A stoic representation of the past
Forged out of the wilderness.
The blood and sweat of past generations
Mixed amid my rocks and soil.
As generations came and went
I generously provided life.
The symbiotic ties strengthened
and bound us as one.
Though I kept you, and you me,
It was not enough to hold you,
When the hard times came
and a new way beckoned.
Now hopes and dreams have all gone away
Fallen by the wayside,
Passed by on the road to progress.
Nothing left here of anyone
Who remember the old ways
In this Eden of the wild mountains.
Though I’m still here and I still remember,
My fields now lay fallow,
And I watch as the cedars reclaim my pastures.
I am but a memory,
Instilled in the flesh of my flesh.
I hold the secrets,
And share them to those who listen,
With each passing season I whisper louder and louder.
But no one listens or seems to care.
I remain it seems,
Forgotten.
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8 comments:
A wonderful and extremely enjoyable post. Thank you!
Beautiful, Matthew. Sad too. It is the way of this world to march on and forget the very past that created us. It is good to be reminded.
Very poignant. A beautiful little homestead. What happy times it must have known. Sad times, too. That is life.
You write beautiful poetry. I love it!
Wow-loved it. I had chills all the way through it. So true. But you know-I think I hear those whispers calling louder in my home-and I think you do too. I just wish more of us were listening.
Oh, gosh! I so loved this! It is wonderful.
Beautiful words, Matthew. Sad, but very true.
I would adopt that farmstead in a heartbeat. It is memory past.
The memories of someone's life time are still there, clinging to the walls, pouting in the corners. Dancing through the rooms.
One would just need to sit still and listen. Sit still and feel. To remember.
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