A Hankering for Hope | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: A Hankering for Hope | Previous Challenge Entry
By Ann Stocking
03/12/15
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Face like mahogany, polished and tanned,
Hair, wispy and gray, sun-leathered hands,
He weren’t much to look at, so wizened and bent,
An old cowboy, near spent.

All he owned was a saddle, a shirt frayed and patched,
Some broken-down boots, a warped and stained hat,
A bedroll, a slicker, a horse, ancient and thin,
Coins in a coffee tin.

He hadn’t much schoolin’, quittin’ at ten,
Didn’t have no studyin’ of the places he’d been.
Yet, anyone could see in his rheumy, old eyes,
God-fearin’ and wise.

I was needin’ his counsel, sage words to bestow,
For I’d a heart that was troubled, despairin’ with woe.
I came to the place where he sat by his fire,
Some peace to acquire.

He poured me a coffee, darker than tar,
And bid me to pull up a stump as a chair.
Flames burned to embers and pulsatin’ coals,
While I bared my soul.

Silent, he was, as he stoked up the blaze,
The sparks sailin’ skyward, then meetin’ my gaze,
Spoke slowly and softly, like startin’ a prayer,
Smoke swirlin’ in air.

Son,

You’re longin’ for day in the midst of the night,
Wishin’ for bad times to turn out all right.
You’ve been pestered by thorns and a floodin’ of doubt,
Can’t see your way out.

It’s hope that you’re needin’, to help you get by
The darkness, the fearin’, the wonderin’ why,
But hope isn’t something you rope and tie down,
But where your hope’s found.

Hope ain’t like fillin’ a fountain with coins,
Heaped up with wishes and showy words joined.
Just state your business; be honest and clear.
Believe He will hear.

Some folks create their own miserable wrecks,
Becomin’ bewildered, frantic, and vexed,
Expectin’ the Lord to keep them from blame,
Misusin’ His name.

Now, say, I am pinin’ for sweet apple pie,
I don’t peel up potatoes and set ‘em to fry.
And just by my hopin’, I’ve dessert on my plate.
It don’t happen that way.

Hope ain’t like wantin’ your yearnings fulfilled,
It won’t start the river to flowin’ uphill,
Sure as rain fallin’ and grass growin’ green,
Knowin’ what ain’t bein’ seen.

Don’t trust in your own wretched nature or charm,
Your fanciest prayers or strength of your arm,
The sum of the fortune and baubles you’ve stored.
Lean hard on the Lord.

Get back in your saddle and hold your heart high,
Give all your ponderin’s to the Lord of the Sky,
Askin’ Him plainly to show you His plan,
Hang tight to His hand.

He was just an old cowboy, long gone to Glory.
Now, I’m up in years, recountin’ his story.
When your life’s bustin’ up and you can’t hardly cope,
Keep hankerin’ for hope.

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