Home Forums Expressions IF TOMBSTONES COULD TALK

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    Following is a poem penned on the date shown below that was the second of 3 in 3 days. There came an eerie urge of inspiration those 3 days, beginning with the Thinking Stream on the 9th, this one on the 10th, and then another one on the 11th that I will post at a later date. There are times in everyone’s lives when certain events or special people have a profound impact on your life. My message to all is simply, “stay aware.”

    9/10/01 2:43 pm

    If tombstones could talk, what stories they could tell,
    About life’s sweet journey, or a path toward Hell,
    About who’s been good, and who’s been bad,
    Who embraced their God, or a path gone mad.
    A measure of life, not of what we could,
    But the total sum, of what we would.

    At the end of a trail, past Andrew’s Lane,
    Sits a plot of land, and a rusty old crane.
    We all knew the place, we’ve been to the gate,
    To visit with souls, enjoined by fate.
    Step by step, as we walk among the bones,
    And sometimes pause, to view those stones.

    If we look over here, we see little Billy Taylor,
    He lived with his Mom, in a run down trailer.
    He never knew his father, just the guy who yelled a lot.
    When he got in his way, what beatings he got.
    The search finally ended, when they looked in that well.
    If tombstones could talk, what stories they could tell.

    Just on the other side, where they put Billy down,
    Is that same angry guy, caught outside of town.
    They picked him up, with a gun in his hand.
    He’d drank so much, he could hardly stand.
    It wasn’t long after that, that he died in jail.
    If tombstones could talk, what stories they could tell.

    See Jenny Mason, she lays over there.
    She had long straight, and beautiful hair.
    She had a reputation, that everyone knew.
    Most of it false, but some of it true.
    No one cared to know her, they only knew the tale.
    If tombstones could talk, what stories they could tell.

    All those mother’s sons, and prayers of concern,
    Long days waiting, hoping he’d return.
    He crawled in mud, his heart would ache,
    He slept in jungles, for all our sake.
    A new stone made, when every soldier fell.
    If tombstones could talk, what stories they could tell.

    We’ve been here before, we’ll come here again,
    And sooner or later, lay down where we’ve been.
    The record grows, every hour every day.
    Every thing we do, every thing we say.
    Tombstones don’t lie, or alter the scale.
    What kind of story, will your tombstone tell?


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