The poem was begotten in a strange way. I wanted to send a card to a friend who lives in London, Ontario. I found an old envelope with a London return address, but wasn't certain that it was his. I called him to report that “I found a London address,” and to verify it as his.
I mentioned offhandedly that I was intrigued by the predominantly iambic meter of that line. “Sounds as though it should be a poem.” A running joke ensued, and I decided that if it sounds like a poem, it ought to be. So I finished it.
My favored poetic style is not modern; it's actually quite nineteenth century, almost reminiscent of Longfellow. I'm told I have feet like a poet: they look like Longfellows and smell like Dickens. Ha ha. That's from the same people who claim I have a mellow voice. Mellow (adjective): overripe, almost rotten.
A Silly Poem by Lloyd Kremer
Copyright © 2002, All Rights Reserved.
I found a London address,
So I traveled 'cross the land,
To find a strange old preacher,
A Bible in his hand.
He asked what meant the most to me,
And I said I wasn't sure,
Then he asked me in with a sagely grin,
And I felt I'd found some cure.
He'd built a cozy fire
On this silent winter's eve,
And he bade me sit, to reflect a bit,
Ere I had to take my leave.
He seemed to look right through me,
As one would through an open door,
But the love he shone bade me please go on,
And I thought of it no more.
We talked till almost midnight,
Bathed in his fire's glow,
And he told me all the answers
To whate'er I yearned to know.
Then he said that I must leave now,
For his time was drawing near:
That my own work lay with mortal clay,
And I must not tarry here.
He then rose up before me,
And I went to shake his hand,
But before I knew, he quick withdrew:
Difficult to understand.
But he gave me a smile so gentle
That I knew I had made a friend,
Who could comfort me through eternity
With a love that would never end.
So I walked back toward that country road
With a peace that few can know,
Then I heard a sound, and I turned around—
And there was but a field of snow.
No house, no path, no footprints:
Not a trace of where I'd been,
Nor of the thoughts we'd shared that night:
Of virtue, choice, and sin.
Yet the wisdom was still within me,
As it would be forevermore:
If I dare believe, 'twas a blessed eve
When I knocked upon that door.