by Lee O'Hara

A dreamer sat dreaming,
His rapt eyes agleaming,
There bent by the hour
In sunshine and shower.
His seeming inaction
Drove friends to distraction,
For words on a paper
Shown clear by a taper
Would ne'er bring him money
Or bread, milk and honey:
Alright for a hobby
No good for a Bobbie.

His dreams unabating
And hunger awaiting,
Ringed by immutable
Problems inscrutable
He sits on his throne,
Unenvied and alone,
On a mountain unscaled
Where the wanton winds wailed,
And watched as he waited
His hope unabated
For a hearty "Hello"
From the levels below.

Until one windy day
A gust blew him away
Unkempt and unsated
And uncomensated.
And it tore him apart
And exposed them his heart,
While the pulsating pulse
In a final impulse
Suffused the surroundings
From the prince to the priest
From the last to the least.

And quick as a minute
They saw what was in it,
There was warmth there was light,
There was depth, there was height,
Wordings instructible
And indistructible,
And those who beheld it
In triumph upheld it,
And quick wonder grew now
That they never knew how
In life they ignored him
In death they adored him.

During the Great Depression of the 1930s, my father lost his business but was 'lucky enough' to get a job in a gold mine in Kirkland Lake Ontario. As a youngster I wondered why he spent his spare time writing poetry that didn't bring in any money.
Now I wonder if he was reading my my mind.

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