Poultry?.... No, Poe-tree....Poetry! that's it.

Hope You're having a better Monday than usual Readers,

Once upon a time, I was a high school freshman who had a friend who told me I should try writing. I took her advice, one project led to another, and here we are almost six years later. I started writing poetry, more or less the morning of my oldest sister's wedding. I cranked out a little ditty for her in fifteen minutes. I really didn't think much of it. About an hour before the reception started I just walked up to her and handed it to her, folded up like a love note. To my great surprise, Jessie started crying. My mom came over, read it, then she started crying. They made me go back home, reprint the poem on card stock, frame it, and display it at the reception. I guess it wasn't just a little ditty to them. When the reception was finally over we all more or less collapsed into our living room, and my dad said something to me I haven't forgotten, "Burkley, that poem was absolutely sensational." Needless to say I've written poetry on and off ever since, just riding on responses like that as I go. This is among the first poems I wrote, more to come as long as this blog survives.

The Wanderer

The wanderer was a tall, gangly fellow

With spindly arms and teeth of pale yellow.

He traveled about on nothing but feet;

He knew the cold well, and also the heat.

A worn baseball cap adorned his round head

His face was as rough as an ugly tool shed,

And yet, as the wanderer wandered along

You could hear from his lips a slow, happy song.

The wanderer never could call one place home

The road was his calling, his calling to roam.

 And sad as it was, he had no companion

Except those that he could only imagine.

He had next to nothing to stand for his name,

He had no great mansion, and no claim to fame,

Yet as poor as the man was accustomed to be,

He was much, much richer than the plain eye could see.

As he went to and fro from city to city,

Looking for food or some stray scraps of pity,

The wanderer made sure to do good on his way,

Looking to help those he could every day.

There were those higher up on society’s pole,

who scoffed and who scorned at the wanderer’s role,

Saying, “who could dare help out the poor and the needy

When the helper himself needs the help more than any?”

The wanderer heard these rude people indeed

As he looked and he helped to serve others in need

But the wanderer cared not for what others would say

For he held to his values, and knew not to stray.

Despite persecution of what he was doing,

He knew people’s judgment wasn’t always their choosing.

‘cause feelings speak louder than rational thought,

Especially ‘gainst one with the wanderer’s plot.

So the wanderer did as he’d done so before,

Lending a hand as he’d do evermore,

Ne’er heeding the mocks and the sneers of all men,

For he felt he would need to, to see God again.

And as it is so with the living condition,

After all of his works had come to fruition,

The wanderer died, on his five thousandth mile,

Of course as he did so, he did with a smile.

The wanderer planted a seed in us all,

to give happy service to wealthy and small.

For it matters very little how rich you become,

But how much you have giv’n when this life is done.