Monday, September 11, 2017

I Won't Forget


Every year, on this day,
I try to write something
I think will be poignant,
honest and help to
honor the heartache
that still lingers for so many.

As time marches on, the
memories of that awful day,
start to get hazy around the
edges. It’s not sepia toned however,
it’s still vibrantly colorful in it’s
horror and sadness.

And I know
I will never forget it.
Even when I’m a toothless old
man.

I’m sure I’ll be able recount every
detail of my 9/11 day, even in the depths of senility.
Seeing the second plane hit the tower
on TV as I ironed my pants for work, the
silence on the train as it pulled into
Union station, the pale faces in my
office, the sad hug I shared with a co-worker
whose birthday is today.

I’ll remember crouching next to
my boss’s desk in her office that
faced the Sears Tower and her telling
me that the office was closing and to
go home.  The fear in the voices
and tears on the cheeks as we watched
the tragedy unfold back in a bar in Union Station.

I remember a guy at the bar telling
me how we were now at war with some
other nation and me telling him that I hoped
to never see him on a battlefield and that this
peaceful meeting in this crowded bar
would be the only time we’d meet.
We shook hands.

I won’t forget the crowds waiting for
the trains, panicking when our train
was moved from one track to another,
and the mass rush to escape Downtown.
I’ll never forget the terrified faces of
the people rushing past me.

I will always remember the old woman,
slowly walking with a cane next to me
along the platform as people bustled around us
in abject fear, and her comment to me that
this was nothing new to her and she’d been
through it before.  I remember taking some
comfort in her dignified and calm demeanor in
the whirlwind of panic.

I remember the well dressed man, in a nice suit,
arm in a sling, crying within the crowd because
someone had bumped into his already injured shoulder
and the disdain I had for his selfish weeping. I looked
at him with such disgust as he cried about his
arm in light of the tragedy unfolding.

I remember boarding the packed train and calming those
around me as rumors of seven other planes allegedly
still in the air, telling them there were no other planes
in the sky. Not a single plane was flying, anywhere.
The nervous chatter of people not sure what to do,
how to act or what to say to each other.

When I got to my train stop, I got off and found my
mother had been on the same train, and we hugged
each other  on the platform and it was the most natural
thing in the world. I heard the passengers that saw us hug
“ooh” and “ahh”, likely hoping they would soon embrace
their loved ones.

We went home, watched buildings fall, saw lives end, all on
TV.  Everything we had become accustomed to stopped that
day. The things that seems so important,
were now terribly mundane.  I still feel the
shock and sadness of it all. It became part of who I
am and how I will forever view the world.

So when you see me, maybe sixty years from now,
when I’m in my hundreds, I’ll tell you all about it.
And I’ll make sure, even when I don’t know where
my shoes or teeth are, that I remember this day.  

Friday, September 8, 2017

Perspectives


“This looks like a pile of junk,” she said.
“What…,” I replied, “what do you mean?”
“Yeah, this is all just garbage, It’s
shoelaces and torn notebook paper,
rocks and bits of glass,” she said.

“Those are the shoelaces I wore when
I was on the track team in grammar school and
I came in third place in the big race. The coach
was so proud of me that he took me to get apple
pie after the meet. Those shoelaces are priceless,” I said.

“Well, they’re just ratty shoelaces to me,” she said.

“C’mon, these torn notebook pages, these are
what’s left of the first love note I ever got from
the girl who would become the role model for
every woman I would ever date and love,” I said.

“Just dirty bits of paper to me,” she said.

“These rocks I found in the summer of 1993
along Lake Geneva, when my friends and I
were the closest we ever were, and we skipped
them along the water, and put them in our pockets
to put on our dressers,” I said.

“Yeah, rocks. Great. Just rocks,” she said.

“What about these pieces of colored glass? Surely
you see their value,” I asked.

“Nope, just broken glass,” she said.

“These pieces of glass are from a stain glass window
and they showed me how beautiful the world could be if
you just looked at it a little differently than the
norm,” I said.

“Well, it doesn’t mean anything to me and
since it doesn’t mean anything to me,
it has no value. It’s petty junk,” she said.  

She left in a huff and I looked at
the items so important to me, and
I knew they meant nothing to her,
but there was still no reason for her
to call it petty junk.

I hope no one ever judges her things,
the things she has carefully saved in the
bubble wrap of memory, petty junk or garbage.
That would be too sad for her.  

