The Poet Isadore
He sat behind the counter,
Inside the used bookstore.
I thought I recognized him,
As if we'd met before.
"Can I be of service Sir,"
He asked with smiling face.
I'm looking for a book, says I,
Called, "Life's Impassioned Race."
It's poetry that touched my heart,
With words that long endure.
Though we've not met, I know him well.
The author Isadore.
Introduced in sixty four.
I was but a young lad then,
Whose race had just begun.
My wings were young and fragile.
My future plans were none.
Had left the comfort of my home,
Determined to be free.
Then, suddenly I found the world
A dreadful place to be.
I was hungry, cold, and beaten.
Had to fight the urge to steel.
And many times I fought the cats
In alleys for a meal.
It all seemed so unreal.
Yet, through the pain and hunger,
My wings began to grow.
I spread them wide and rode the wind,
Wherever it would go;
Until I found a friendly town,
That looked like home for sure.
I saw a sign, "HELP WANTED,"
Outside a Used Bookstore.
This very store we're standing in;
An old man with a flame.
In fact you look a bit like him,
And, Jacob was his name.
Into his world I came.
Oh, I was grateful for the job,
And Jacobs pay was fair.
In back a cozy little room,
He said that he could spare.
So, there I was, at home and work,
With time and books to read.
The wee-hours my companion,
As mind and soul I'd feed.
I read my way to poetry,
And high among the dust,
The title, " Life's Impassioned Race,"
Came at me with a thrust.
It's reading was a must.
I read it time and time again,
Surprised at all I learned.
I felt my soul cry out with joy.
A fire in me burned.
So, I brought the book to Jacob,
And asked of Isadore.
"Did he write any other books?
Are they here in the store?"
" Isadore? Oh, it's that old book.
The only one he's done.
Old poems of life's impassioned race,"
He then began to read one.
A strange phenomenon.
As if it was a part of him,
His heart poured out each line.
With Isadore, he ran the race
That God and man design.
And I could see, and feel, and smell,
The world of Isadore.
I thought that I'd found all his gifts,
But, Jacob gave me more.
I asked him if he'd read them all.
"Just one each day," he said.
Each morning we would journey on,
Until they all were read.
My need for truth was fed.
It wasn't too long after that,
I felt the wind once more.
"I'll learn of life's impassioned race,"
"Like he author, Isadore."
So, I bid farewell to Jacob,
With a tear and smiling face.
"You might be needing this," he said.
It was, "Life's Impassioned Race."
I carried it for many years.
It's wisdom served me well.
It's words have helped me gain the strength,
To shun the gates of hell.
There's so much I could tell.
Well, I came to see old Jacob.
The book has been misplaced.
Every man should have a copy,
Of, "Life's Impassioned Race.
Then, the man that looked familiar,
With a smile and a tear,
Said, "fortunes your companion, friend.
I have the book right here."
"You're right, I look a bit like him,
This was my father's store.
Well known as, Jacob to his friends.
His Pen Name, Isadore!"
Copyright © Robert Nehls | Year Posted 2014
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