A poem for those gone not for­got­ten


THE first Sun­day in Oc­to­ber,

we con­gre­gate re­spect­fully as one. To hon­our those de­parted, their driv­ing day’s now done.

No more the sigh of air brakes,

dis­turb them from their rest.

Among the bril­liant star-filled skies, watch­ing over us at best. They taught us all the trans­port game,

of what would see us through. Do it right the first time, she’ll be right will never do.

Leathered hands grip quad box sticks, and change gear in a blur. Hours of star­ing gaze through wind­screens, thoughts of home and that spe­cial him or her.

For a truckie’s life holds fas­ci­na­tion, out where the heat­waves dance.

We come to­gether like no other, that long black road ro­mance.

Sis­ters and broth­ers of the high­way, a help­ing hand our only code.

A pass­ing wave out through the wind­screen, sends greet­ing and safe pas­sage to each and every load. From high up in the cabin, we ob­serve Mother Na­ture rule her land.

Drought, fire, flood and de­ter­mi­na­tion, she is the driver, well in com­mand.

Where would we be with­out them, the ones that haul the loads on through.

From bul­lock­ies of old, the team­sters, to flash jig­gers of to­day tried and true.

To them the school of hard knocks, get it done by the sweat of their brow.

With re­call and re­spect of hard­ship, we thank heav­ens for the things we have now.

Yes­ter­year can never be for­got­ten, we must pledge an al­le­giance to those passed.

Their truck driv­ing legacy rolls for­ever on­ward, our fu­ture carved in stone from the past. — Penned by Owen Orange

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