My Oldest and Dearest Friends…

Not as an idle lest we don’t, or refuse to understand
This joyful look is the countenance when confusion
Controls the man.
Yet we may have together allowed him to lead
When never a prayer
Nor ever a prayer allows a dolt to succeed
Mothers read to us, I remember mine so well
About this clumsy clown, less than a prince
His own makings would cause his fell
Stand back, for never will it fail
His clumsy story of lacking seems his destiny to prevail
And when it ultimately comes to an end
The storyline never allows the outcome to mend
Humpty Dumpty went down alone
No people left to cheer him
No favorable reminders
No one wept
Only left behind him, his empty throne.
Yes, so many of you within earshot of my words shared in the belief and amazement of Mother Goose and her cohorts who, in their own inimitable fashion, helped to raise us. My life and the books I have read have instilled in me an endless passion to make up my own mind thus allowing me to make my own mistakes. I look at the books I have read as my old and dearest of friends.

“All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you have finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you; the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was.”

– Ernest Hemingway, December 1934
Not my wish to escape
Though it is craved by so many
Sailing to another land and place
Likely my trip for tomorrow’s chosen
When tomorrow comes
If it comes to me
Another page turned
Back to another day lived
For me to see and feel and mostly hear
Then to share with others
As others have shared with me
Stories of war, love, hero’s and God
Of people enslaved,
And how they became free
Always, as the last page is turned
Reliving almost all I have learned
Unbelievably relished
Thousands upon thousands
Of presentments of wordsmiths renowned
Never relinquishing the beauty I by myself have found.
– HK

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