Decades pass
and I'm still writing
from youth through middle age
and here I am,
poet yet-
filling each blank page.
And justifiably you ask me
" Why?"
The reason for what I do,
here, then is my reply-
" To proclaim all that's true."
In the same spirit
as a bird takes flight-
with a primal need
thus, I write
and through this primal need
the same as breath,
I write of life,
I write of death.
And because I was born
to a generation
who mourn,
whose politicians rolled their dice
( the " game board"
was paddies of rice.)
And though we remember,
" Let freedom ring"
our hopes died
with Kennedy and King
still, they unfurl
the red, white and blue
though there's
My Lai,
Kent State,
Watergate too...
And what of our parents'
and grandparents'
" American Dream?"
- For us, it's but
a nightmare's scream...
So here we are
the daughters and sons,
our primer and lullaby
the sound of guns...
While as a writer
I but bleed my ink
into all that I feel
and dare to think
while others bleed
blood that is real-
I wonder who'll read
what I think or feel?