Faith is a sacred gift in life,
a gift we seize or spurn.
The seeds are freely granted us;
the fruit is ours to earn.
I draw my sleep beneath a golf ball moon,
where verdant trees sprout tiny, ticking clocks.
Deep waters hold me close in rippled arms,
enfold me in a soft, white bed of rocks.
Their roots were in the land;
the land was everything.
The old ones took a stand,
inured to suffering.
Unfair I may be, but I’m not
quite certain of that fact.
It’s hard to be objective when
you judge the way I act.
If ever in my final, fading years
the essence of me drifts too far away…
if I am lost as reason disappears,
hold me in memory until the day
when body stills at last and spirit flies
to make a home in brighter, bluer skies.
Martin Luther King
had quite a dream,
and so did I.
Sadly, it peaked,
then sprang a leak
and failed to satisfy.
I grew up in the golden years
when WWII was finally past.
A grateful country shed her fears
as fighting men came home at last.