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Rummaging

I brought this trunk
with stuff to unpack.
There’s a bunch of things
in here that I need to
unload.

I’m just going to open this
large steamer trunk, right here
on your living room floor,
if you don’t mind. Of course
you don’t mind.

Let’s see; here’s my old
broken heart, a cracked
mirror, a tube a glue, that
hat I thought I lost the day
she left me.

Oooh; here’s that loyalty
card from the sub shop that closed,
I was one hole punch away from
that free sandwich. Here’s the
love tester, still broken I see.

Here’s an old tee-shirt from that
short lived garage band, “The Megladons”.
Here’s my ray gun, random mismatched
batteries, a magnifying glass, a Kit
Carson comic book.

A cheese grater, used effectively on that
old broken heart, her hair clip, a high school
love note, a doodle of a man weeping on a
park bench, study notes for The Old Man and
the Sea.

I think this is all worth something right?
I can put it on the table in your garage,
put price tags on it all? I think it’ll only add
to the glamour of your rummage sale, for sure.
It’s the stuff of life. 

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Any Relief

Is there any comfort in
words when there’s
blood in the water
and the sharks are circling?

“Hang on,” we say.
“We’re praying for you,” we post.
“Our hopes are with you,” we shout.
“We’re here for you,” we wish.

Can any words besides,
“You’re fully insured and will
be adequately compensated,”
really do anything to help.

Waves of sympathy,
ocean currents of empathy,
are fine and good, but no match
for actual ocean waves.

Where is the power of words
in the abyss of horror?
Are words the afterthought of
the aftershock?

It’s a uselessness I feel to use
my own words to be anything
other than a shill for the vague
emotional notions of my heart.  

I want the words to carry the burdens
away, but maybe I’m not that smart,
or maybe I’m not that good of a poet,
or maybe, just shutting up is the right thing to do.


Thursday, August 24, 2017

Will They Call Me Mister


I’ve more gray hairs than
I used to, my chin whiskers
now fill in with snowy patches
of stubble. I ache in places
for no reason and am
usually exhausted by
9:00 pm.

I still don’t feel like a
grown-up though.
I’m not even sure what
a grown-up is.
I’ve no children,
I’ve no wife,
no mortgage, or grown-up things.

What makes a grown-up?
Is it knowing things that
younger people don’t?
Because I certainly do that,
but I’ve always done that.
Is it money? Success?
Vitamin pills every morning?

I get curmudgeonly and surly
and irritated by stupidity, is
that being grown-up?
I tell those damn kids to
get off my lawn, in my head,
because I don’t have a lawn,
for lousy kids to play on.

Is it political awareness that makes
a grown-up? Clearly not, what with all
the childishness going on now.
Is it being able simply to do and say
whatever I want within the context of
the law? Doesn’t really feel like that’s
what being a grown-up is.

Grown-ups sleep on their couches,
and tinker and meddle,
Grown-ups worry about money, gas,
car payments, insurance, dental care,
sexual failure, liver disease, being wanted
for who they are and not what they should be,
and having to clean up after themselves.

If that’s all it is to be a grown-up,
then I’m not sure I want to be a part
of it all. I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing
and maybe one day, that kid in the mirror,
with wrinkles and gray hair will finally look
familiar, and he’ll wink at me.
And we’ll laugh through our senility.


Friday, August 18, 2017

Seeking Wisdom, Again


The Great Guru of Guru’s,
the wisest of the wise,
the most knowledgeable of
knowable knowledge,
sat atop a snow swept
mountain. The cold winds
blowing through his long
scraggly white beard and
wisps of white hair remaining
on his head.

His eyes were closed as he
breathed in deeply and silently,
he exhaled gently and slowly,
over and over, he barely seemed
to move, as if he was part of the
mountain itself.  He was one with it,
 the snow, the winds,
rains, rumbling of the mountain
when it shuddered. He was the
image of peacefulness and harmony.

The Great Guru, arms and legs folded,
lotus position, remained motionless as
a great grunting rose from the temple
steps leading up to the Guru.  The grunting,
followed by wheezing, coughing and cursing,
soon revealed a raggedy man. Dirty, bruised,
battered and unshaved.  He fell at the feet of
the Guru, after climbing the 1,000 steps to
the mountain temple the Guru occupied in his
corporal form.

