Still More Stories that Touch the Heart

The Most Beautiful Flower
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise,
"It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.
That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need."
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
"You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that's mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
Author Unknown

The Most Beautiful Flower
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, For the world was intent on dragging me down. And if that weren't enough to ruin my day, A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play. He stood right before me with his head tilted down And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!" In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light. Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, I faked a small smile and then shifted away. But instead of retreating he sat next to my side And placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise, "It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too. That's why I picked it; here, it's for you." The weed before me was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need." But instead of him placing the flower in my hand, He held it mid-air without reason or plan. It was then that I noticed for the very first time That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind. I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun As I thanked him for picking the very best one. "You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play, Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day. I sat there and wondered how he managed to see A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree. How did he know of my self-indulged plight? Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight. Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see The problem was not with the world; the problem was me. And for all of those times I myself had been blind, I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that's mine. And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand, About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man. Author Unknown

The Paradox of Our Age
We have taller buildings, but shorter tempers;
wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints;
we spend more, but have less;
we buy more, but enjoy it less.
We have bigger houses and smaller families;
more conveniences, but less time;
we have more degrees, but less sense;
more knowledge, but less judgment;
more experts, but more problems;
more medicine, but less wellness.
We drink too much,
smoke too much,
spend too recklessly,
laugh too little,
drive too fast,
get too angry too quickly,
stay up too late,
get up too tired,
read too seldom,
watch TV too much,
and pray too seldom.
We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.
We talk too much, love too seldom and lie too often.
We've learned how to make a living, but not a life;
we've added years to life, not life to years.
We've been all the way to the moon and back,
but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor.
We've conquered outer space, but not inner space;
we've done larger things, but not better things;
we've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul;
we've split the atom, but not our prejudice;
we write more, but learn less;
we plan more, but accomplish less.
We've learned to rush, but not to wait;
we have higher incomes, but lower morals;
more food but less appeasement;
more acquaintances, but fewer friends;
more effort but less success.
We build more computers to hold more information,
to produce more copies than ever, but have less communication;
we've become long on quantity, but short on quality.
These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion;
tall men, and short character;
steep profits, and shallow relationships.
These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare;
more leisure and less fun;
more kinds of food, but less nutrition.
These are days of two incomes, but more divorce;
of fancier houses, but broken homes.
These are days of quick trips,
disposable diapers,
throw-away morality,
one-night stands,
overweight bodies,
and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill.
It is a time when there is much in the show window
and nothing in the stockroom.
Author Unknown

The Paradox of Our Age
We have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints; we spend more, but have less; we buy more, but enjoy it less. We have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less time; we have more degrees, but less sense; more knowledge, but less judgment; more experts, but more problems; more medicine, but less wellness. We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry too quickly, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too seldom, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom and lie too often. We've learned how to make a living, but not a life; we've added years to life, not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor. We've conquered outer space, but not inner space; we've done larger things, but not better things; we've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul; we've split the atom, but not our prejudice; we write more, but learn less; we plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait; we have higher incomes, but lower morals; more food but less appeasement; more acquaintances, but fewer friends; more effort but less success. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but have less communication; we've become long on quantity, but short on quality. These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion; tall men, and short character; steep profits, and shallow relationships. These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare; more leisure and less fun; more kinds of food, but less nutrition. These are days of two incomes, but more divorce; of fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throw-away morality, one-night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the show window and nothing in the stockroom. Author Unknown

Feeling Overworked?
I now know why I'm always so tired. For a couple years I've been blaming it on lack of vitamins, iron, poor blood, dieting and a dozen other maladies. But now I found out the real reason: I'm tired because I'm overworked.
The population of this country is 237 million.
104 million are retired.
That leaves 133 million to do the work.
There are 85 million in school,
which leave 48 million to do the work.
Of this there are 29 million employed by the federal government.
This leaves 19 million to do the work.
Four million are in the Armed Forces,
which leaves 15 million to do the work.
Take from the total the 14,800,000 people who work for State and City Government
and that leaves 200,000 to do the work.
There are 188,000 in hospitals,
so that leaves 12,000 to do the work.
Now, there are 11,998 people in Prisons.
That leaves Just two people to do the work.
You and me.
And you're sitting there reading this.
Author Unknown

Feeling Overworked?
I now know why I'm always so tired. For a couple years I've been blaming it on lack of vitamins, iron, poor blood, dieting and a dozen other maladies. But now I found out the real reason: I'm tired because I'm overworked. The population of this country is 237 million. 104 million are retired. That leaves 133 million to do the work. There are 85 million in school, which leave 48 million to do the work. Of this there are 29 million employed by the federal government. This leaves 19 million to do the work. Four million are in the Armed Forces, which leaves 15 million to do the work. Take from the total the 14,800,000 people who work for State and City Government and that leaves 200,000 to do the work. There are 188,000 in hospitals, so that leaves 12,000 to do the work. Now, there are 11,998 people in Prisons. That leaves Just two people to do the work. You and me. And you're sitting there reading this. Author Unknown

The Cold Within
Six humans trapped by happenstance
In bleak and bitter cold.
Each one possessed a stick of wood,
Or so the story is told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
The first man held his back.
For of the faces round the fire,
he noticed one was black.
The next man looking cross the way
Saw one not of his church,
And couldn't bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes.
He gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use
To warm the idle rich.
The rich man just sat back and thought
Of the wealth he had in store.
And how to keep what he had earned
From the lazy, shiftless, poor.
The Black man's face bespoke revenge,
As the fire passed from his sight.
For all he saw in his stick of wood,
Was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group,
Did naught except for gain.
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game.
Their logs held tight, in death's still hands
Was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from the cold without,
They died from the cold within.
Author Unknown

The Cold Within
Six humans trapped by happenstance In bleak and bitter cold. Each one possessed a stick of wood, Or so the story is told. Their dying fire in need of logs, The first man held his back. For of the faces round the fire, he noticed one was black. The next man looking cross the way Saw one not of his church, And couldn't bring himself to give The fire his stick of birch. The third one sat in tattered clothes. He gave his coat a hitch. Why should his log be put to use To warm the idle rich. The rich man just sat back and thought Of the wealth he had in store. And how to keep what he had earned From the lazy, shiftless, poor. The Black man's face bespoke revenge, As the fire passed from his sight. For all he saw in his stick of wood, Was a chance to spite the white. The last man of this forlorn group, Did naught except for gain. Giving only to those who gave Was how he played the game. Their logs held tight, in death's still hands Was proof of human sin. They didn't die from the cold without, They died from the cold within. Author Unknown

You must be starving!!

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