An Old Barn

I was recounting my Grandfather's love for creation to a friend recently and I thought of this "old" poem I write a while ago.

Today's entry is in memory of my Grandpa Willems. He loved Creation and he loved the Pslams. One of his particular interests was photographing old barns on the prairies. My Grandfather's name was R.B. Willems.

 
                             An old barn
                                      First stanza
 
I’m creaking,
I groan
 
I’m teetering,
I lean
 
I’m fading,
I’m brown
 
But RB comes to see me,
He comes out from town
 
What does he see in me?
What does he know?
 
Does he like the way I lean?
Or does he remember what I’ve been?
 
Does he enjoy the wind whistling through?
Or does he imagine me, once new?
 
Perhaps, is it the contrast
Of my faded wood against prairie skies?
It could be the prophetic way I’m leaning
To remind him how time flies by
 
                                   Second stanza
 
Well, I haven’t seen RB for a while,
I would like to see him smile,
Or wink at me through his lens,
 or mutter some prose from David’s pen.
 
I heard he was creaking and groaning too,
to leave his body and join the Creator who’ll make him new.
 
A few others pass by my leaning frame,
I wonder – do they know of my fame?
 
Do they see my prophetic lean?
Or remember what I’ve been?
 
Do they know man’s future – man’s past?
Do they know things  made of wood, hay and stubble don’t last?
 
Do they know they are unlike me?
Once fallen, once dead  - a few more things will be done a few more words said –
 not by the wind or a barn like me – not even David will utter these.
 
The Creator Himself will tell men their lot.
 
Did they heed the Prophet’s words,
did they hear the Wind speak?
Did they turn from their sins and seek their Creator,
did they hear the Message given so clear?
 
These flowers and the grass around me – soon they will fade,
Soon I’ll be gone too – I won’t point the way,
But the Words of the Creator forever will stay.
 
                                                                                    By C.S. Sperling
                                                                                Upon the death of my grandfather Reuben Benjamin Willems

Posted via email from The Sperling's blog