“You’re holiness, great Guru of the mountain,
I’ve come again for your guidance,” said the dirty,
disheveled man.
The Guru didn’t move from his breathing position.
“I gave up all my worldly goods; I tried to treat each man
as my brother, each woman my sister, I’ve loved
without hesitation, I’ve fed the poor, tended to the
sick, kissed my enemies and I meditate each day;
I’ve given up meat, I’ve been beaten up, I’ve
made each sunrise matter,” said the man.

The Guru still with his eyes closed,
breathing gently, remained silent.
“Yet, I’m not happy. I’ve not attained
any enlightenment, I’m just as miserable
and scared as I was the last time I was here,
when I first came to you for advice,” said the man.
He began to sob into his hands and wail.
He cried and moaned, hugged his shoulders
and rocked back and forth, snot running
from his nose.

The Guru opened his eyes and looked at the man.
The Guru’s face was calm and gentle.
“Did you vote,” asked the Guru.
“Huh,” said the man, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
“Did you vote in the Presidential election,” asked
the Guru.
“Well, no. I thought we were above such trivial things,”
said the man.
“Oh, well, there’s your problem,” said the Guru.

Monday, August 14, 2017

Eclipse Prescription

Next Monday there is a Solar
Eclipse that will pass over the
United States of America.
It’s the first time in 26 years
that it’ll happen.  I think we need
it.

The path of the eclipse will
pass over 14 States. The Sun will
be blotted out by the Moon for
varying times, Southern Illinois
will have the longest eclipse period
with 2m 44s of totality.

Meaning the Moon will cast a
shadow over Illinois for a full
two minutes and 44 seconds. And it’ll
be dark. Dark as night. The total
Celestial event will last for a full
1h 33m 16.8s.

The event literally happens at the
speed of light. It’ll happen no matter
what is going on down here on Earth.
In fact, the cosmos doesn’t care
what is happening on Earth.  

The divides between people,
ideologies, religions, Nations,
and politics are all meaningless
compared to the pure majesty of
nature and the universe.  The
Sun and the Moon, don’t care.

They don’t care if you’re Black,
White, Brown, Yellow, Red, or
every conceivable color known.
The Sun, Moon, Stars, just don’t
care. A great Shadow will traverse
the Globe with or without you. 

The bigotry, hatred, and divisiveness
we heap on each other on this
insignificant space body is just dumb
when you get down to it.
There’s no point really.
Your perceptions are not permanent.

So, I really can’t believe I have
to say it all again. I’m not sure
how many times will be enough.
Your beliefs in one Race, Creed,
Theology, or superiority is
a waste and a weight on us all.

As the shadow of the Moon
passes over your homes I hope
it’ll help to show you how small
you are and how little the universe
cares about your point of view.
It doesn’t care about my point of view.

A Country, cast in shadow for a short time,
a mini Dark Age, hopefully to emerge bathed
in enlightenment, about who we are on the
World and who we want to be in the short
time we have.  Because in the dark,
we’re all the same.

Friday, August 11, 2017

Caterpillar on the Hood


I saw little antenna peeking
up over my windshield wipers.
A caterpillar on the hood of my car
looked right at me. “Where are you
going little caterpillar,” I asked.

“I’m going to Hollywood to
become a famous movie star,” said
the caterpillar on the hood of my
car. He rose up on his many rear legs
and flexed a little.

“I’m not driving to Hollywood,” I said.
“Why not? Don’t you think I have the
charisma, the charm, the guile to be a
famous movie star,” asked the caterpillar
on the hood of my car.

“Well, I’m not a Hollywood agent, talent scout
or otherwise in the know type, but I’m not
sure there’s a high demand for caterpillar movie
stars,” I said.
I drove forward in the left turn lane.

“See what an action star I am, hanging on
the hood of your car,” said the caterpillar,
who was indeed hanging on the hood of
my car. “C’mon, take me to Hollywood,”
it said, two legs folded in prayer.

“No. I’m afraid I just can’t do that,” I said,
turning onto the highway.
“Whoa, where are you taking me? West is
the other way,” said the caterpillar on the hood
of my car.

“I’m sorry. Really I am. You’re really impressive I’ll admit.
Maybe when you’re a butterfly, I’ll reconsider,” I said as I accelerated.
“You’re loss. I won’t mention you when I give my
best actor speech at the Oscars,” said the caterpillar
on the hood of my car.

The caterpillar slid off the hood,
aloft in the breeze, disappearing from
my sight. Maybe to land on another hood,
and get the right sort of ride.
I’ll won’t hold my breath though.

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Aw, Put That Away!

