Far in the Distance is a poem that sprung from the many days of pain that I spent looking out my window dreaming of what it would be like to be healthy and free to wander the world. To have the energy required to travel down the numerous little side roads that begged me to pull over and explore them as I looked out my backseat window watching the world scurry about.
As I road past or looked out my window I would imagine what it would be like to live in that little home, to sit under the covering boughs of that particular tree with my textbook, or browse through the isles of that little shop tucked in the corner. From there my thoughts would take flight to other corners of earth that would always remain a mystery. I would imagine what fun it would be to hop on a train or plane and visit corners of the earth far and wide. To see new places, meet new people, and learn first hand about cultures that I have only seen on TV or read about in books.
It is from this longing for adventure that this simple poem sprung. I hope that you enjoy it.
Song acrostic is a simple poem of faith expressing in part that Jesus is the song and hope of my heart. I hope that you enjoy this short acrostic poem.
In some ways, after years of being chronically ill, I have found myself becoming s somewhat cynical of the world around me. It is not something I set out to do, and it is an attitude I try to repress, but years of discouragement and disappointment take their toll.
Friendships that you thought would last a lifetime come to a quiet end as life for them continues and you remain an frustrated prisoner of pain. Caught up in the excitement of a big new world begging for them to explore, the idea of visiting an old school chum locked in time soon loses its appeal. Thoughts of that old friend are replaced with the joy of reaching new milestones such as graduating from college, getting the first job, dating, marrying, buying a home, and having children. And without meaning for it to happen you have been reduced to a memory entitled “What was her name again.”
For years, in between my bouts of debilitating pain, I have been quietly writing. Creating folders of poetry, short stories, and even a book that sit quietly on my bookshelves waiting for the rare occasion when I would pull them off the shelf and read them. And that is where I expected them to stay all the days of my life gathering dust and growing yellow with age, because I had no idea how to share them with the world.