by William Hill
rom the Heart
Copyright 2010 and 2012 by Randolph Knight
Table of Contents
The Hobo’s Guitar (Part 1)
The Hobo’s Guitar (Part 2)
The Hobo’s Guitar (Part 3)
Dear Mother
The Ghost of Mr. Jones
Ray
A Poem For Christmas
Purples
Two Yellow Roses
Reflections in a Southern Snow
I Believe
Regrets
A Lair’s Plea
Brother John
Who would have known?
The Memorial Day Poem
Too Good To Be True
Venus and the Crescent Moon
The Tree
Hate and Forgiveness
A Really Good Day
The City
If You Did Unto Me
The Master Biscuit Maker
A House with No Doors
The Chair
High Definition
Life is Like a Sandwich
Call Me Mister
Champ
Going Home
How do I get there from here?
Long Enough to Know
The Portable Radio
Retirement
The Decision
The Feather
The Pocket Watch
The Storm
Tomorrow is Tomorrow
Waiting
The Hobo’s Guitar
He’d seen more cities,
Than I’d ever seen,
And he’d been in places,
That I’d never been,
And he sang of his journeys,
Both near and of far,
All the while strumming,
His hobo guitar,
His clothes were all ragged,
Had holes in his shoes,
And he looked like a man,
Who had nothing to lose,
But the one thing he had,
He held near to his heart,
Picking the strings,
On his hobo guitar,
Yet he died like he lived,
On the very next day,
While trying to jump on,
A slow moving freight,
So I went to the tracks,
And I didn’t walk far,
Just under the brush,
Was the hobo’s guitar.
Author: Randolph Knight
Back to top
The Hobo’s Guitar (Part 2)
The hobo was readied,
For a bare pauper’s grave,
He died in a fall,
From a slow moving train,
With arrangements made public,
Only four people came,
Including a stranger,
Who arrived here by plane,
I eulogized the hobo,
In the following way,
Holding up his guitar,
I had plenty to say,
“Inside this guitar,
His works I did find,
And the experts agreed,
They are one of a kind,
Though he didn’t have money,
And he wasn’t a star,
He was a genius composer,
Playing a hobo’s guitar”.
Author: Randolph Knight
Back to top
The Hobo’s Guitar (Part 3)
The soil had not settled,
On the poor hobo’s grave,
When scavengers circled,
Around the music he made,
The attorneys were many,
My instructions were few,
“Keep the scavengers at bay”,
“Whatever you do”,
For I had a secret,
Buried deep in my bones,
And a little more time,
Would keep it unknown,
For I found the stranger,
Who arrived here by plane,
To be related to the hobo,
And could substantiate the same,
Hence the grave of the hobo,
Was never occupied,
But remains more than real,
To those who pass by,
And the hobo was escorted,
Aboard the Old Northern Star,
And before he went home,
I returned his guitar.
Author: Randolph Knight
Back to top
Dear Mother
Dear Mother, so often,
I’ve feared this day,
This day when you,
Would pass away,
Down on my knees,
I wept and prayed,
Begging God,
To let you stay,
But you were called,
And now you’re gone,
Leaving us here,
To carry on,
Yet, Mother,
You taught me,
To keep the faith,
So, in faith,
I shall depend,
For I am sure,
That one-day, Mother,
I will see you,
Once again.
Author: Randolph Knight
Back to top
The Ghost of Mr. Jones
The old building has no power,
But his classroom lights go on,
And the figure in the window,
Is the ghost of Mr. Jones,
When Mr. Jones was still alive,
Teaching was his trade,
He arrived at school in darkness,
To get ready for each day,
And Mr. Jones was a good man,
He was liked by everyone,
And to him the school was family,
Which he loved just like a son,
But the tables turned on Mr. Jones,
When he turned sixty-two,
For the older teachers were ousted,
In favor of the new,
And Mr. Jones felt slighted,
Which he carried to his grave,
Now once a year, his ghost appears,
To ready for opening day,
And since the new school opened,
The old school has been closed,
But they’re keeping the old building,
For the ghost of Mr. Jones.
Author: T. Sky Handring
Back to top
Ray
When Ray let out a bellowing laugh,
And grinned a toothless grin,
You couldn’t help but laugh with Ray,
No matter the mood you were in,
Ray worked at the filling station,
Doing whatever they wanted him to,
From pumping gas to changing tires,
That’s what Ray used to do,
Ray was black, tall, and lean,
He resembled a fifties rock star,
Ray just laughed when I mentioned it,
Said he couldn’t play a guitar,
But then for a while, Ray was gone,
And I wondered if he had quit,
But they said Ray died of cancer,
And that’s the saddest part of it.
Author: Randolph Knight
Back to top
A Poem for Christmas
The checkout line was very long,
The store filled end to end,
I was waiting to pay for Christmas gifts,
For my family members and friends,
And though it took more than an hour,
Joy filled my heart completely,
For I used the time to reflect,
On what Christmas means to me,
Oh, it’s not about these presents,
Or our beautifully de
corated tree,
It’s about the birth of Jesus Christ,
Who died to set us free,
Now some may find it foolish,
Or they’ll say, “How can that be?”
For they haven’t a clue,
Or the faintest idea,
Of what Christmas means to me.
Author: Randolph Knight
Back to top
Purples
In a far away land,
Lived a Princess,
And Purples was her name,
Before her birth,
Her mother worked,
In a profession filled with shame,
And her mother desired,
A good life for Purples,
One much better than her own,
For she had been,
With a number of men,
But still, felt quite alone,
So when naming her baby,
She chose the name Purples,
To attract both fortune and fame,
And when Purples grew up,
She married a Prince,
Touched by the sound of her name.
Author: T. Sky Handring
Back to top
Two Yellow Roses
I went by our house,
You’re not there any more,
I used my spare key,
To opened the door,
And there on the shelf,
Was all that was left,
Ten yellow roses,
Now eight of the ten,
Were tattered and torn,
Ragged and ripped,
Caught up in the storm,
But two had survived,
God had kept them alive,
These two yellow roses,
Why on earth did heaven,
Keep these two alive?
Why on earth did heaven,
Let these two survive?
What if one is like me,
And the other like you,
Still wanting the sunlight,
Still needing the dew,
I wonder, if only,
We could start anew,
Like two, yellow roses?
Author: Randolph Knight
Back to top
Reflections in a Southern Snow
It doesn’t snow here often,
But it certainly did last night,
This morning outside my window,
Was a wonderland of white,
Snow covered the tops of houses and trees,
Even more lay on the ground,
So I bundled up like an Eskimo,
And went out to look around,
Although wind whistled through the trees,
There was stillness in the air,
As if the Holy One himself,
Had taken presence there,
Low rolling clouds
