Poems by Patricia Fleming

Each day we wake is such a gift;
No moment's guaranteed.
Tomorrow isn't promised,
But to fate we must concede.

We cannot know our futures,
How long or short our lives.
We simply do the best we can
Until the end arrives.

And in life, what's most important,
In the scheme of every day,
Are the people who stand by our sides
As we venture on our way.

Those cherished, loyal, patient souls,
Who take us as we are,
Who look beyond our foolishness,
Our frailties and our scars.

How often do we take the time
To lay our hearts down bare
And tell them how we truly feel
And just how much we care?

Do we freely give a compliment
And acknowledge efforts made?
Or do our own quite fragile egos
Make us feel far too afraid?

Have we tried to overcome our pride
And forgive another's wrongs?
Or do we cling to hurt and anger
And carry grudges far too long?

Do we share our blessings willingly
With those who are in need?
Or do we hoard our own good fortune
Out of selfishness and greed?

It's the people all around us
Who make us who we are.
It is they who save our erring souls
And fill our lonely hearts.

So it's time we show some gratitude
And not wait another day.
For before we even know it,
Our chance may slip away.

It's past time to say I love you
And forgive another's sins.
We must let ourselves be vulnerable
By letting others in.

For one day, tomorrow will not come;
We may not meet again.
For inevitably, for each of us,
It all comes to an end.

So go ahead and say the words;
Make today a start.
Don't regret your silence;
Share the language of your heart.

Seven AM and I sat at the light,
Watching the train chugging by.
A day like the rest, on the way to my job,
Just routine with no feeling inside.

The morning was frigid and snowy,
Just thinking how cold he must be.
But there I could see him wrapped up on the stoop,
In that blanket he found on the street.

That cold, concrete stoop, at that old, empty store,
The place that for years he called home.
He sat there each day, never meeting your eyes,
Just contented to be left alone.

The weeds by the tracks were his bathroom,
His food was a bottle of wine.
His clothes were all dirty and tattered.
He was drunk or passed out all the time.

To see him you'd think he was no one.
He was barely a man anymore.
A failure to the ones who once loved him,
And a burden to the rest of the world.

But those who once knew him in the days long gone by
Would tell you how wrong you would be.
For in fact, it's quite true that this lost, broken soul
Was once just like you and like me.

He woke up every morning in a home of his own
That he shared with his son and his wife.
He worked every day as a painter by trade
And thanked God every night for his life.

People who watched him admired his ways.
He was caring and decent and good.
He worked harder than most to provide for his son,
And for neighbors he did what he could.

Life was a struggle, and times could be bad,
But he always found strength to go on.
He wanted the best for the people he loved,
Never dreaming that soon they'd be gone.

It happened in winter on a dark, snowy day,
In a storm that had moved in quite fast
That his wife ventured forth to pick up their son,
And neither survived when they crashed.

From the day they were buried his friends rallied round,
But he was lost despite how much they tried.
And even today when they speak of him still,
They say it's as if they all died.

And when I last sat at that light, by that stoop,
I saw he was no longer there.
The store still sat empty and was now boarded up,
And I wondered if anyone cared.

But later I learned on that stoop where he lived,
That place that he once made his home
He too passed away on one cold winter's day,
Long forgotten and left quite alone.

So should you pass by a lost soul such as this,
Be careful how harshly you judge him.
For you can't ever know how loved he once was,
Or how valued his life may have been.