I stand in an empty room
My roommate for two years left for home this morning. He will start a new appointment and plans to get married in December. I wrote this little poem in response to our time together.
I stand in an empty room.
You have packed up your books.
You have stowed away your clothes.
Your bed is stripped of the sheets.
I stand in an empty room.
Two years ago you stood in an empty room.
Then piece by piece I brought my stuff inside.
Book by book and sock by sock.
We filled this room with laughter and love.
If these walls could talk what would they say?
The stories we told.
The jokes we made.
The pains we expressed.
I stand in an empty room.
Your tokens of life have been removed.
Yet now I know that you are still here.
In my memories that I will cherish so dear.
This room is full of laughter and love.
And I pray that when I leave.
When the books are packed,
And the last drawer cleaned
That those who move in will experience
The brotherly love
That was known
My the two men
Who once lived in a little piece of Heaven,
Grice 107.
The Wagon's have returned
At the end of summer's heat and long days of sun, the wagons appear in Wilmore. These wooden arks from old have traveled near and far to deposit young souls and minds into the hands of two institutions--The College and The Seminary.
I watch from across the street as folks unload their wagons basket by box by basket at a time. New sheets, new shirts, new shoes, and new notebooks to fill with the memories and experiences of their time here.
Now as the heat and long days of summer sun creeps into the horizon of middle May, the wagons return. This time the pilgrims aren't unloading their wagons, but they are loading them up. The sheets are dirty with the tears of bad grades, hurt feelings, and homesick blues. The shirts are now stained with marks from cafeteria food eaten long ago, but with friends so close. The shoes are worn and dirtied from long walks to class and chapel. The notebooks are full of ink and graphite. They contain the marks of memory.
The pilgrims wonder, "Will this all fit?" There was less stuff when they arrived, but life adds to your treasure and junk.
So I stand and watch. I remember when I unloaded my wagon and begin to think about when I will load my wagon and head back down south. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and feel the hint of hot air filling my lungs.
Treasures from my backpack
I was searching for a pencil this morning in my backpack. While reaching around inside the deep darkness of my oversized bag I discovered this poem. I must have wrote it in the fall. Enjoy.
The gold is gone.
In the night the thief came.
His cold breath stole them away.
Here one day and gone tomorrow.
Gone are the colors.
Red, yellow, orange, and brown.
Revealed is death.
Gray.
The gold is gone.
In the night the thief crept in.
His cold breath fills the night.
Piece by piece you can hear him putting
A coin in his coffer.
Gone in the night.
I should have treasured them more.
I could have pt these coins in the bank.
Now they are gone.
