Pennies

Three Pennies

Yesterday, I took a long walk.

Came across a penny on the roadside.

Almost unnoticeable.

Nearly unrecognizable.

It was marred and scarred.

Run-over and stepped on.

Smashed flush with the surrounding debris.

Later, I came across another.

Further on, one more.

At some point, each had been cast aside.

Maybe long, long ago.

How many travelers had passed them by?

I stopped.

Bent down.

Picked each up and examined.

Then a tear.

Though marred and scarred,

Their worth was undimmed.

Their value as bright as any other.

 

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10 thoughts on “Pennies

  1. I have picked pennies all my life. The lesson I learned over the years is there are so many discarded coins of different values lost and corroding to be found if we just look. The eye becomes aware and screams to the brain, stop, and look. there is something over there. It’s is amazing how much of value is overlooked. I have found every denomination except for the elusive 50 cent piece. He is out their somewhere. I found a $20.00 bill once while driving at freeway speed, lost in the debris on the side of the road. There is a metaphor in here somewhere. The bright shiny ones are worth exactly the same as the most corroded, bent, battered war-torn specimens. Some of those old, really used and abused ones are worth more than their face value.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Thanks for those thoughts Sam, It reminded me about one of my favorite poems. So important to look past the scratches and the scars and realize they all still have value. I miss seeing you at church, love you brother.
    The Junk Box – Poem by Edgar Albert Guest

    “My father often used to say:
    ‘My boy don’t throw a thing away:
    You’ll find a use for it some day.’
    So in a box he stored up things,
    Bent nails, old washers, pipes and rings,
    And bolts and nuts and rusty springs.
    Despite each blemish and each flaw,
    Some use for everything he saw;
    With things material, this was law.
    And often when he’d work to do,
    He searched the junk box through and through
    And found old stuff as good as new.
    And I have often thought since then,
    That father did the same with men;
    He knew he’d need their help again.
    It seems to me he understood
    That men, as well as iron and wood,
    May broken be and still be good.
    Despite the vices he’d display
    He never threw a man away,
    But kept him for another day.
    A human junk box is this earth
    And into it we’re tossed at birth,
    To wait the day we’ll be of worth.
    Though bent and twisted, weak of will,
    And full of flaws and lacking skill,
    Some service each can render still.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Great poem. Very much enjoyed reading it. Thanks for sharing.

      Miss seeing me at church? OK Mirza, Do I know who your are? Are you in SL1?

      Like

  3. This lovely poem brings back memories of “Primary Pennies” the LDS sponsored funding drive to support Primary Children’s Hospital. Too bad LDS doesn’t start another drive to Protect Children from abuse by closed-door one on one interviews with priesthood leaders!

    Liked by 1 person

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