Daddy and Guest

My daddy was a simple man, his education poor
The only poetry he knew was trite, common lore.
He educated all his kids, we were his pride and joy
Even me, his baby girl, went to college like the boys.

I lived to read, learned to write, and publish now and then,
Sophisticated, lofty pieces, quite far above my kin.
While daddy read his Bible, and a guy named Edgar Guest
He was the people’s poet who’s rhymes were not the best,
Like: “The green is in the mountain and the blue is in the sky,
And all of nature’s artists have their colors handy by.”
Guest wrote ordinary poems, forced everything to rhyme—
I’d be the laughing stock of class if I chimed every line,
Or wrote about such mundane themes as home and baking pie
How to keep up courage or the victory when we die.

Guest was a real reporter, his poems were in the news
Daddy said their message were lessons we could use
To remember things like: “No one is beat till he quits
No one is through till he stops
No matter how hard failure hits
No matter how often he drops
A fellow’s not down till he lies in the dust and refuses to rise.”

My teachers say “Dig deeper, write truth, and hear your muse,”
But sometimes all I hear is that poet from the news
Or else I feel my Daddy and the folks that brung me up
The ones poor as church mice but thankful for their cup,
Full of enough food, birdsong , children healthy at play
Full of grace and given grit to clear what’s in the way.

How aunts and uncles held us, the love they left behind
How much my brothers taught me, I’m thankful for my kind.

One day, and if I’m lucky, or maybe if I’m smart
I’ll write what’s important, like matters of the heart
That’s what Edgar Guest wrote and he never told a lie:

“The green is in the meadow and the blue is in the sky:

The chill of death is passing, life will shortly greet the eye.
…But there’s not a leaf forgotten, not a twig neglected there
And the tiniest of pansies shall the royal purple wear.”