POETRY OF WILLIAH HARVEY MEEHAN
A LOVE POEM TO NEBRASKA
Dad loved Nebraska and was never ashamed to say so. He was born in Nebraska where his family were Homesteaders in a community of farmers and ranchers. Thanks to Nebraska Stories for sharing the story of Nebraska's African-descended Canadian/American Homesteaders. I believe this presentation of his poem about Nebraska would thrill Dad.
From PBS's NEBRASKA STORIES Facebook post: "He was the son of Charles and Hester Meehan, a bi-racial couple who emigrated from Canada and eventually settled along the North Loup River near a place called DeWitty. William Meehan loved Nebraska and often shared his fond childhood memories with his daughter, Catherine, who now reads a poem her father wrote when he was a teenager."
Nebraska Stories
Follow the link below to Nebraska, a PBS Nebraska Stories presentation produced by Kelly Rush.
Each day
I shall be resurrected
From the grave
Of some disappointment or sorrow.
I will not make a fetish
Of my defeats,
Nor hang them
In the halls of my heart,
Nor worship them.
The loves, hopes and ambitions
That have failed me,
Or perchance that I have failed,
Are dead, and I will not live
In the putrid atmosphere of sorrow.
I shall bury them,
Reverently, for what they have been
And for what they have taught me;
Deeply, for what they have ceased to be.
Upon the graves
I shall plant the flowers
Of kind remembrance,
And for one brief hour,
Water them
With the sincere tears of regret.
Then I shall emulate the Psalmist,
And “LIFT UP MINE EYES UNTO THE HILLS
FROM WHENCE COMETH MY HELP.”
I shall be true to the life
With which the CREATOR
Has endowed me.
I shall not bury it with the dead,
Nor crucify it
By keeping vigil beside a grave.
But with that life,
I shall follow
The glowing star of faith
Far thru the valley,
And at length to the heights
Where mortal life blends
Into eternity.
William H. Meehan
SINS AND VIRTUES
Once I blamed men for their errors
And I still do not like sin,
But I could not be judge of others
Yet fail to judge myself within.
For my life is but a record
Of mistakes and errors too,
Time and memory hold a mirror
For my heart and mind to view.
And my conscience will upbraid me
When I scorn the one who fell,
As I look I see my foot prints
Often headed straight for hell.
So I bow my head in meekness
Judging not by what I see,
God alone knows all about it
Have mercy, Lord, when you judge me.
As I ask for God's forgiveness
Let me forget what others do,
For I know my sins are many
And my virtues very few.
by William H. Meehan
AI generated image.
THE MOON