The Cold War was very
real when I was a boy.
It seemed like any day a
nuclear war would break out
between the U.S. and the Soviet
Union and the world would be
plunged into a dystopian nightmare
akin to The Road Warrior or some
Orwellian State.

Millions of lives could be lost
in a strange “Biggest kid on the Block”
muscle party and I was terrified.
I had childhood anxiety as I was
obsessed with this idea that our
extinction might be at hand.
It directly led to my adult anxieties
without question.

And here we are again, saber rattling,
whipping our nuclear dicks out,
shouting, “You want some of this!”
And it’s terrifying. I mean that imagery
is pretty disturbing, but the real
rhetoric is even worse. It’s scary.
I’m scared.

I think we’ve forgotten that bitter taste of
fear and mistrust of our Global neighbors,
I don’t believe it’s a flavor I’d like to revisit.
In the meantime, I’ll be nervous, but not
as terrified as I was as a child. I’ll hope for
the best and that cooler, rational heads
prevail.

I hope they put their dicks away,
wash their hands and remember
how many times we’ve come to the brink
of desolation and pulled back, remembering
how terribly finite our existence is on this little
planet. There’s no future in reliving the past.
And I’m not sure my anxiety can handle it this
time around. 

Friday, August 4, 2017

Sort of the Same

Spent, shattered shards,
splintered, spewed and
splayed, spread rough shot,
across shifting scapes, in
swirls of soil and sand.

Seems especially similar
since I’ve certainly summarized
this sort of scene before,
something stunningly same,
of slender artistic equities.

I’ve said it some other time,
these alliterated stories of
sorrow, sadness or sweetness,
summed up and spat out,
a series rerun.

A sequel to something I said,
about trees, or hearts, or sex,
or lovers, signifying a desperation
for substance, sorely lacking with
substandard alliteration.

So, something to say, supple in
seriousness and specialness.
A sure show stopper to send the
senses spiraling into space,
a spectacular spectacle.

Something worthy of Shakespeare,
or Sam Shepard, I’m steady, ready,
steamed and sharp, so I’ve just to
say it. To say it, the something,
something stupendous.

Shit.

Stupid stuttering syllables.
So many disappointments.
Shattered, shards of sentiment,
spelling nonsense,
constantly.

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

The Turtle Rodeo


The Turtle Rodeo
is a spectacular
extravaganza of
unanticipated thrills,
chills, spills and various
other ills of all manner.

You will not believe your
eyes when you see the
skill, the bravery, the raw
power, of the world famous,
wild and rugged,
Turtleboys of Madagascar.

See them rope, ride, bust,
and break turtles of all breeds
in this once in a lifetime opportunity!
It’s action like you’ve never seen,
nor were ever likely to believe.
Your jaw will drop!

Cheer, ooh and ahh, with your
friends as Bucky the Box Turtle Breaker
goes for the Turtle Rodeo record of
seven hours before being thrown
to the grassy arena of doom.   
Will Bucky survive!?!

You’ve watched other catastrophes
before, so why stop now.
Don’t worry about the ASPCA,
they don’t care about turtles,
so bring your turtle shell soup bowl and
tell the babysitter you’ll be late!

You’ll be at the Turtle Rodeo
having the greatest time
mortality can provide!
Yee-haw!


Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Let's Get Our Love On


Where does it all come from?
All this hate?
All this anger toward each
other?
Don’t we have more important
things to do than to worry about
what that woman is wearing,
what that guy smells like,
who has what sex organs,
what God is THE God?

Why is it we have so much time
for hatred, but so little time for
love?

I hate traffic, long lines, poor
communication, misunderstandings,
drippy food at a restaurant, broken
shoelaces, bad TV reception, running
out of beer, expensive cigarettes,
and being told what to do.

That’s the breadth of my hatred really,
I’m aware of its futility and sometimes
ridiculousness, I can laugh at myself for
my silly hatreds. They are the mild
annoyances of life that sometimes
deserve scorn, but are in no way destructive.

I just want to make time for love, in the
least beatnik, hippie-ish way possible.
More like, love is simply the way of the
world and the thing we as people all have
the most in common. Rather than hate.
I want to love you. I want you
to love me too.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Never Trust A White Man In A Hawaiian Shirt

“Never trust a white man
in a Hawaiian shirt,” I said
to the nineteen year old Rapper
I happened to come across
during a Saturday night
adventure.

