Poetry of a Man - Moses and Parson Brown
by Percy C West
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Some Poems to incite thought and reflection and maybe amusement, too.
Parson Brown & The Prodigal Son
This is the story of Parson Brown,
A colored preacher in a southern town,
Forced to retire 'cause he’s gittin too old,
With a thousand more sermons still untold.
So the parson took his sermons out on the street
Unloading them on anyone he chanced to meet,
‘Till his friends started shunning
The parson and his talks
So the parson did his preaching on long lonely walks.
This would be a sad story if it ended this way,
But, let’s hear from the parson
What happened one day:
As I was walking down the road
I met a stranger carrying a load.
He said, “Please mister, will you set me right,
I’ve looked everywhere that I could roam,
Please show me the road that leads to home.”
“Well brother.” says I, “Just stand where you are
And gaze in the sky at the evening star
‘Till your sins all melt, run down in your shoes,
And the good Lord above will send down news
Of a road to travel that’s narrow and straight
But leads ever upward to Heaven’s gate.”
“Now listen real good and take a hint,
Home is a place where the heart is content.
Peace can’t be found by a worldwide search,
Just go instead to the nearest Church,
Throw off your troubles and fall on your knees
And ask the good Lord to put your soul at ease.”
Then the stranger laughed ‘till he nearly cried
As he looked again at the country side,
Then he placed his bundle on the ground
And said to me, “Are you Parson Brown?”
I said, “I be, but what caused your joy?”
“Then welcome home,” says he,
“your wandering boy!”
My Name is Moses
All morning long I tramped across the desert floor,
My faithful sheep close at my heels,
And now, they graze once more
In this fair land of greener fields.
So now there’s time to rest, and wonder why
The stream of life has passed me by.
In spite of all my early dreams,
God has no use for me, it seems.
And while I rest and ponder on his will
I see a fire on yonder hill,
A burning bush that seems to beckon:
These ancient eyes are playing tricks, I reckon.
You drunken sot!
I wonder what fantastic dreams
Control your brain?
You can’t be sane
And wear a smile so free from care.
Your hair should now be turning gray
From useless schemes.
I wonder if you’d share
Your carefree lot with me?
On passing a roadside cemetery
A man named Calloway
Here one day:
And there’s his tombstone cold and gray,
With naught to say,