Don't save them till tomorrow;
For, any hour along the way,
You may encounter sorrow.
Grin all the grins that you can show
To fellow men this morning;
For tragedy can strike, you know,
Without a minute's warning.
Chuckle all the chuckles you
Can muster, though you're battered,
As if to keep on smiling through
Was the only thing that mattered.
We never know what Fate will bring,
Or what may be impending,
But still, we can't plan everything
As if the world were ending.
The purpose of my little verse
Is not to scare or frighten;
But I suggest you could do worse
Than have your bearing brighten.
Make the most of every day,
And everything that's in it;
Don't let bad humor waste away
A single precious minute!
--Acres of Verse (1994)
Some people work together
In accordance, it would seem;
They complement each other,
Like peaches go with cream;
But Lucy has her own way
Of doing things, you see,
And, being fair about it,
You could say the same for me.
So, she is doing her work
And I am doing mine;
That's just the way we like it,
And we get along just fine.
We're raking leaves this morning,
As we do it every year;
She is in the front yard,
While I am in the rear.
We're not inclined to battle,
Not the kind to fight and fuss;
You'll seldom find a couple
More compatible than us;
But we avoided trouble
By learning at the start,
We work together better
When we're half a mile apart!
--Acres of Verse (1994)
Editor's note: "I once had an aunt who thought little boys couldn't grow up straight and tall unless they consumed great quantities of vegetables, especially the leafy green type -- and this she endeavored to impress upon me," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "She never succeeded."
I was brought up in the country,
And I learned, when just a boy,
To be thankful for the blessings
I was given to enjoy;
I'm sure not high-falootin',
And I'm not a man of means,
But if you please, don't ever try
To feed me turnip greens!
My mother always taught me
That it was very rude
For little boys to grumble,
Or complain about their food;
We were 'bout as poor as church mice,
And I know what hunger means,
But I never did get quite so low
As to eat no turnip greens!
I enjoy good country cookin'
More than I could ever tell,
And I'll always come a-runnin'
When they ring the dinner bell;
I'm not a fussy eater,
And my fancy always leans
Towards old-fashioned vittles,
But not t'wards turnip greens!
Now, dandelions ain't so bad,
When they're fixed with bacon grease,
But turnip greens, like spinach,
Were made for ducks and geese!
I could live on corn and taters,
And I don't mind navy beans,
But please, dear Lord, deliver me
From eatin' turnip greens!
--Acres of Verse (1994)