“Huh,” he said to me.
I had wandered past
a bar with beats and
deep bass emanating from
inside. There was a crowd
outside, talking and laughing.

I stopped to light a smoke
and started a conversation with
a guy who happened to be the promoter of the event.
“This young rapper inside, he’s my new client,”
said the promoter,  “He’s good.”
The promoter told me to check it out.

I went into the bar, sticking out, in
a bright ocean blue Hawaiian shirt,
and an Irish face highlighted red with
drink.  I settled in by the pool table to
listen to the young rapper and his
throaty back-up.

I bobbed my head in time,
listened as best I could through the
thundering rhythm. I couldn’t quite
make out the words, but the young rapper
had talent, it seemed. The song ended.
I clapped with all the other patrons.

I thought I should get a drink at the bar,
so I could, you know, blend in. I couldn’t
make it though because right at that moment,
a young woman with her head buried in a smart
phone crossed my path, she was followed by
Lil Wayne, and then a huge body guard.

“Was that Lil Wayne,” I asked the
guy behind me. He nodded that it was.
Since the bartender was unreachable I decided
I’d go back outside, see that promoter,
and see if that was indeed Lil Wayne.
Because, hey, Lil Wayne.

I went outside and the promoter and
Lil Wayne were talking briefly and before
you could say “Cellphone Camera”, Lil Wayne
was in a luxury car and they vanished into the
night.  I looked at the promoter and I nodded.
He nodded back.

“I should have got a picture,” I said.
I’m not sure what the promoter thought
I said but he goes, “Hang on,” and went into
the bar and came outside with the young rapper.
“This guy wanted to meet you,” said the promoter
to the young rapper.

“Who are you,” said the young rapper.
“Me? I’m just a white guy in a Hawaiian shirt,” I said.
The promoter seemed to laugh.
“But I really enjoyed what you got going on in there
and I wish you nothing but success,” I said.
He looked at my curiously, eyebrows furrowed.

I laughed, explained how he should
never trust a white man in a Hawaiian shirt,
shook their hands and continued on my
Saturday night journey, feeling nostalgic
for the adventures, misadventures,
of my younger days.  


Wednesday, July 12, 2017

In Consideration of Dandelions


“My poetry of late has been rather flowery,” I said.
My shadow nodded.
“I mean, I almost wrote about dandelions. How
banal is that,” I asked.
My shadow shrugged.

“I want to write something of substance,
of meaning, filled with soulful revelations
and creative insight,” I said.
My shadow nodded emphatically.
“Okay then, here’s goes…,” I said.

My shadow sat motionless against the
wall. Slightly leaning forward, waiting,
anticipating.
“So… there’s these dandelions right…,” I said.
My Shadow threw his arms up in the air.

“Right, right. No freaking dandelions,” I said.
My shadow acquiesced with relish.
“How about sexy ladies? Should I write about
sexy ladies,” I asked.
A slow upward shrug from my shadow, palms up.

“Dear sexy ladies,” I said.
My shadow slapped himself in the forehead.
“What, you’re an art critic now,” I asked.
My shadow put his hands on his hips and
turned his head up toward the heavens.

“Fine. No sexy ladies or dandelions. Sheesh,” I said.
My shadow nodded.
“So what should I write about,” I asked.
My shadow curled his thumb and gestured
to himself.

“You? A shadow? What’s interesting about you,”
I asked.
My shadow froze for a long moment. I heard a foot
tapping somewhere.
“Fine. What’s on your mind?”

Friday, July 7, 2017

Road Work


A beetle crawled across the windshield of Dan’s beaten up old work truck. Dan eyed the beetle over the rim of his morning coffee with mild interest. The beetle seemed to be up awful early in Dan’s experience. Dan gently sipped the hot coffee from his cup.  He relished the mild burn of the black coffee as he planned his day.  The sun was just barely breaking the crease of the horizon and long morning shadows played across the old road.

                Dan’s road crew was hired to repave long stretches of ancient highway that were now sparsely used thanks to the newer interstate. It was finally his crew, his business and no one else could tell him how to do the job. It was a wonderful feeling. It was something he hadn’t felt in some time. Dan felt his opportunities were finally turning around after the divorce. Sandra had taken almost everything from him, although he did give most of it up willingly. He just wanted things in his life to get back to normal and leave all the craziness of Sandra and her various lovers behind. He still loved her. He could feel it stinging every time he looked at their old wedding photo he’d taped to the dashboard. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just rip the photo off and toss it out the window as he sped past the Old Barrel Bar where he and Sandra met, wooed, married and fought for that last time. It seemed wrong to toss the photo aside just as carelessly as Sandra had tossed their relationship aside.  He considered that he might need the pain to fill the space left vacant by Sandra’s leaving.

