En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Distributors

I bother not who regards me,
A split being or a psycho-case,
Telling you fact, undoubted fact.

Once my ethereal inner self,
Took a flight, landed on the plains,
Remote, too far to explore,
With the material means of wisdom,
Found myself in a spacious barrack.
The wide floor and thick walls,
Were made with rectangular sills,
Of stone hard, gray and quite old.

Covering with the white sheets,
A few men in deep silence,
Lay resting on the low cots;
In the slight dark as we feel,
In the deep shade of a thick grove,
A slight after the sunset or before rise;
It was dusk or dawn, I could not decide.

Wishing to have a view of the outer world,
Went up the steps leading to the roof,
Saw the world much bigger than ours,
Vast sky with a few remote stars,
Emitting out light thin and faint,
Looking around a man I found,

The poor fellow not much reverend,
In the eyes of inhabitants of the world,
With whom I have been acquainted,
Since my playful child-hood.

He by profession was a barber,
He was distracted strolling about,
The ridges on his faced exposed his heart,
He told me his worry, cause of confusion,
Making a gesture to a small room,
Accosted me to plead his case,
To an elderly person resting there,
That from the womb of his wife,
He had no delicious fruit of life.

On his plight I could not refrain,
Went straight into the small room,
Where I saw a humble man resting,
In a chair with a book large,
Opened wide upon his knees,
Wearing brown simple dress,
Serious gentle looking had he,
With the knees bent, I sat in front of him,
On the floor, covered with a mat,
Made of dried palm woven leaves.

I said confessing “ I am a servant,
And meek disciple of those great-men,
Who lead to the glorious path,
Of righteousness approved by Almighty,
This friend of mine does not have,
A child to remember his name;
Pray to God to bestow him one.”

At my request he wrote something
In the book of fate opened wide
Nodding his head that meant, “ Yes.”
After a year I met the friend,
On asking he happily me told,
He had a baby daughter two months old.

I exposed him not what I had seen,
But firmly felt, it revealed to me,
God is the creator of all treasures,
His sacred beings are the distributors,
The fate writers, subservient secret hands,
Have the authority to bless more or less,
But do nothing against the consent of God.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Retrospect

In your arms was still delight,
Quiet as a street at night;
And thoughts of you, I do remember,
Were green leaves in a darkened chamber,
Were dark clouds in a moonless sky.
Love, in you, went passing by,
Penetrative, remote, and rare,
Like a bird in the wide air,
And, as the bird, it left no trace
In the heaven of your face.
In your stupidity I found
The sweet hush after a sweet sound.
All about you was the light
That dims the greying end of night;
Desire was the unrisen sun,
Joy the day not yet begun,
With tree whispering to tree,
Without wind, quietly.
Wisdom slept within your hair,
And Long-Suffering was there,
And, in the flowing of your dress,
Undiscerning Tenderness.
And when you thought, it seemed to me,
Infinitely, and like a sea,
About the slight world you had known
Your vast unconsciousness was thrown. . . .

O haven without wave or tide!
Silence, in which all songs have died!
Holy book, where hearts are still!
And home at length under the hill!
O mother quiet, breasts of peace,
Where love itself would faint and cease!
O infinite deep I never knew,
I would come back, come back to you,
Find you, as a pool unstirred,
Kneel down by you, and never a word,
Lay my head, and nothing said,
In your hands, ungarlanded;
And a long watch you would keep;
And I should sleep, and I should sleep!

poem by Rupert Brooke (1914)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Sermon

The forceful wings of ethereal self,
Made me fly to the sky,
Transported to the world higher,
Bigger, larger and wider than ours.

Placed I was amid the residences,
Thick, white all; high and small;
I strolled and strolled around,
In front of the big mosque I found,
A plain with myriads trees,
All green of the same size,
They seemed in order, stretched straight,
Extended in the long rows,
As million of soldiers stand still in formation,
And listen to the speech on the day of parade.

In the spacious hall of the mosque,
Squatted men in lines close,
Breathed deep with eyes shut,
As if they stroke upon the harp of heart.
The Imam sitting on the wooden stage,
Began to deliver the sermon on the verses,
“God is the best among the sustainers.”

