Mystery of the Morning

I awoke this morning
and all that was once clear,
and all that was familiar was gone -
shrouded in a veil of mystery.

Now, in the early hours of morning
a fog has descended
obscuring all that was once known
and leaving in its place mystery.

But as the hours of morning pass
the sun will gradually but assuredly
cut through the veil of mystery
and make all that was once lost
familiar again.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Balsam Mountain Inn - Balsam, North Carolina

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The Path

The path before us
awaits our journey.
A path of our choosing –
our destiny not always certain.

We can choose to be in a rush
and chance to miss the beauty
and opportunities
along the way.

Or we can choose a pace
that is measured and slow
and enjoy all that awaits us.

The choice is ours . . .
the path is waiting.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Linville Falls, Western North Carolina

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When Morning Comes

In youth my thoughts were filled
with lofty goals,
wondrous dreams,
and endless possibilities.

As years slipped by
these goals and dreams
became harder
to achieve.

New courses made,
expectations altered,
goals changed,
dreams were lost.

But now I find a need
for new goals and dreams
or perhaps . . .
the ones I left behind.

When morning comes
I will rise to a new day
with goals and dreams
I have yet . . . to realize.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Balsam Mountain Inn - Balsam, North Carolina

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Just Once

Just once in the year do the geese fly south,
And once does the first snow fall,
Just once do the buds burst forth in spring,
And once does the corn grow tall!

Just once in the day does the purple East
Light up with the glow of dawn,
And once do the deepening shadows fall,
At dusk, when the sun is gone.

Then how can a person be tired of Life
Or bored in a world like ours?
Where once is the season of crimson leaves
And once is the time of flowers.

For so it is planned in the life of man,
His story is quickly told,
Just once he's a child at his mother's knee,
And once he is gray and old.

Then give me the wisdom, good Lord, to know
The miracles shown to me,
That I may watch any passing day –
Yet never again may see!

— Stillman J. Elwell
(From his book "Windows of Thought")

Photo by Dan Hardison
Off the Coast of Provincetown, Massachusetts

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Seeking Life

The river cut deep into the earth
as it tumbled around a bend –
the bank steep in crumbling layers
of moss covered rock.

On a stony ledge, its roots exposed,
a lone tree grew –
not knowing that God
never meant it to be there,
but seeking life just the same.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Fall Creek Falls State Park, East Tennessee

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Winter Visitor

If the time of April
were upon us,
you'd be just another day –
so much like the ones
that came before you
and the ones that would come after –
that your loveliness would go unnoticed
in the sameness of a springtime sequence,
when beauty follows beauty
from sun to moon to sun again.

But now, in winter,
you violate the mandates
of a calendar that dictates
what your nature ought to be . . .
and your warm kiss
is made the sweeter
when felt on cheeks
that recall the touch of winter . . .
just a day ago.

— Jim Metcalf
From his book “Please to Begin”.

Photo by Dan Hardison
Moores Creek National Battlefield
Currie, North Carolina

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A Time for Sleeping

Trees that have stood
so stark and forlorn
are sprouting new leaves
as Spring brings new life.

Summer brings fulfillment
with trees full and shapely
casting their shade
with life at its fullest.

With Fall life has slowed
as leaves begin to fall.
Days grow shorter
and living has taken its toll.

In Winter trees are bare
and life seems weary
in need of a rest –
a time for sleeping.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Bledsoe County, East Tennessee

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A Winter Day

A lustrous sky of gray,

trees draped in white,

a world in fallen snow.

A realm so quiet

snow can be heard falling

and footsteps seem intrusive.

One can almost sense

water freezing

in a nearby stream.

Today, God's creatures

can only wait . . .

and dream of spring.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Fall Creek Falls State Park, East Tennessee

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It's A Long Way

It's a long way the sea-winds blow

Over the sea-plains blue –

But longer far has my heart to go

Before its dreams come true.

It's work we must, and love we must,

And do the best we may,

And take the hope of dreams in trust

To keep us day by day.

It's a long way the sea-winds blow –

But somewhere lies a shore –

Thus down the tide of time shall flow

My dreams forevermore.

