| ........ |
The Past
Steven Manchester
As the sun sets on another day,
for the briefest moment,
close your eyes and remember.
Sometimes the memory can be selective and merciful,
other times- painful and haunting.
In either case,
take all that you can,
then cast the rest away.
The past is only a place where you once lived,
where hopefully, you once learned.
It is never good to dwell there,
for the doors have all been closed.
So, open your eyes
and watch the rising of a new sun.
Enjoy even the smallest things,
but when they have passed,
let them go and begin again.
Savor the present, dream for the future,
but forever keep your yesterdays behind you.
More Than Our Share
Steven Manchester
out of ghettos, comes the truth
with paupers sent to save
the world from all its evils
which makes each man a slave;
a slave to what he longs for
to all that’s bought and sold
lifetimes spent amassing wealth
collecting jewels and gold
forgetting what he came for
his brothers bent in need
searching for some kindness
at least a gentle deed
but wealth is tough to part with
compassion’s just as rare
some say, “God didn’t give enough!”
He did, but we don’t share.
They Said:
Steven Manchester
They said it was impossible for man to fly,
so the Wright Brothers took to the air.
They said a deaf man could not hear music,
so Beethoven listened to his heart.
They said a man’s brawn equaled his courage,
so Audey Murphy went to war.
They said a black man should keep quiet,
so Martin Luther King Jr. dreamed away.
They said a blind man would never read,
so Louis Braille created his own vocabulary.
They said a woman should know her place,
so Mother Theresa stood in the shadows.
They said a man should stay down to earth,
so Neil Armstrong took a walk.
They said wealth produced all beauty,
so Michelangelo painted a ceiling.
They said many things,
so those who followed their own path
made all the difference.
A Walk In The Clouds
Steven Manchester
I walked amongst the clouds today
and then I took a seat,
to try to understand the world
that spun beneath my feet.
It was the grandest picture
my eyes had ever seen.
I couldn’t make out colors,
except for blue and green.
And yet, I could see people;
a whole race on the run.
To tell the truth, from where I sat,
they clearly moved as one.
With fear, they searched for answers
they thought were on the ground.
And though they spoke in different tongues,
they made the sweetest sound.
They had the wrong perspective,
with no way they could know:
There are no individuals,
but just parts of a whole.
And so I made a wish for them,
that someday they would see:
Only when they really love
is when they’re really free.
I’ll dance amongst the stars tonight,
while others search in vain.
For just above their point of view,
there’s no such thing as pain.
In Before The Dark
Steven Manchester
(for Mr. Octavio Matos)
I begged and pleaded, “Let me go. I swear, I won’t go far.”
He said, “It hurts to watch you grow-
be in before the dark!”
I headed out, this stubborn child, a world away from home.
He held my hand through every mile,
not once, I walked alone.
I laughed and loved and worked and played, ignoring every clock,
but heard those words each time I prayed-
“be in before the dark!”
I braved the winds and blinding snow, but also felt the sun.
For sixty years of joy and pain,
I stayed out on the run.
Then on it came, the first street light- yet still came as a shock.
As Father called me from the night-
“be in before the dark!”
Higher
Steven Manchester
A pair of wide-eyes search the unfamiliar playground,
as the giggle of captivating innocence turns to a squeal.
Seated upon a swing, a young boy looks back, begging,
“Push me higher Daddy!”
With only a few pumps of his legs and a set of strong,
but gentle hands behind him, his fears are conquered
and he steps into the sky.
A pair of eager legs march into adolescence,
tripping on the discovery that the world can be unkind.
Again, looking back, those same eyes betray his silent plea,
“Push me higher Dad!”
The labored hands of love take his desperate grip
and lead him on his chosen path.
Still, the sky is within reach.
A pair of old, tired arms long for a hug that has died,
as two feeble legs buckle at the knees.
With weary eyes, he looks toward heaven and whispers,
“Push me higher Father!”
A pair of stronger, more loving hands lift him up
and carry him home.
For eternity, that sky shall be his carpet.
Are We There Yet?
Steven Manchester
Holding to a steady pace,
from the back seat came a voice.
In belief that life was one long race
and fate- a simple choice.
“Are we there yet?” was his main concern,
as he twisted in his seat.