Then one of the surrounding abodes,
I found my father with blessing looks,
Greeted, embraced he me with full vigour,
Upon his knees, when he sat,
Placed I my head weeping bitterly,
He slackened my pang by fondling,
His fingers through my disheveled hair.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Walk Into This Room

Dont let em get to your heart
Dont lose your diamonds swimmin in a lake when its (? ? )
The whole wide world feels like a shrine built to the worker bees
Who stole it from God anyhow
Lay it down child
Lay it down child
And walk into this room
Dont let em get to your spark
That little light in the back of everything that says this
Isnt for madder love
The whole wide world feels like a clan of mad scientists removing the juice
So they can freeze-dry you and put you in a box
Lay it down child
Lay it down child
And walk into this room all made with love for you
Lay it down child
You can
You can
Lay it down child
And walk into this room
A hundred candles to make the walls come alive
A little frank insence to sweeten the air just right
Now take my hand
And open the door
And open the door
Yeah, oh...
Yeah, oh...
Lay it down child
You can
You can
Lay it down child
And walk into this room
Walk into this room
Lay it down child
Just lay it down, lay it down
Lay it down
Lay it down, lay it down
Into this room

song performed by by Live
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Innocent

Without hesitation she opened her hand,
Her father looked into her eyes;
He saw not a sign there of fear or guilt,
He knew she was not telling lies.

The thought of deceit
Had no place in her mind,
She was innocent right from the start;
Her hand opened wide
For her daddy to see,
Her eyes opened wide as her heart.

'I don't know where it is,
I've not seen it at all, '
Small defence from her lips, but it's true
That this innocent child
Made her father repent,
His apologies now, she was due.

'Please forgive my suspicions,
My harsh angry words, '
Said her father with tears in his eyes;
And to you my dear reader
The moral is this:
Simple innocence needs no disguise.

Written March 1995

poem by John Carter Brown
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Prelude - Tristan And Isolde

Fate, out of the deep sea's gloom,
When a man's heart's pride grows great,
And nought seems now to foredoom
Fate,

Fate, laden with fears in wait,
Draws close through the clouds that loom,
Till the soul see, all too late,

More dark than a dead world's tomb,
More high than the sheer dawn's gate,
More deep than the wide sea's womb,
Fate.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Her

I was a laughing child
That did not know and
Did not fathom
Time was catching up with me when
Everywhere behind me
Whether looking towards the future or
Leaving the past behind,
Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadow and
Her hair, thick, with wisps of gray,
Would frame her countenance,
So young and beautiful, and
Her hands, thin, delicate and pristine, as
Those of an artist…

Rain would fall in torrents the day
I decided no longer to fear the
Raucous sounds about our home-
She would bake bread and sing tunes,
Leaving me to wonder why
She had stayed in bed for days and nights past-

Those days went by quickly as
The second hand spun around the clock
Above the kitchen table- under which
I would play-
Though always in solitude,
I was an Indian, a princess or
On the best of days a queen-

It was a wonder that
Years later
I was the same laughing child
Weeping tears of despair,
Dark shadows cast upon the walls of
My bedroom would
Obliterate any sunlight left in our lives…

Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadows,
Now tear filled as her hair,
Now gray in the dark of the world outside …

Her laughter, now was transforming to deadly silence;
Flowers stood limply in a vase in the middle of the kitchen table where
She would sit, her head resting between her hands-
Long and thin as those of an artist,
Wrinkled, now, years later-
A tear cascading down her cheek-

I hardly understood
Life’s meaning-
My life was far from under that same table-
My world so very small,
But all mine and mine alone-
I had picked those flowers-
Wilted dandelions- and a single rose
From father’s garden-
Though always alone,
Never laughing, never weeping,
Never smiling-

At night, stars were falling and
My thoughts were screaming
“Come back! Come back! ”
That was the moment I first heard them-
The unfamiliar voices-
She would sit at the same table,
Not noticing the dandelions, but only the rose-
The second hand spun as quickly around the clock as
My world was spiraling out of control-
And she would sit on the edge of her
Wrought iron framed queen sized bed
Her head resting in her hands
Still long, thin and like those of an artist-
Frozen
Still…

poem by Claudia Krizay
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The Shield

At how many spots, at the moment same,
A reverend man subservient to God,
Is present, is a puzzling thing of wonder.

