Photo by Ron Lach from Pexels
When does a poem wax more sermon than a blog?
If conscience bleeds and critics ruminate!
The table scraps my children dropped to feed our dog,
That’s poetry. Though I’m alone of late.
I tend the Hungry now, with meals that chefs prepare.
Clothe some new-bought, and some with odds and ends.
Drive bitten, ill, or injured to the urgent care.
And Strangers by and by I call my friends.
I strive to do the best a single man can do,
And pray to God the same my Country can.
Been nicknamed Matthew XXV a time or two,
The one I am, this under-perfect man.
I miss the mountains.
But more than charity these stranded souls have need:
To be accepted AND TO HAVE A CHANCE.
To work, find home, in God to trust that they’ll succeed.
And every day to dream the dream to dance.
We’re not at war, but refugees of poverty
Come to our town to live on city streets.
Broad stripes; bright stars; o’er fruited plains can we all see
Dawn’s early light: how Loneliness repeats?
What shame’s enough if empty hands of Liberty?
What ears hear only anthems, not distress?
Is this the way Democracy shall set worlds free?
And prove the Faith Americans profess.
Home of the Brave.