When I was a child I wondered about Vietnam,
couldn’t wait to see the names scroll by
the evening news, Walter Conkrite’s lovely sigh
would ring in my mind until my later bedtime.
I saw the protestors, I lived by their side,
I was the kid the one with dreams and hope,
everyone else jaded with shards of rope,
to me this all seemed rather a cool slide.
When Malcolm was shot I was only five
years old, yet young enough to curate
a foundation of wonderment to relate
my own upbringing to his will to survive.
Shards of glass tore through the landscape
I remember Bloody Sunday to wit
storms of lost souls with no regret
their master the King slain without escape.
I recall my childhood the assassinations
today an older soul was still watching scroll
the names scan across on the idiot box below
the regular news, the stuff of our emotions.
In California, a presidential wannabe
gunned down without a moment good bye
where on the ground the nation’s own lie
the world went on, we had needs to see.
Instead of losing our nation’s leaders,
we’re taking away those we don’t know
those we have often times told to go,
yet somehow they cannot be seceders.
We argue commonality and dated resource
no one really knows who will need defend
a nation in peril of its society soon to upend
ignorance of reasoning, (bare) arms of course
I read the news today, heard about the fire
within whose wasteful rage to wallow close
to take a life that matter so to all of those
family that in his life he tried to aspire.
What happens in our world today,
such to disillusion the American way.