On the remote plain of the distant recesses,
I beheld the sphere of dancing beauties,
Far above, in hundreds were the groups of stars,
All in formation, not a single one alone,
They glistened like scattered heaps of diamonds.
Told was I, those were the seats of devotees,
Around the masters’ residencies.

Then I to the west turned my gaze,
Saw the rockless numerous mounds,
Dotted with low shrubs and cypresses green,
With pink-yellow mist descending upon,
Dim light was perceptible but with no source.

To the south-east I found a plain,
Vast and even, covered with fluffy grass,
And with wild commotion ran the men,
All shrouded white, hastened to one direction,
Followed one another in hurry burry haste,
Lest they should miss their fortune.

A man standing on the side right,
With snow-white locks, beard and brows,
Loose white robes flowed beneath the knees,
Told me the cause of hurrying excitement
That all ran and raced to receive greetingly,
A saint ‘Farid’ who stepped from the world,
To freshen the devotees with a shower of faith.

A confusion for the mild meek man
That possessed my mind was removed;
The status he enjoyed in the world celestial,
Confounded the core of my wisdom.

While receding down, on another ground,
I did find the same reverend dervish,
Watching from a cave my farm of melons,
Fence by the dried hewed thorny branches.
And guarded he me well when the two damsels,
With sinful intents and wishes sable,
Invited with captivating delicacies,
He defended me against diabolic tricks,
As a shield does against the sharp blows.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wren

It was a quiet morning;
As usual my wife Laureen opened the front door (leaving it open wide) in hopes that the cat would follow her out. (Little did she know that a small intruder had flown in through the open door.) After retrieving the morning newspaper, with coffee mug full of steaming coffee Laureen settled into
her morning ritual, with "Neferkitti" (our cat) snuggled on the bar stool next to her.

Suddenly there was a flutter and thump as a tiny wren flew into a window in the dining room.
The bird fell to the floor momentarily stunned. Taking advantage of the moment, with great speed and agility Neferkitti pounced on the helpless bird. Mouthing the bird softly, she presented her catch to her master. Horrified Laureen admonished the cat, screaming "Let her go". With great reluctance the cat dropped the bird on the floor. After a few moments the bird flew up to a tall cabinet, where she landed to assess her predicament.

At this time I was laying in bed reading, when I heard Laureen shout loudly "Ray get in here there is a bird in the house'. I slipped on a shirt, grabbed my glasses, and walked in just as the bird took flight and landed on the rail leading to my upstairs office. Walking up the stairs slowly I reached for the perched bird who quickly flew back down to the family room. Not seeing where she landed I searched the room. Suddenly she flew into a large picture window in the family room. The confused bird sat on the sill looking out of the window. I approached the bird, who made no attempt to fly off. I reached down, and with cupped hands gently picked up the traumatized bird. She chirped once and settled into my warm hands.

Making my way to the sliding door that leads to the outside deck I stepped out and opened my hands to release the bird. Gripping the index finger of my right hand she was reluctant to fly. I stood there, and time froze.

Our eyes met, and I felt the impact of what was happening;
From the wren's perspective here stood a god-like giant with the power of life and death over her. From my perspective there perched on a single finger was a tiny creature who I could crush with hardly any effort. In that brief moment we were both experienced the miracle, diversity and fragile nature of life.

"All creatures great and small"

Walking over to a bench on the deck and with palm up I waited for the bird to step off onto the safety of the bench and freedom. She gripped even more tightly, as if she'd found safety in my hands. With my left hand I gently coaxed her off my right hand onto the bench, where she stood looking around. She made no effort to fly away, so I went back through the door, closed it and stood watching, hoping that she was not seriously injured.

While walking up the stairs to my office I heard Laureen (who'd been watching) exclaim loudly;

"She just flew away"!

Gratified...I went up to my office to write an account of this magical and humbling event.

ROTMS

View ROTMS writings, images and video at;

rotms.blogspot.com

poem by Ray Lucero
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Three Suns

The sooty hands guide to the black lands,
Where eyed and uneyed do become equal,
And the victims swell priding upon blindness.
How should I praise the Laudable Lord,
Who made me explore the worlds distant,
Where wisdom willingly weeps but love leaps,
When finds opened amazing truths ahead.

