Poetry From the Heart

rom the Heart

  Copyright 2010 and 2012 by Randolph Knight

  Table of Contents

  The Hobo’s Guitar (Part 1)

  The Hobo’s Guitar (Part 2)

  The Hobo’s Guitar (Part 3)

  Dear Mother

  The Ghost of Mr. Jones

  Ray

  A Poem For Christmas

  Purples

  Two Yellow Roses

  Reflections in a Southern Snow

  I Believe

  Regrets

  A Lair’s Plea

  Brother John

  Who would have known?

  The Memorial Day Poem

  Too Good To Be True

  Venus and the Crescent Moon

  The Tree

  Hate and Forgiveness

  A Really Good Day

  The City

  If You Did Unto Me

  The Master Biscuit Maker

  A House with No Doors

  The Chair

  High Definition

  Life is Like a Sandwich

  Call Me Mister

  Champ

  Going Home

  How do I get there from here?

  Long Enough to Know

  The Portable Radio

  Retirement

  The Decision

  The Feather

  The Pocket Watch

  The Storm

  Tomorrow is Tomorrow

  Waiting

  The Hobo’s Guitar

  He’d seen more cities,

  Than I’d ever seen,

  And he’d been in places,

  That I’d never been,

  And he sang of his journeys,

  Both near and of far,

  All the while strumming,

  His hobo guitar,

  His clothes were all ragged,

  Had holes in his shoes,

  And he looked like a man,

  Who had nothing to lose,

  But the one thing he had,

  He held near to his heart,

  Picking the strings,

  On his hobo guitar,

  Yet he died like he lived,

  On the very next day,

  While trying to jump on,

  A slow moving freight,

  So I went to the tracks,

  And I didn’t walk far,

  Just under the brush,

  Was the hobo’s guitar.

  Author: Randolph Knight

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  The Hobo’s Guitar (Part 2)

  The hobo was readied,

  For a bare pauper’s grave,

  He died in a fall,

  From a slow moving train,

  With arrangements made public,

  Only four people came,

  Including a stranger,

  Who arrived here by plane,

  I eulogized the hobo,

  In the following way,

  Holding up his guitar,

  I had plenty to say,

  “Inside this guitar,

  His works I did find,

  And the experts agreed,

  They are one of a kind,

  Though he didn’t have money,

  And he wasn’t a star,

  He was a genius composer,

  Playing a hobo’s guitar”.

  Author: Randolph Knight

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  The Hobo’s Guitar (Part 3)

  The soil had not settled,

  On the poor hobo’s grave,

  When scavengers circled,

  Around the music he made,

  The attorneys were many,

  My instructions were few,

  “Keep the scavengers at bay”,

  “Whatever you do”,

  For I had a secret,

  Buried deep in my bones,

  And a little more time,

  Would keep it unknown,

  For I found the stranger,

  Who arrived here by plane,

  To be related to the hobo,

  And could substantiate the same,

  Hence the grave of the hobo,

  Was never occupied,

  But remains more than real,

  To those who pass by,

  And the hobo was escorted,

  Aboard the Old Northern Star,

  And before he went home,

  I returned his guitar.

  Author: Randolph Knight

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  Dear Mother

  Dear Mother, so often,

  I’ve feared this day,

  This day when you,

  Would pass away,

  Down on my knees,

  I wept and prayed,

  Begging God,

  To let you stay,

  But you were called,

  And now you’re gone,

  Leaving us here,

  To carry on,

  Yet, Mother,

  You taught me,

  To keep the faith,

  So, in faith,

  I shall depend,

  For I am sure,

  That one-day, Mother,

  I will see you,

  Once again.

  Author: Randolph Knight

 

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  The Ghost of Mr. Jones

  The old building has no power,

  But his classroom lights go on,

  And the figure in the window,

  Is the ghost of Mr. Jones,

  When Mr. Jones was still alive,

  Teaching was his trade,

  He arrived at school in darkness,

  To get ready for each day,

  And Mr. Jones was a good man,

  He was liked by everyone,

  And to him the school was family,

  Which he loved just like a son,

  But the tables turned on Mr. Jones,

  When he turned sixty-two,

  For the older teachers were ousted,

  In favor of the new,

  And Mr. Jones felt slighted,

  Which he carried to his grave,

  Now once a year, his ghost appears,

  To ready for opening day,

  And since the new school opened,

  The old school has been closed,

  But they’re keeping the old building,

  For the ghost of Mr. Jones.

  Author: T. Sky Handring

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  Ray

  When Ray let out a bellowing laugh,

  And grinned a toothless grin,

  You couldn’t help but laugh with Ray,

  No matter the mood you were in,

  Ray worked at the filling station,

  Doing whatever they wanted him to,

  From pumping gas to changing tires,

  That’s what Ray used to do,

  Ray was black, tall, and lean,

  He resembled a fifties rock star,

  Ray just laughed when I mentioned it,

  Said he couldn’t play a guitar,

  But then for a while, Ray was gone,

  And I wondered if he had quit,

  But they said Ray died of cancer,

  And that’s the saddest part of it.

  Author: Randolph Knight

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  A Poem for Christmas

  The checkout line was very long,

  The store filled end to end,

  I was waiting to pay for Christmas gifts,

  For my family members and friends,

  And though it took more than an hour,

  Joy filled my heart completely,

  For I used the time to reflect,

  On what Christmas means to me,

  Oh, it’s not about these presents,

  Or our beautifully de
corated tree,

  It’s about the birth of Jesus Christ,

  Who died to set us free,

  Now some may find it foolish,

  Or they’ll say, “How can that be?”

  For they haven’t a clue,

  Or the faintest idea,

  Of what Christmas means to me.

  Author: Randolph Knight

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  Purples

  In a far away land,

  Lived a Princess,

  And Purples was her name,

  Before her birth,

  Her mother worked,

  In a profession filled with shame,

  And her mother desired,

  A good life for Purples,

  One much better than her own,

  For she had been,

  With a number of men,

  But still, felt quite alone,

  So when naming her baby,

  She chose the name Purples,

  To attract both fortune and fame,

  And when Purples grew up,

  She married a Prince,

  Touched by the sound of her name.

  Author: T. Sky Handring

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  Two Yellow Roses

  I went by our house,

  You’re not there any more,

  I used my spare key,

  To opened the door,

  And there on the shelf,

  Was all that was left,

  Ten yellow roses,

  Now eight of the ten,

  Were tattered and torn,

  Ragged and ripped,

  Caught up in the storm,

  But two had survived,

  God had kept them alive,

  These two yellow roses,

  Why on earth did heaven,

  Keep these two alive?

  Why on earth did heaven,

  Let these two survive?

  What if one is like me,

  And the other like you,

  Still wanting the sunlight,

  Still needing the dew,

  I wonder, if only,

  We could start anew,

  Like two, yellow roses?

  Author: Randolph Knight

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  Reflections in a Southern Snow

  It doesn’t snow here often,

  But it certainly did last night,

  This morning outside my window,

  Was a wonderland of white,

  Snow covered the tops of houses and trees,

  Even more lay on the ground,

  So I bundled up like an Eskimo,

  And went out to look around,

  Although wind whistled through the trees,

  There was stillness in the air,

  As if the Holy One himself,

  Had taken presence there,

  Low rolling clouds