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,
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.
All that this world can offer
will never change my mind
or ever lead my life astray,
for I see beyond
the hills of time.
© 2004 by Ray Pool
IT STARTS WITH ME
Three score and ten we are promised,
In the pages of God's Word,
So short and full of trouble,
Are the days of man we have heard,
It seems we never get our fill,
Of sin and thing's connected,
If I am wrong, though I think not,
Then I here stand corrected.
Sodom and Gomorrah,
And other cities of the plain,
Were burnt with fire and brimstone,
Because they were profane,
Just Lot was vexed within his soul,
By Sodom's wicked ways,
God said "Lot move out of here.
I'm going to set this place ablaze."
Because of the homosexual,
those cities were destroyed,
And after these many many years,
That place is still a void.
Now we are asked by the politicians,
To bring down the wrath of God,
By making right Gay Marriage,
Here on American sod.
Go ahead and kill unwanted babies
That haven't yet been born.
But Woe unto that doctor
When Gabriel blows his horn.
What has happened to our values,
Integrity and the truth,
Of fear of God and common sense?
Have they all gone through the roof?
I was raised on love thy neighbor,
But leave his wife alone.
How many little children do not have
A Daddy in the home?
What do we see this day and time,
But things that should not be?
How can we turn these things around?
I think it starts with me!
© November 2004 by Ray Pool
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
© April 04, 2004 by Ray Pool
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,
from a father
I never knew,
back to the routine
that takes more patience
than is comfortable,
should have to muster?
Oh, that I could
bottle this peace
and take it home
Give me one last
to consume this air
before I return
to things I have to do --
keep the house,
the silent house,
that serves only
to cover my head --
a place to stay
my own kids will know
© Joyce Pool
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