Standing at the base of a mountain high,
Saw I the erect tops kissing the skies
That cast thick shade extending to the west;
Grey rocks were bare yet vegetated it was,
With the tall trees and grass green.

Neither hot nor cold was the climate,
As we feel in the month of March,
In the plain of five flowing waters,
Freshening minds of the depressed souls,
After awakening from the trance of winter.

In front to the west scene enchanted me well,
The tops were clad with the forest dense,
As the northern peaks wear green covering,
The idle clouds floated with the slow move,
Some dark, some were like flakes of cotton,
Still un-ravished by the touch filthy hands,
As monsoon winds drift in the month of August;
Passed through being fondled with the gentle waft,
Some clang still against the rising tops,
Seemed whispering the secret brought from
The world above, high up, to impart.

Stunned was I to find the seasons four
Of Indian plains, blended into one great,
Behind the mountain then found uprising lights,
Glares reflected on the rim-like crest.
Curiosity made me run, and in haste I ran,
To see the brightening source of radiance,
Mounted I in front on the vantage top,
And saw the sight that suspended my wisdom frail.

Ah! Easy is it to speak but hard is to imagine,
Three suns were ascending with perceptible move,
In row, of equal size and brightening blaze,
Much bigger, brighter than the Sun of the Earth,
That shines in the Asian skies in June,
The outer rims were almost touching one another.

Below then I found a crowed of men,
Some sat on cots; some were entertaining the guests,
One escorted me to have my own share,
Then I return to the sweet-fake world of assumed reality,
The next morn ah! I learnt a thing woeful,
My Master, my Guide, the Source of sight,
Departed to the zone of eternity leaving behind,
Three sons to spread around the light of faith.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Only Speak Of Love

Pray tell your sad story dear brother
Of how the World owes you a living
Whilst you murder our Earth Mother
Intent on only taking ‘stead of giving

In a world defined by gray and umber
Black vultures seek devour peaceful dove
In a World filled with men who slumber
Mine heart compels I only speak of love

Gone the age of Pisces, Aquarius now rules
Revealed again the wisdom of past Sages’
Opened wide the doors of mystery schools
Eternal “Book of Life” reveals its pages

The time is right to awaken second sight
Third-eye opens, inviting in God’s Light

ROTMS

poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Let me keep watch

Let me keep watch
Over your body when
You are resting in peace.
Let me sacrifice
My meditation to you
When you are resting in peace
Let me protect your body
From rotting
When you are resting in peace.
Let me protect your memories
And dreamless dreams
When you are resting in peace.
Let me plant a fruit tree
Above you that I may still eat
When you are resting in peace.
Let me storm the gates of heaven
When you are resting in peace.
Let me give you oblation
Of our experience
When you are resting in peace.
Let me breathe for you
When you are resting in peace.
Let me douse the fires of hell
When you are resting in peace.
Let me glorify your name
When you are resting in peace.
Let me be your counterpoint
When you are resting in peace.
Let me overcome the light
When you are resting in peace.
Let me touch your organs
When you are resting in peace.
Let me drink your water
When you are resting in peace.
Let me describe your bones
When you are resting in peace.
Let me dream your dreams
When you are resting in peace.

poem by David E. Patton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When a Child Has Been Told

When a child has been told
Never shed a tear

The small child can only
Every bow their head in fear
And hope and pray they
Don't come back to silence them
They often live in fear

They learn not to cry

When a child has been told
Keep a secret

For if they do they will be punished
For telling lies
They bow their head in fear
Hoping they will not
Come back and take their life

They learn not to speak

When a child has been told
Close your eyes

All they can do is tremble
As the touch of evil hands
Slowly destroys their soul
Never to burn again

They learn not to care

When a child has been told
No one really care's

They sit alone and ponder
Will anyone believe?
If I just spoke
If I just shed a tear
Will anyone really care?

