The Old and Lonely Poet

On edge of arid desert set a trailer aged in rust with tires flattened long ago and covered thick with dust. A friend I'd known for many years had lived alone inside - and if his lamp was burning, then I knew he hadn't died. The lamp seemed always to be lit but never did complain. Then sure enough, I saw him there through dirty window pane. The Great Depression hurt him so. I saw it in that place. I saw it in his lonely words. I saw it in his face. The mental stress that he went through was far too much to bear - and would have been for anyone if they were sitting there. But they were not. Just he alone survived his great ordeal. And his reward? An empty can, a cold and meager meal. The old man couldn't hear too good. The years had quickly passed - so catching his attention, I tapped loudly on the glass. It seemed to take forever, but he made it to the door. Black cobwebs hung from corners and - newspapers hid the floor. He greeted me with friendly eyes, skin wrinkled deep from sun. He made me feel welcome, though his work was never done. I visited for quite awhile as he kept at his rhymes. He changed his thoughts, his lines, his words at least a thousand times. I said, "It must be good enough." Replied he, "Not at all. It doesn't capture God's great love. This needs an overhaul. For God is love and God is grace in absolute perfection - so how can I write something less to add to this collection? "This poetry I write for God must always be perfected - or basket, full of waste, is filled with poems I've rejected." I fell asleep while sitting there. I woke at 3 AM and heard him mumble something like, "...to change the hearts of them." Observed, I did, his wise old ways. I'd learned all that I could - but never measured up to him - my writing, not as good. I saw his great intensity. I stayed with him for days. I watched his sacrificial work I saw his humble ways. He strove to write in perfect words, expressing his rare love for all of those who'd done him harm from politics above. Forgiving them of evil deeds had given him such peace - that each and ev'ry word he wrote became a masterpiece. I once decided to return - to visit one last time. The old and lonely poet, though, had written his last rhyme. The years have passed. Such great respect I had for that old man. Could I improve my poetry for God? He proved I can! ©2015 louis gander / ganderpoems.org