                Dan took another sip from his coffee and sighed. The beetle on the windshield had stopped in its morning march and was flicking its rear legs back and forth. Dan leaned forward in his driver’s seat to look closer at the beetle. It was a thick little thing, black and lightly hairy; with hints of a reflective metallic sheen to its wings.   Dan watched the beetle do what it does. It paused every so often, antennae sniffing the air for whatever it is that beetle’s sniff for, and then it returned to its dutiful cleaning. He could hear the beetle’s legs clacking together through the windshield glass; a repetitive click and clack, in time with nature.
               
Morning birds were singing as the sun climbed and Dan was reminded of how he used to hate those birds and their chirping. He used to hate them because they reminded him of how he missed out on so many things. He used to work very late, third shift mostly, and he would never get home until the sun was up.   He’d pull into the driveway of the old house, the one with Sandra sleeping inside, and regret that he never got to spend any time with her. She worked during the day while he slept and she slept while he was working at night. They never seemed to even cross paths for a few years. The birds and their morning songs reminded him of how much he hated to miss time with her.  They were terribly loud and they compounded Dan’s loneliness for his wife; all those morning mating calls echoing across the fields behind the old house.  He understood them yet loathed them because of his understanding.

                The beetle, apparently satisfied with its morning cleaning ritual, started trekking across Dan’s windshield again. Dan sat back in his seat and turned his head to follow the beetle’s path. The beetle got to edge of the windshield where it met the frame of the pick-up truck. It unfurled its thin wings and buzzed off into the morning. Dan tried to watch it as it flew over the near-by field of tall grass but he quickly lost sight. He hoped the best for the beetle. He hoped it wouldn’t get eaten by some hungry early bird. He hoped it would find safety in its journey and he appreciated the short visit it had bestowed upon him.

                Dan checked the dashboard digital clock. His crew was still an hour away from joining him on the job site. He felt glad to have the time to himself, other than his beetle friend, to think and rest and plan. He knew the old highway spur very well. It used to be a well traveled road before the interstate moved the entrances and exits 30 miles away. It needed a fairly cursory repave to smooth over some of the more weathered and rough spots that still gave the locals trouble. It wouldn’t take more than a full day to fill and smooth. It was a good piece of work for honest pay and Dan felt honored to have received the contract. He felt some connection to the road; as if he’d always been on it, or part of it. He wanted to nurture it. 

  When Dan was a boy, he and his father used to take the old spur up toward Bell’s Lake for camping and nights out in the wilderness.  He remembered looking forward to it, for the most part, until his father finished off that sixth beer and things usually started veering into strange territory. His father, sitting on an old stump by the lake, would wax philosophic about love, sex, women, war, and Dan’s mother.  It wouldn’t be too soon afterwards that the woods and silence of the lake would be broken by the bear-like snores coming from his father’s tent. By then Dan was looking forward to the quiet ride back home in the morning with a far grumpier version of his father.

Dan looked out at the road as it was lit by the rising sun and saw the cracks, bumps, holes and weeds spotting its path. He wondered about the miles he, and the road, and the beetle might have shared or if they were ever connected in any way.  Dan took another sip of his cooling coffee and sighed. 

Friday, June 30, 2017

The Work of Liberty Never Stops


The Fireworks that
explode o’er head
are the eulogies of
those brave forbearers
who struggled and fought
for liberty and control
over their own destinies.

Liberty’s flames, fed by
martyrs and patriots,
bursting in the sky
to the crescendo of
“Ooh’s” and “Ahh’s”,
and the twinkle in the
eyes of a child, born free.

This celebration of our
nation, is our moment,
to reflect on the men and
women who gave their all
for an idea. An untested idea
for the time. An unheard of
theory of self government.

The booming thunder, shaking
the pillars of heaven are the voices
of the people, determined to carve
out a life for themselves in freedom,
with liberty and justice, for themselves and
more importantly, their
posterity.

It is our duty…, nay, our debt to
them that we must pay, with our
vigilance, courage and sheer nerve.
We must keep the sacrifices they made
in our hearts and our heads, and use this
time of remembrance to continue to make
America worthy of the blood spilled.  We The People.