They learn not to feel

All I ask of you now
Is let them speak
Let them cry

Because it means they are alive

poem by Kaila George
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Written Somewhere (Mini Biography)

My friends are strangers
My family is the world
At one time, I sought fame
Everyone to know my name
Praise for what I did
But as the years came around
No fame there was to be found
So I turned my back on it all
Feeling crushed and insignificantly small

Years folded into one another
And soon became a score
Still I had no wish to return
To find the fame that I so yearned
But fate had a hand for me to play
It said you still had something more to say
An old school friend from a different time
Was sent one day when I was down
To reconnect and turn my life around

At first it did not dawn on me
That our meeting was meant to be
And my life was to change so dramatically
We talked through emails
About the lives, we had both lead
Suzanne said she had a friend and told me her name
That I should read her poems online
That friend, Melvina Germain, would also become a friend of mine
And set me on a return road of an earlier time

I joined the site where her poems were
And in a few short months, I was overwhelmed
I had something I had always dreamed for
I had a family of the world
The fame I so dearly sought to find
Where friends came along and read the work of mine
It made my heart pump faster and put zest into my life again
I would never want for anything
I had all the friends and fame
I ever wanted and more

16 April 2007

poem by David Harris
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The Great Tribunal

John in vision saw the day
When the Judge will hasten down;
Heav'n and earth shall flee away
From the terror of his frown:
Dead and living, small and great,
Raised from the earth and sea;
At his bar shall hear their fate,
What will then become of me?

Can I bear his aweful looks?
Shall I stand in judgment then,
When I see the opened books,
Written by th' Almighty's pen?
If he to remembrance bring,
And expose to public view,
Every work and secret thing,
Ah, my soul, what canst thou do?

When the list shall be produced
Of the talents I enjoyed;
Means and mercies, how abused!
Time and strength, how misemployed!
Conscience then, compelled to read,
Must allow the charge is true;
Say, my soul, what canst thou plead
In that hour, what wilt thou do?

But the book of life I see,
May my name be written there!
Then from guilt and danger free,
Glad I'll meet him in the air:
That's the book I hope to plead,
'Tis the gospel opened wide;
Lord, I am a wretch indeed!
I have sinned, but thou hast died.

Now my soul knows what to do;
Thus I shall with boldness stand,
Numbered with the faithful few,
Owned and saved, at thy right hand:
If thou help a foolish worm
To believe thy promise now;
Justice will at last confirm
What thy mercy wrought below.

poem by John Newton
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Twist Of Fate

They sat together in the park
As the evening sky grew dark
She looked at him and he felt a spark tingle to his bones
'twas then he felt alone and wished that he'd gone straight
And watched out for a simple twist of fate.

They walked along by the old canal
A little confused, I remember well
And stopped into a strange hotel with a neon burning bright
He felt the heat of the night hit him like a freight train
Moving with a simple twist of fate.

A saxophone someplace far off played
As she was walking by the arcade
As the light bust through the beat-up shade where he was wakin up
She dropped a coin into the cup of a blind man at the gate
And forgot about a simple twist of fate.

He woke up, the room was bare
He didn't see her anywhere.
He told himself he didn't care, pushed the window open wide
Felt an emptiness inside to which he just could not relate
Brought on by a simple twist of fate.

He hears the ticking of the clocks
And walks along with a parrot that talks.
Hunts her down by the waterfront docks where the sailors all come in.
Maybe she'll pick him out again, how long must he wait
Once more for a simple twist of fate.

People tell me it's a sin
to know and feel too much within
I still believe she was my twin, but I lost the ring
She was born in spring, but I was born too late
Blame it on a simple twist of fate.

poem by Rat de kwl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Looking Upon A Child

looking upon a child i compress my years
like how i keep the lines confined inside my palms.
i stop for while following where the child goes.
his hands are buds, his feet as small as a saki cup.
his eyes as innocent as an oil lamp waking on a dark night.
his hair are soft and silky like a kitten fur
his sounds like the arrival of morning on the grass.
i hold his tiny hands and i am back to my senses.

he calls my name, but i am no longer there.
i am back to my room. It is as crowded as a storehouse
with papers and books and chairs and used clothes hanging
on the beams and walls. Some old figurines bathed with dusts.
Some dried spittle on the floor. Some unopened off-white pages
filled with age.

i wonder, despite this crowd of things and thoughts,
despite the fullness of the wind from the window
there is still the wide vacancy of space. Inside the heart longs.
Inside the sound howls. Inside something so faint shouts.
It is the sound of the child still calling my name.
It is looking for me and i am never complete.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Simple Twist Of Fate

