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The Path


DeanCarl

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The Path

c Dean C. Shaffer

March 2004

Come walk with me if you would,

This lonely path I travel on.

Though many others walk with me,

Few words are ever spoken here.

And this is such a lovely path.

With roses brilliant pink and red.

Grass growing soft beneath the feet.,

A carpet there of emerald green.

Trees with wondrous branches spread,

Over those who pass this way.

And cool the shade provided here

To shield us from the summer sun,

But oh so few who walk this path,

Do so with joyful willing hearts.

Nor, truth be told, would I be here,

Had I the choice to choose my way.

For it is not the path itself,

That brings so many tears to fall,

From those to whom fate as decreed,

Must set their feet upon this ground.

No, not the path, but where it leads.

A gate of iron set in stone.

And mist that hides what lies beyond,

From eyes with questions deep within.

A gate through which we all must pass.

A journey ended, now begun.

One we never planned to take,

And no map to guide our way.

So walk with me this road I take

Though not your time to tread it yet.

And do not fear the gate you see,

For only I will pass it now.

And speak to me with voice of cheer

To take my mind from journey’s end.

And when that end has come to pass,

Then raise a glass to life well lived!

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Beautiful, Dean.... just beautiful.

I hope you're compiling all these poems in a safe place,

so maybe someday a small volume could be published.It

would be very nice for gay, and others of us to have, and you

could assign the profits to whatever worthy cause you choose.

You are more of a master wordsmith than Ihad realized, Dean.

God bless and keep you. :)

XOXOXOX

MaryAnn

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Dean,

That is just wonderful. It is making me cry and smile at the same time. You really should publish (this needs to be read by many). Sounds like you have written other poetry - I have not had the priviledge to read it. You are such a tower of wisdom, please keep the poems coming.

Take care,

Nancy B

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wow, i really appreciated this poem because when my dad was ill, he never really was able to express what he wanted to say. maybe he didn't want to say anything, as few words are spoken during this trip. thanks deancarl. i am thinking of you and feeling with you all during your journey. mirrell

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