Weathered oak of ancient age
Sandblasted by Sirocco storm
Ribbed and dry and redly sage
Deep corrugated graining, worn.

Grown on hillside far away
Far, in England’s verdant land,
Hewn by artisan of old
Hewn by axe and sinewed hand.

Hauled across a raging sea
By barque of ******’s sail and hope,
Washed by salted wave and gale
Lashed to deck by weathered rope.

Dragged across hot dunes of sand
To a land called Galilee,
Hauled by He, betrayed by man,
Upon the hill of Calvary.

Hoisted high by Roman hand
Stark against a leaden sky,
Red blood stains on oaken cross
On which His Crown of Thorns shall cry.*


M.
Easter Sunday 2014

These scars I wear each tell a tale
of moments I'll never forget
When loves spark, had once left it's mark
and the fates had called in their debt

Where I fell upon a bottle
cut my arm and nearly bled out
I hit my head, thought I was dead
learned something of what life's about

My legs torn by years of abuse
racing horses like all my kin
I'd go down hard, leaving them scarred
the limestone would tear off your skin

But these were offerings of note
in a life spent chasing ideals
Testing extremes, of my own dreams
run down more than once by the wheels

Son you can't live your life afraid
of each danger that comes your way
So play the odds, tempt the **** gods
rise up and face each new born day

When you are but old and feeble
with your grandchild upon your knee
Tell your stories, of life's glories
show him the scars so he can see

A life spent cowering from pain
will  leave you so aching inside
The gift you'd miss, from life's sweet kiss
knowing you never even tried


Tate  

© 2012 Tate Morgan
Written
October 25, 2012