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Wayne Bryant

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Member Since: Jun, 2009

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Hobo Ted
by Wayne Bryant
Friday, June 05, 2009
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Wayne Bryant
•  Angels
           >> View all 2

We never know what we might do with our lives until we are faced with the same situation.

Hobo Ted

I went to visit Momma
Up in Portland, Maine
Memories of my childhood here
Still were very plain

I stopped at a railroad crossing
As a train went slowly past
An old man jumped from a boxcar
And wandered down the track

Many miles and many years
Were written on his face
A drifting hobo I could tell
His home was anyplace

He walked about ten feet
And fell by some railroad ties
I ran to where he lay
And knelt down by his side

Lord don't let me die alone,
I heard him softly pray
My tears began to slowly fall
When these words I heard him say

Mister, I'm really glad you're here
I don't want to die alone
Even though I've lived this way
For so many years I've known

I wasn't always by myself
I had a wife and son
Then came a war and I left to fight
In a land called Vietnam

Then I was lost in combat
And all thought I was dead
Many had seen me fall
When a bullet struck my head

A Christian couple found me
And healed this wound of mine
With God's help they saved me
It took some five years time

By then the war was over
And when I finally got back home
I found my wife remarried
And my son had a happy home

I never told them I was back
I had my reasons friend
I wasn't going to ruin their lives
Or break their hearts again

So I became a drifting hobo
Simply known as Ted
You see I couldn't settle down
So I chose this life instead

The old man held a locket
He seemed so proud to show
A picture of his wife and son
From a long, long time ago

As I stared at that photograph
A chill went through my bones
That same picture hangs on the wall
In my mother's home

By now he'd finished talking
And forever closed his eyes
But he'll wake up in a better land
That's void of sad good-byes

The secret he kept hid within
Would drive most people mad
That hobo on his last train home
I found out was my dad
                          By Wayne Bryant




Author Wayne Bryant
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Reviewed by Richard Bowers 11/24/2012
Which way shall I take the course to my reader’s hearts,
What scale and tools do I collect with,
What voyeur’s wrap I claim in readiness.
Are the ages of my father come to bear,
Or will be for next generation’s benefit:
And for sure hope luck to smile a lot,
Unless I weaken in devotion,
That I harbor this pretext,
Where course is subject to a wanton age.
Gather, flock with us; examine all to beyond:
Valiant person have surpassed our time.

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