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The Olde Barn

The OLDE BARN;
  Part One:

No longer Proud, No longer Grande.
At the foot of the hillside;
  Lo, Here I stand.

Through summer's heat
  and winter's cold.
Weathering away, and getting OLD.

I remember when they put me here,
It must have been about six score year.

They dragged great logs from yonder wood.
They built me strong, they knew they could.
The red oak was felled and hewed,
to square my sturdy frame.
Those strong and giant trees.
would be never again the same.

They bored my ribs, they notched my back.
the white pine became my skin.
With cedar, my roof was thatched,
all over with shingles thin.

From foundation stones,
I climbed, high up toward the skies.
Along my sides, they cut some squares.
They nailed in window lights,
these to serve so very well,
became for me, my eyes.

To the North, I peer across railroad tracks,
but the stones I cannot see,
of stalwart MEN,
who hewed and sawed;
to cut and fashion ME.

A cock they perched upon my peak,
then wired ME to the ground,
to ward away, lightning strikes,
with all their thunder sound.

At first, they brought the horses gray,
where right beneath their chin,
it only required a little nod,
to reach the brown-oats bin.

At night on four, the mare would stand,
to sleep the hours sound.
Whilst just below the dappled flanks,
her foal lay on the ground.

On hot and sultry summer nights,
I'd watch the white clouds pile,
then brace for storms,
most often wild and vile;

At first a calm, no leaf dare stir,
nor devils of the dust.
Then com'st a whispering wind,
a wise man would never trust,
for shelter soon, he must seek,
from wind and rain, he must.

Dust devils no longer swirl,
up and down the garden path.
They now crouch low, to resign their fate,
to the coming tempest's wrath.

Tumbling weeds are pressed fast, against the picket fence, til 'morrows sun dries their spiny legs, and then, gentle zephyrs roll them back and forth,
  in this the world of MEN.
On my wires, I sense the fires,
as St. Elmo's currents creep.
Unlike a ship, I have no hull,
to sail the briny deep. {cont'd}
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Submitted by WerterBuch on February 03, 2016

1:55 min read
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Discuss this Francis M. Faber Jr. aka Hayward Christian Beach poem with the community:

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