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By John Hall
IT’S NOT EASY

I often let my fancy roam
On magic carpet, far from home,
To gather thoughts and pictures fair
From here and there and everywhere,

With word descriptions, if you please,
Well interspersed with memories.
Yet even with such helps as these
I find it hard to write a poem.

For I’ve this problem, all my own,
That when I lift my pen to write,
My thoughts all flee in wildest flight
And hide behind some far-off scene,

Till, using every wily scheme at my command,
I slowly coax them back in hand.
So then once more I lift my pen,
And darn it, there they go again!
HEIRLOOMS

Today I climbed our attic stairs,
Where resting singly, some in pairs,
Antiques from bygone years are stored.

A modest little treasure hoard
That will someday grace our children’s lives,
Less any element of surprise. You see,
They know what our intentions be.

Yet as my eyes survey the find,
This question, once again, will cross my mind:
What shall we leave our children, Lord?
A chest of treasure, safely stored in attic dim?

Treasure gathered o’er the years
And carefully laid aside,
Wrapped in mother’s love
and father’s pride?

Yea, Lord, we know they’re only “things”,
Yet each a message in it~ beauty brings
And may someday prompt a sentimental tear —
These lovely links with yesteryear.

Yet though we know these gifts will please,
We’d leave them, rather, gifts like these:

We’d leave them love and love’s compassion,
Applied to life in such a fashion
As to make friends smile and nod
And say, “We know them well, they walk with God.”

We’d leave them hope for each tomorrow
And faith to stand through trial or sorrow.
We’d leave them strength
As comes from Thee,

To sail cross the sea of life
Their fragile craft, till having
Steered the course You set,
They reach at last that Golden Shore,

Where we will meet and love them
Evermore.

John M. Hall, Portland, Oregon
February 14, 1986
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