The Lives Before
Posted: Mon Jun 03, 2013 7:37 am
The Lives Before
I don’t know much of the lives that came before me. That’s a loss.
They stand like beacons, strong and pure, amidst a sea of dross.
They anchor me. They tie me down to a time that came before.
They guide me home on a storm-swept sea to a safe yet distant shore.
I don’t know much of my parents’ parents’ parents. That’s the thing.
And if I did, it’s a tale I’d tell, it’s a song I’d love to sing.
I know so little of days gone past – or days that lie ahead –
And if I did I might anguish less on the task of raising bread.
I’d love to echo the yarns of yore, to carry them down the line.
I’m sure they’d assist the lives that follow to rally, to prosper, to shine.
I know they’d bring spring to many a step, cause many a chest to swell,
They’d ring sweet music through hearts and minds, like the peal of a clarion bell.
Yet we only can do the things we can do. It’s fatuous to regret.
The sun beats strong on our grateful skins, and I know that we’re not done yet.
Life’s for the living. There’s scant room here for those that are finished and dead,
And they soon give way to our quickening pulse, to our bold and impatient tread,
So I’ll carry the lives that have gone before, and I’ll value as best I can
The scraps of detail I’ve somehow picked up, and I’ll face each day like a man,
And I’ll nurture the lives that come after me, for there’s nothing else now I can do,
And when their time comes, they’ll reach back for me…and I guess that we’ll all get through.
© Stephen Whiteside 03.06.2013
I don’t know much of the lives that came before me. That’s a loss.
They stand like beacons, strong and pure, amidst a sea of dross.
They anchor me. They tie me down to a time that came before.
They guide me home on a storm-swept sea to a safe yet distant shore.
I don’t know much of my parents’ parents’ parents. That’s the thing.
And if I did, it’s a tale I’d tell, it’s a song I’d love to sing.
I know so little of days gone past – or days that lie ahead –
And if I did I might anguish less on the task of raising bread.
I’d love to echo the yarns of yore, to carry them down the line.
I’m sure they’d assist the lives that follow to rally, to prosper, to shine.
I know they’d bring spring to many a step, cause many a chest to swell,
They’d ring sweet music through hearts and minds, like the peal of a clarion bell.
Yet we only can do the things we can do. It’s fatuous to regret.
The sun beats strong on our grateful skins, and I know that we’re not done yet.
Life’s for the living. There’s scant room here for those that are finished and dead,
And they soon give way to our quickening pulse, to our bold and impatient tread,
So I’ll carry the lives that have gone before, and I’ll value as best I can
The scraps of detail I’ve somehow picked up, and I’ll face each day like a man,
And I’ll nurture the lives that come after me, for there’s nothing else now I can do,
And when their time comes, they’ll reach back for me…and I guess that we’ll all get through.
© Stephen Whiteside 03.06.2013