The Poet’s Vision (And the Grace)

I somehow remember the year was cool—
Autumn leaves were fallen down, leaving the trees.
Above our Midwestern sky the birds were leaving,
And rosebuds were starting to grow iciness.

In all that season the neighborhood paths were damp;
As if I was emerging from a sleeping vision,
Knowing I was growing, I saw beyond the sunset
And now somehow, I’ve met my vision quest.

Long gone those days that held me breathless
dreaming—
I have become the person I wished to be
My vanished dreams became reality;
The stream I followed encased me….

And so it was, the autumn of that year—
And one called youth because of his dreams were
tender,
Softly he prayed, most earnest and coy,
And one called Almighty, listened, out of grace gave.

Note: Life, real life, demands patience, trials, endurance. Often we try to side skip these necessary elements to gain fortune and fame, but we less often count the cost in doing so. Wisdom is not pure knowledge, it is following through the normal steps, gaining the experience, and perhaps we can say it is like night a day. By one trying to sidestep these elements, it is simply delaying the heart-aches, loneliness and disclosures God wants us to experience. And so this is my poem, that started when I was ten-years old running through the wild and barren neighborhoods, and beyond, simply trying to be me, and thereafter sitting by my widow in the bedroom attic writing poetry at 12-years old, wondering what stream I would follow in life. A young man once wrote me, asked me what he should or could do to be a writer, and what to write about. I simply said go live, gain experience, and if the doors are closed, try to open some, be patient. Sometimes we say it is impossible, and we remain frozen. Go do it, stop talking about it, and get off your duff. He never did write back. I assume he did what I said, or he did not, and has been mournful ever since.

# 1933 8-10-2007