— William Stanley Braithwaite
From the book "Negro Poets And Their Poems, 1923."

Photo by Dan Hardison
Provincetown, Massachusetts

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Place in Time

There is a time
before the New Year begins
and that of our Savior's birth –

to look back on our journey
to this place in time
and the year

that is dying.

Places we have been
people we have known
and those we have lost -

the accomplishments,
the sorrows,
and all that was

good or bad.

For once the first day
of the New Year has arrived
there will be no turning back –

only to move forward,
to face our goals, our dreams,
our hopes, and perhaps

another chance.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Wetumpka, Alabama

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The Garden Gate

Within the garden
all is in order
everything in its place
everything as it should be.

Beyond the garden gate
it is open and free
with endless possibilities.

In the garden
I am content
but beyond the garden gate
I am filled with wonder.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Maury County, Tennessee

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Going Back

It has been many years
since I called this place home
and even though
I have been back,
it seems so different now.

The streets I used to know,
the places I used to go
are all vague somehow.

Some things are familiar,
some have changed,
some are gone,
some are just forgotten.

There are people here
who may know my name,
but they belong
to some other time
that I just cannot remember.

Perhaps you cannot go back -
perhaps the people and places
should forever remain a memory.

But if you do go back,
you must accept that today
it will all be different somehow.

And the memories
will remain forever
in the past.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Blue Ridge Parkway, Western North Carolina

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The Bright Road

This is the bright road to the mountain top
Beset with shadows and with paths astray,
By dangerous crag, by cliff's sudden drop
Into eternity. This is the way
That man might climb upon the verdant sod
And find among the peaks the peace of God.

On this long road man needs an iron-bound will,
A purpose clear that strengthens every hour,
A hand to help the weak o'er steepening hill
And heart to cheer the sad through darkening shower.
This is the bright road youth must climb with care
To gain the top and its good blessings share.

— James Still
From the book "From the Mountain, From the Valley: New and Collected Poems".

Photo by Dan Hardison
Cades Cove, East Tennessee

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Autumn

Splash of scarlet, splash of gold,
Mornings touched with autumn's cold,
Weary fields beneath the sun
Resting with their labor done.
Scythe and sickle put away.
Night is longer now than day.

Later now the sun to rise.
Gone are birds and butterflies.
Just a few brave blossoms stay,
Relicts of their kindred gay
Still with courage carrying on
'Till their strength is wholly gone.

Neither field nor forest taints
Nature's purpose with complaints.
Chilled by frost unto the heart
Silently the flowers depart.
Stand the trees, like warriors bold
Dressed in scarlet and in gold.

Nothing sad or tearful here
At the twilight of the year.
These October mornings glow
Just as if they seem to know
Past all doubt and questioning
Life is an eternal thing.

— Edgar A. Guest
From the book "Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest", 1934

Photo by Dan Hardison
Blue Ridge Parkway, Western North Carolina

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The Leaves Are Falling

The leaves are falling

as I walk a path
once tried and true.

The leaves are falling

where once the path
was bright and clear.

The leaves are falling

and I am unsure
about the path I follow.

The leaves are falling

and it is hard to see
from whence I came.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Bald River Falls, East Tennessee

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The Teacher

Walk slowly, little one
and let me walk beside you,
as you see the wonders

you will see.

And I will try to see them
through your eyes . . .
eyes, still fresh

and beauty seeking;

eyes that do not hide
behind the dimming veil

of ugliness.

Tell me what you see

when birds fly by . . .
when buds of green appear
on April's trees.

Tell me about the ripples

on the pond,
and the colors
of the flowers.

There is so much
I need to know;
so much I have forgotten.
I remember only

how to look.

I do not remember

how to see.

So let me walk along with you
and share the world you know.

I will be the learner.
You will be the teacher.

— Jim Metcalf
From his book “In Some Quiet Place”.

Photo by Dan Hardison
Wilmington, North Carolina

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In Moonlight

The day is done
and darkness fills the sky.
All the beauty that was the day
is covered now in night.

When the moon is bright
and shadows of the day appear
we choose what to remember
of the day that was.

To glory in the achievements,

to learn from the failures,

to cherish the joys,

to embrace the sorrows,

to dream of what could be,

to long for yet another day.

