Occasion: I wrote this poem after returning from a trip to Washington DC with my dad in the summer of 1985. We visited the Viet Nam Memorial and it impressed me. I had to write.
The air is cold,
The dawn breaks bold,
A mist is on my breath.
I stand and stare,
In cold despair,
Upon this wall called death.
On slabs of black,
Like clouds of flak,
I read the names in grey.
They tell of wars,
On foreign shores,
And horrors of the day.
I hear the screams,
I see the streams,
Of life-blood in the dew.
I hear the cries,
And blood drenched sighs,
A soldier’s life is through.
Through fields of grain,
In pouring rain,
There's something very wrong.
His buddy's dead,
Just half a head,
He hates the Viet Cong.
Eighteen he'll be,
The first of three,
His parent’s oldest son.
With head held high,
He'll try and try,
But still they'll take Saigon.
He tries to fight,
All through the night,
But then he takes his fall.
The years went fast,
He's home at last,
His name is on the wall.
The air is cold,
The dawn breaks bold,
A mist is on my breath.
I stand and stare,
In cold despair,Upon this wall called death.
September 12, 2004
September 10, 2004
Pondering
Occasion: I was stationed at the Presidio of San Francisco in 1987 and had lots of time to think about stuff. Most of the "stuff" I thought about was Tina. Man, she can be distracting. My room there had a fairly good view of the back side of San Francisco. Once again, Tina was my muse.
Looking out upon the city,
Through the darkness of the night,
I can’t describe the beauty,
Of the tiny, twinkling lights.
How they stand against the blackness,
Of the somber, evening sky,
How they seem so unaffected,
As the wind goes howling by.
It’s hard for me to tell you,
What my mind sees late at night,
Or how it’s you I think of
While staring at those lights.
Their number is so countless,
Yet they seem like very few,
And it makes it difficult not to see,
That there’s only one of you.
When my life seem filled with darkness,
Just like the still, long nights,
You simply brighten up my day,
More than all those city lights.
Looking out upon the city,
Through the darkness of the night,
I can’t describe the beauty,
Of the tiny, twinkling lights.
How they stand against the blackness,
Of the somber, evening sky,
How they seem so unaffected,
As the wind goes howling by.
It’s hard for me to tell you,
What my mind sees late at night,
Or how it’s you I think of
While staring at those lights.
Their number is so countless,
Yet they seem like very few,
And it makes it difficult not to see,
That there’s only one of you.
When my life seem filled with darkness,
Just like the still, long nights,
You simply brighten up my day,
More than all those city lights.
Sacramento
Occasion: I wrote this for a creative writing class early in my college career. The assignment was to write about the place we grew up.
In a valley where cold winds blow,
Lots of rain but little snow,
Chilly river waters flow,
Winter in Sacramento.
Weeds are tall it’s time to mow,
Pollen in the breezes blow,
I ain’t ‘lergic to nothing though,
Spring in Sacramento.
Down the river rafters row,
Evening traffic’s much too slow,
We’ll be too late to see the show,
Summer in Sacramento.
Off to school we all must go,
What’s ahead we just don’t know,
Grass and trees all cease to grow,
Fall in Sacramento.
In a valley where cold winds blow,
Lots of rain but little snow,
Chilly river waters flow,
Winter in Sacramento.
Weeds are tall it’s time to mow,
Pollen in the breezes blow,
I ain’t ‘lergic to nothing though,
Spring in Sacramento.
Down the river rafters row,
Evening traffic’s much too slow,
We’ll be too late to see the show,
Summer in Sacramento.
Off to school we all must go,
What’s ahead we just don’t know,
Grass and trees all cease to grow,
Fall in Sacramento.
August 31, 2004
To An Unknown Child
Occasion: I wrote this in 1984 but I don't know what prompted it. The previous year, my last in High School, I took a class called Protest Literature. My semester report was on Abortion.
They never believed,
That he’d be conceived,
That little baby boy,
They’d tried it at last,
Put it all in their past,
They thought it was a toy.
He’s got little hands,
And a brain that commands,
His little heart to beat,
He is perfect each way,
Getting stronger each day,
From his head to his tiny feet.
He perished one day,
In a pre-conceived way,
On an early, misty morn.
Once made in a flash,
Now he lives in the trash,
He was never even born.
Only memories remain,
Of a girl gone insane,
From a child that will never trod,
In the grass or the trees,
Never sit on her knees,But he sits on the lap of GOD.
They never believed,
That he’d be conceived,
That little baby boy,
They’d tried it at last,
Put it all in their past,
They thought it was a toy.
He’s got little hands,
And a brain that commands,
His little heart to beat,
He is perfect each way,
Getting stronger each day,
From his head to his tiny feet.
He perished one day,
In a pre-conceived way,
On an early, misty morn.
Once made in a flash,
Now he lives in the trash,
He was never even born.
Only memories remain,
Of a girl gone insane,
From a child that will never trod,
In the grass or the trees,
Never sit on her knees,But he sits on the lap of GOD.
August 30, 2004
A Friend
Occasion: I think 1987 prompted this one all by itself. Other than that, I can't remember.
I think I found the Answer,
To the feelings that I’ve had,
That make me feel envious,
Jealous, down and sad.
I’ve never had a best friend,
With whom to spend the day,
Or sit and talk and laugh with,
And wile the hours away.
A friend who wants to see me,
And whose day I make glad,
Or who will hear my troubles,
When the times are rough or bad.
Oh sure, I have my share of friends,
With whom to take a walk,
But never one I’d think of,
When I need someone to talk.
Now it’s not that I need pity,
Or want it for myself,
Cause most of this I’ve done alone,
By sitting on my shelf.
But I see how other peoples eyes,
Light up when someone’s near,
And it doesn’t take too much to see,
That someone’s very dear.
And as I sit and write,
Of the things I wish could be,
I soon begin to realize,
And my mind begins to see.
God loves me so very much,
That to save me from the end,
He gave His only Son to die,
And thus be my Best Friend.
I think I found the Answer,
To the feelings that I’ve had,
That make me feel envious,
Jealous, down and sad.
I’ve never had a best friend,
With whom to spend the day,
Or sit and talk and laugh with,
And wile the hours away.
A friend who wants to see me,
And whose day I make glad,
Or who will hear my troubles,
When the times are rough or bad.
Oh sure, I have my share of friends,
With whom to take a walk,
But never one I’d think of,
When I need someone to talk.
Now it’s not that I need pity,
Or want it for myself,
Cause most of this I’ve done alone,
By sitting on my shelf.
But I see how other peoples eyes,
Light up when someone’s near,
And it doesn’t take too much to see,
That someone’s very dear.
And as I sit and write,
Of the things I wish could be,
I soon begin to realize,
And my mind begins to see.
God loves me so very much,
That to save me from the end,
He gave His only Son to die,
And thus be my Best Friend.
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