The following works (except for the last one) were written by my father, C.R. Pool. I have his permission to post them for public view. If you wish to copy them, please seek permission first as he has not released a copyright on them to anyone but me. Thank you
BEYOND THE HILLS OF TIME
As I look beyond the hills of time,
they sing a song to me,
of life so short,
of days gone by,
and eternity.
Of how I have gone through wasted years,
and looking back I see,
a broken heart
and bitter tears,
and a man who died for me.
How do I put a price on life?
Just how much would it cost?
The blood of just
one humble man
kept me from being lost.
So when I see a dewdrop
on the petal of a rose,
I am reminded
of the tears he shed
and the love of God that flows.
I know he will protect me
and keep me as his child,
as I look beyond
the hills of time
and beyond life's ocean wild.
With hoary head an old man sits
With a befuddled mind and dimming wits
An unmade crumpled bed
Where sleepless hours do occur
And guilty conscience seems to spur
The memories in his head
Of days of youth and love sublime
Of health and vigor and better time
Of children on his knee
Those he lost through death and court
Still saddened by the vile report
By tear-dimmed eyes to see
Chilled by winter's wind so cold
Broken heart there to unfold
In retrospect he knows
The chimes of time cannot renew
All the love he could ensue
It's cold as winter's snows
With love of wife and children gone
How bleak and dreary is the dawn
Life empty and forlorn
God forgave me long ago
A better home awaits I know
God showed love not scorn
He's aged well despite the stint in his heart, but it's no wonder; The life he lives is as far from stressful as his lush gardens are from the sun.
Peach, plum and fig trees line the home he designed and built himself from pine cut fresh off his farm and large rock he gathered and pieced together carefully with mortar like a puzzle, being the mason and carpenter that he is. Six-point antlers hang on his walls and fresh grown tomatoes line the front porch.
With what time the small farm doesn't take up, he pursues his love of bluegrass; not my first choice, but I could listen to him pick and sing for hours. A snake bit forefinger makes the perfect crook for picking guitar and banjo, so he often refrains from pulling the mother-of-pearl pick from his shirt pocket.
He's well known and respected in a community that hasn't changed in several decades. The post office, a small tin shack, is probably unnecessary and doesn't even get entered more than once per month by any one person.
The nighttime, though pitch black, is much more noisy than daylight; The nearest store -- thirty miles in one direction or eighty in the other.
He wears the wrinkles of a happy man, blessed with an abundance of humor. His blue eyes dance behind dark brown skin -- contentment.
What life is this
that I should go back
to an urban life,
far away
from a father
I never knew,
back to the routine
that takes more patience
than is comfortable,
more strength
than anyone
should have to muster?
Oh, that I could
bottle this peace
and take it home
with me!
Oh, I agree... you both possess such a special talent and your words will reach many hearts! What a wonderful bond between you - a shared gift. God bless you and inspire you to keep your messages flowing! I love you, too! Peggy