— Dan Hardison

Photo by Dan Hardison
Wilmington, North Carolina

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Life’s Journey

I

There is a One-way Lane,
sometimes called Straight and Narrow,
reaching from In the Beginning
to the Eternal Throne of God.
It passes through the Garden of Eden
and the Present and the Future
into Ever Shall Be.

It is the River of Life;
it is the King’s Highway.
It is traveled by every human soul
and each soul in passing
pollutes or sweetens the waters;
each soul mars or mends the road.

In our time the channel is clearer,
the highway smoother
because of the saints
who have gone ahead.

We travel under our own power,
but our power was determined
by the influence of all those
who have traveled before us
and shaped our destiny.

We light the way with our own torch,
but our torch was lit
from the light of the past.
And the traffic moves one way only,
we can never go back
to recover losses or to mend.

II

“Away down the river,
a hundred miles or more,
other little children
will bring my boats ashore.” *

Not just your own children
who are the fruit of your body,
but each child that you touch
because the touching
makes it the fruit of your soul.

Not just children in infancy and youth,
but any child of God’s.
Not just the boats you launch,
but the boats you trim, or do not trim.
And by thought and word and deed
you rock the boats or ballast them.

The boats you have launched,
the boats you have made
with ballast and trim
may be small craft,
but like the boats of Christian seamen
in any age of simpler faith
their sails bear the cross of Christ,
their cargoes have had the blessing of God,
and you may reasonably hope
that they will weather the storms to be
and make havening harbor
on the shores of the Kingdom of Heaven.

— George W. Jones
From his book "Life's Journey".

Photo by Dan Hardison
Asheville, North Carolina

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* Robert Louis Stevenson from “Where Go the Boats?”

The Heritage

No matter what my birth may be,

No matter where my lot is cast,

I am the heir in equity

Of all the precious Past.

The art, the science, and the lore

Of all the ages long since dust,

The wisdom of the world in store,

Are mine, all mine in trust.

The beauty of the living earth,

The power of the golden sun,

The Present, whatsoe'er my birth,

I share with everyone.

As much as any man am I

The owner of the working day;

Mine are the minutes as they fly

To save or throw away.

And mine the Future to bequeath

Unto the generations new;

I help to shape it with my breath,

Mine as I think or do.

Present and Past my heritage,

The Future laid in my control;

No matter what my name or age,

I am a Master-soul!

— Abbie Farwell Brown
From the anthology "High Tide: Songs of Joy and Vision from the Present-Day Poets of America and Great Britain", 1916.

Photo by Dan Hardison
Historic St. John's Church
Maury County, Tennessee

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Seasons of Life

Death draws near to the season
as another cycle of the fruits
of the earth is passing.

Old age is upon the year . . .

Spring time is birth time,

the time of quickening –

summer is the time of growth,

of fullness –

autumn sees maturity,

ripeness, and passing –

and winter is death.

In the Mission’s valley
summer imperceptibly wanes.
The vanguards of autumn grow bolder
and Indian summer is upon the valley.

Hoarding the passing loveliness

of a season ending

and embracing the pleasant promises

of a season to come

is Indian summer.

The skies are the bluest
of the twelve months.
The early morns the fairest.
The perfumes of ripeness and harvest
are pleasant to smell.

The last days of a fruitful year
that is at the point to die,
are touched with a sweet sadness,
but they are lovely, lovely.

In the Mission’s valley
are those of venerable age
known as Granny,

or Aunt Bess,
or Uncle Tom,
or the old man,
or the old lady.

Their Indian summer is far spent.
Winter’s snow crowns their brows.
Growth is over, maturity finished,
ripeness has grown too mellow,
passing is at hand.

And yet these precious ones
are beautiful as never
in the springtime of life
or in the summer of life’s fullness.

Theirs the refined loveliness

of a season ending,

blessed with the holy promises

of the fuller life to come.

The last roses of summer

are the fairest –

the mellow smiles of God’s children
near long life’s end

are the sweetest.

— George W. Jones
From the forthcoming book "Life's Journey".

Photos by Dan Hardison
Fall Creek Falls State Park, Tennessee

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