And I felt the sorrow he would learn-
for the trials he had to meet.
“A few more miles...a little while,”
though I knew the trip was long.
But in the mirror, beamed a smile,
for my word could not be wrong.
So we talked and laughed, we shared the ride-
and in time, he took the wheel.
Through the years, we traveled side-by-side,
to think, to hope and feel.
Then I turned to him- my tired voice,
“Are we there yet?” was my plea.
He grinned and said-
“That’s God’s own choice.”
For at last, my boy could see.
Ice Cream Cone
Steven Manchester
Minimum wage and all out of luck,
in sofa cushions, some change was stuck.
Enough to buy one ice cream cone-
we shared it on the long walk home.
And on the trip, the questions flew,
“Why just one cone? And why not two?”
So looking deep within his eyes,
I chose the truth, no need for lies.
Explaining that- while life was tough,
with just one cone, we had enough.
He shook his head, took one last taste,
then gave it back and wiped his face.
The pride I felt to watch him share,
at four years old, he didn’t care.
As long as we had time to play,
for him, it was a perfect day.
For all the dreams that I had built,
to watch them fall, I’d felt the guilt.
But being poor was not a crime,
for on my son- I’d spent my time.
The Past
Steven Manchester
As the sun sets on another day,
for the briefest moment,
close your eyes and remember.
Sometimes the memory can be selective and merciful,
other times- painful and haunting.
In either case,
take all that you can,
then cast the rest away.
The past is only a place where you once lived,
where hopefully, you once learned.
It is never good to dwell there,
for the doors have all been closed.
So, open your eyes
and watch the rising of a new sun.
Enjoy even the smallest things,
but when they have passed,
let them go and begin again.
Savor the present, dream for the future,
but forever keep your yesterdays behind you.
Dusk in Vermont
Steven Manchester
like a crystal globe, shaken by the hand of God:
On jagged faces of rock,
blue streams of ice stand frozen in time.
The air; clean and crisp and still,
is untouched by the pollution of progress.
Tragic realities of hustle and bustle slow to a crawl,
offering the chance to breathe, to laugh...to be.
Confusion and chaos are replaced by quaint simplicity,
while the smallest details
are brushed into the big picture:
In the distance, snow-draped rolling hills,
spotted with frosted evergreens,
are populated with groves of stripped-limbed birches-
each standing rigid like ranks of ancient soldiers.
Glittering rooftops, dripping with icicles,
are tucked amongst the steep slopes
and meandering country roads.
Like fireflies on a blank canvas,
random dots of light flicker,
illuminating tiny whists of smoke.
These signs of life; clues of comfort,
create visions of children nestled by the fire,
of Mama and Papa resting their weary bones.
Broken by specks of red barns;
divided by crooked stonewalls,
scattered livestock graze in barren meadows.
Small ponds reflect a mirrored-image of the sky
and, oh what a sky it is!
Once tinged in hues of pink, the filaments turn gray;
the clouds, moving at a turtle’s pace.
While the world takes its well-deserved rest,
I venture across a postcard covered bridge,
taking a leisurely stroll into a time long forgotten.
As the solemn bong of a church bell marks time,
with each smile, plumes of steam
escape my silent mouth.
Shopkeepers, hunched against the cold,
lock up for the night and scurry home.
A nostalgic marquis boasts of last year’s film,
while kids sneak inside to kiss the boredom away.
As if sharing an age-old secret,
I exchange a friendly nod,
or wry grin with the townsfolk.
Like an echo from above, a gust whips down
and taps me on the shoulder,
causing an unexpected shudder.
Turning up my collar, at an even slower gait,
I absorb the slightest, most miraculous truths:
A people, criticized as being “far behind,”
are still innocent enough to be kind;
their daily existence,
suspended in a world of sweet maple syrup.
The present, replaced by the past;
the future, even less welcome.
They refuse to abandon tradition, but instead,
embrace a serenity that could only be intended by God.
In time, the giant shade is drawn and darkness comes,
dusting the earth with crystal flakes of white.
Suddenly, tranquility is broken by a train’s whistle.
Then, as the snow deafens the noise of the world once again,
I finally realize:
I am standing in heaven
|
........ |
