A Twist To An Old Story
He was lying close to the road, the victim of an attack,
Now dishevelled, looking somewhat like a drunk, and on his back.
He had lain there all through the night, his clothing splattered with mud,
And hidden from one’s gaze were wounds, bruises, and patches of blood.
A businessman passed by, his wealth apparent, brief-case in hand,
But he hadn’t time for stopping, and drunkards he couldn’t stand.
Thus, with nose in the air, and gaze fixed ahead, he hurried by,
And he wouldn’t have even slowed his stride had he heard a cry.
No, he had better things to do than wasting time on losers,
And he muttered something unkind about vagrants and boozers.
He double checked his fat wallet, tightened his grip on his case,
A contemptuous look written all over his hardened face.
Well, as time progressed, the fallen victim caught another’s eye,
The eye of a religious man of note, who also chanced by.
He slowed at the wretched sight, though clearly most reluctantly,
Peering from a safe distance, then more closely, though fleetingly.
Seemingly satisfied, he quickly stepped back, shaking his head,
Then glanced in each direction, tapped at his watch, and also fled.
And as he hurried from the scene, he mumbled some pious prayer,
That a loving God wouldn’t justify, nor would want to hear.
A rusty old pickup truck entered the same deserted street,
With a weary night-shift cleaner sitting in the driver’s seat.
Griping the steering wheel, he nosed the bonnet towards that place
Where his squinting eyes had seen a dew laden body — a face.
Hurrying from the old pickup, he drew near the fallen man,
And an attempt to revive him, and help him, quickly began.
Via his brawny strength, and with compassion fuelling each heartbeat,
He lifted and carried him, and placed him on the old truck’s seat.
And soon the rusty old pickup trundled down a humble drive,
That like the old house there, years of neglect sought to survive.
And there the kind rescuer attended to the beaten man,
Nursing that man in a manner that only compassion can.
Well, as the man regained his health, he haltingly shared a tale,
Of how he had searched for years for his son, but to no avail.
He told of how his wife had died, how he missed his dear sweet Joan,
And of how his heart had broken, and of years he’d spent alone.
“If only she had seen him before she passed away,” he cried,
“For she would’ve embraced him, as she was never one to chide.
He had angrily departed, swearing he’d never return,
But our love for him never waned, and hope continued to burn.”
“He had just misunderstood things — we needed time to explain;
Oh, if only he had waited, it would’ve saved all this pain.
But he’d “heard enough,” he said, and grabbed his bag, rushed out the door,
And that’s when all the lights went out, for deep sadness our hearts tore.
Tearfully, he continued on, and the words he spoke conveyed
A deep and enduring love, and a loss that heavily weighed.
And as he spoke of his missing son with such fondness and thought,
His rescuer’s chest heaved, as he too, tears of such sadness fought.
Via vision now dimming with age, he peered at whom he spoke to,
Glowingly giving a snapshot of a son long overdue.
“It’s been many years now,” he choked, “but I’m sure he’s just the same,
For he had a good heart, you see — and like you, was so humane.”
“Stop!” his rescuer cried, “I’ve heard enough — for it’s me, it’s me,”
And tears of deep remorse streamed down his cheeks uncontrollably.
“You have finally found your son, but he’s far from what you said,
Forgive me, father, please forgive me — for I too, from you fled.”
“Yes, I’m just as bad as those who cruelly left you near that road,
And all throughout the years, father, you have carried this cruel load.
Thus, I’m not worthy to be your child, nor the son of your wife,
For I’ve been a fool, caused much unhappiness, wasted my life.”
But springs of joy flooded the father’s heart, now wildly beating,
And he reached to grasp his dear son — reddened, tear-filled eyes greeting.
Stunned, and yet elated, the father embraced his long lost son,
And as he did, he cried, “No, leave it behind, what’s done is done.”
“We’re together now, son, and that is how I want it to stay,
For your kind heart brought us together — yes, that’s my son, I say.
We’ve things to discuss, resolve — and together we’ll be able,
And with that said, he then ushered his son to an old table.
And there at that table, and after so many years apart,
The father and the son reconnected via a heart to heart.
And there, the sad misunderstanding that had seen their son go,
Was finally laid to rest, resolved — but not all the pain though.
A mother had died not seeing her son, and those wasted years,
A father’s frantic search, random mugging, sleepless nights and tears.
Yes, forgiveness is one thing, and reconciliation too,
But the past can not be erased, and consequences ensue.
Now, a little digression...
“Son,” another father once said, “Fetch a hammer, nail and wood,”
“Sure, Dad,” the young lad responded, a few years off adulthood.
And that son duly returned with what he had been asked to get,
Whereupon, wisdom via an illustration, that young mind met.
“Thanks, son. I would like you to hammer the nail into the wood,”
And as requested, the youngster hammered as hard as he could.
“Okay, son, now pull the nail back out,” his father instructed,
And as his son so prised, much huffing and puffing erupted.
The nail soon came out though, but once out, a deep hole could be seen,
And there they both stood — the father and son — surveying the scene.
“Now, son, remove the hole too,” but the son knew that he couldn’t,
And then the point dawned: If you don’t want holes — hammer you shouldn’t.
For though the nail was out, the hole remained there — and so it goes
That though we are sorry, we reap what we sow, for pain still flows.
Yes, forgiveness is one thing, and reconciliation too,
But hearts and minds are left scarred, and the past we are bound to rue.
Most like happy endings, but midst joy, there can be tears also,
For though we may, “Kiss and make up,” some pain can often still flow.
Yes, when a nail’s hammered, it makes a hole, and holes can seep pain,
Thus, when it comes to hammering, the best thing is to refrain.
By Lance Landall
Hurting Others Is A Sickness
Hurting others is a sickness, and it’s time that we recognised this as being so, as such is clearly true,
For unkindness hardly comes from a loving source, but rather, from something that’s not well — something that’s askew.
Therefore, when we hurt others, we display an illness that’s present in us — something on the surface maybe,
Or something that is rooted deeply within us, that rather than treatment, requires serious surgery.
Hurting others is no small thing, for at the very least, such has within it the seeds of savagery,
The origin of such being a very evil force, one that’s unleashed the moment that we act unkindly.
And as to the results — well, a little can lead to a lot — for once the lid comes off the bottle of ill,
Who knows the quantity waiting to be spilled, let alone the potency that in each unkind act may dwell.
Oh, how lightly we oft take those little things we do — yes, those thoughtless words and deeds that hurt more than we think,
In other words, that behaviour that oft returns to haunt us, and that with the force of good is not in sync.
Yes, ever doing so, and seemingly never learning — an illness that’s more often requiring surgery,
A sickness that has clearly afflicted us all, though in varying degrees, and some of us terminally.
Oh for the day when a loving and caring antibiotic surges though the veins of humanity,
Curing as many as possible, given that some seem incurable, addicted to acting selfishly.
But having said that, I know that there’re those of us who’re already on the mend, consciously trying to be
Everything to others that we’d like them to be to us, and thereby, helping them a better way to see.
By Lance Landall