They sat together in the park
As the evening sky grew dark,
She looked at him and he felt a spark tingle to his bones.
twas then he felt alone and wished that hed gone straight
And watched out for a simple twist of fate.
They walked along by the old canal
A little confused, I remember well
And stopped into a strange hotel with a neon burnin bright.
He felt the heat of the night hit him like a freight train
Moving with a simple twist of fate.
A saxophone someplace far off played
As she was walkin by the arcade.
As the light bust through a beat-up shade where he was wakin up,
She dropped a coin into the cup of a blind man at the gate
And forgot about a simple twist of fate.
He woke up, the room was bare
He didnt see her anywhere.
He told himself he didnt care, pushed the window open wide,
Felt an emptiness inside to which he just could not relate
Brought on by a simple twist of fate.
He hears the ticking of the clocks
And walks along with a parrot that talks,
Hunts her down by the waterfront docks where the sailers all come in.
Maybe shell pick him out again, how long must he wait
Once more for a simple twist of fate.
People tell me its a sin
To know and feel too much within.
I still believe she was my twin, but I lost the ring.
She was born in spring, but I was born too late
Blame it on a simple twist of fate.

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your Closest Friends Are Dead

Look, fate is a finicky clamor.
Fate is a remote island,
Where nobody can reach
For the road to fate,
Is as jagged as the treachery
Of a thief as thick as blood.
-
Look, serendipity is dead.
It does not muse over your oceans,
It does not fly within your air spaces,
It does not burst in the eve of new year,
Serendipity calcified, serendipity is perverse,
It does not light up aglow in each verse,
Serendipity is your God, my God,
His God, Her God, that does not show itself.
(Sorry for the blasphemy.)
-
Look, the silence exists
Between the persnickety fate
And dead serendipity,
Silence, my only friend,
The cold hands of danger,
The pretense of forever,
As if bound by one fate alone,
That we never find one, only ourselves,
But then, the strongest men
Are the most alone,
Starved from the skin, hollowed bones
Silence, a scream as thin as ice,
Deafening, none would suffice.

poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Long Small Room

THE long small room that showed willows in the west
Narrowed up to the end the fireplace filled,
Although not wide. I liked it. No one guessed
What need or accident made them so build.

Only the moon, the mouse, and the sparrow peeped
In from the ivy round the casement thick.
Of all they saw and heard there they shall keep
The tale for the old ivy and older brick.

When I look back I am like moon, sparrow, and mouse
That witnessed what they could never understand
Or alter or prevent in the dark house.
One thing remains the same--this is my right hand

Crawling crab-like over the clean white page,
Resting awhile each morning on the pillow,
Then once more starting to crawl on towards age.
The hundred last leaves stream upon the willow.

poem by Edward Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Old Town Types No. 10 - Big Doc Littlejohn

Big Doc. Littlejohn, and ugly man and tall,
He wasn't very graceful, no part of him was small;
Big, frame, big head, huge hands, and red;
But gentle as a woman's as he stooped above the bed,
His great voice muted and the jaw out-thrust
And something there behind his eyes that captured human trust -
Big John Littlejohn, who drove until he died,
In his abbot buggy to the farms outside.

The family physician and the family's true friend;
No household in that wide, new land but loved him to the end;
And the old, fat midwife revered him as a saint:
'Sent straight from God, me dear,' says she. 'A human man she ain't.
No human flesh could bear it, no heart withstand the test,
The slavin', drivin', day an' night with no full hour of rest.'
But Big John Littlejohn, with one of his tired smiles,
Climbed in his abbot buggy for another seven miles.

He'd never met a vitamin, he seldom sought a knife;
But he healed full many a body and he saved full many a life.
For ten years, for twenty years, for forty years he toiled
His aid unstinted and his heart unspoiled,
The friend of rich and poor alike, at everybody's call
For large fee, for small fee, or no fee at all,
In his old abbot buggy, with his wind-blown hair,
Rushing to another case behind his bay blood mare.

They found him on one winter dawn, low-huddled in the seat
Of the old abbot buggy, with the rug about his feet;
The great frame at rest at last, the mind rid of its load,
While the blood mare nibbled at the grass beside the road.
And the sad folk who found him there, before ought else, they say,
First knelt them in the roadside mud and bent their heads to pray
For great John Littlejohn, the grey man and kind,
The healer and the friend, who left not wealth nor foe behind.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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