It’s a Funny Kind of World

It’s a funny kind of world
Where the people that we know
Are the cowards who are fearless,
Or the warriors coming home

It’s a funny kind of world
Where the ones who think they’re strong
Aren’t the ones that fight for freedom
Or the ones who right our wrongs

It’s a funny kind of world
When the fearless have no pluck
And the victory of heroes
Is attributed to luck.

It’s a funny kind of world
Where a veteran is not seen
As deserving of the honor
He should have from those he’s freed

It’s a funny kind of world
Where the people that we know
Either don’t deserve to be here
Or can’t be sure they’ll make it home

It’s a funny kind of world
Where the ones who’ve earned it best
Don’t get the chance to live here
After standing every test

It’s a funny kind of world
Where the red, the white, the blue
Stand for every kind of freedom
But don’t call for a salute

It’s a funny kind of world
When the ones who did the most
Don’t just miss the celebration:
They’re forgotten by the host

I’m done with this funny world
I don’t get it, anyway
I will not forget the reasons
That we have Memorial Day


This poem is a tribute to the fallen, but also a heartfelt thank you to those who serve to protect us at all times and on all fronts.



The Flag Still Flies

This is my official “Independence Day” post.



The flag still flies, and you can see it

more than any other day

as we remember patriotism

and the price we’ve had to pay.

The flag still flies because of heroes

who have given their last breath

ever since we fought Great Britain

wanting freedom more, life less.

The flag still flies in pride and freedom

in the hands of those whose lives

demonstrate the sort of courage

that brought victories from strife.

The flag still flies despite its losses,

and it waves yet fuller still

every time the price of freedom

means another life is spilt.

The flag still flies for all the veterans

of the wars now yesterday

bringing memories of old wars

and the ends of tyrannies.

The flag remains the sign of freedom

and the symbol for our land;

as we live and die, the flag lives on,

passed down from hand to hand.

The flag still flies, and will forever,

have I anything to say;

the flag still flies, but who will wave it





Your Story: Riverside

Your Story: Riverside.

What secret does the rag reveal?

What dark, mysterious past?

Are we to ever know the truth

of why it hangs so fast?

There’s something in the way it sways

when winter’s breeze blows by

that feels so living one must stop

and wait to hear it sigh.

It sighs, indeed, though you must strain

and only some have heard,

but those who have can feel the pain

encompassed in the word.

With pain so deep, it must have lived

in sweet tranquility;

in any other case, it would be happy

to be free.

But not this rag.  Although today

it only flutters there,

within its heart, it sighs because

its secrets can’t be shared.

Why Do I Write?

Well, you asked why I write
(or at least I try to write)
a post for you every week.
I know it’s not the day I post
(or at least I try to post)
but I know the answer now
So I’ll just tell you today
(or at least I’ll try to tell)
because I love to write.

I write for the words themselves
(or I tell you what they say)
because someone has to say it.
They tell you what they tell me
(or I tell you what they say)
and I wouldn’t keep that from you.
I translate words from ancient languages
(or I tell you what they say)
so you can see the beauty.

That means I write for you, then
(although you couldn’t tell)
and that’s reason two.
I’m keeping track of the reasons
(although you couldn’t tell)
and this one’s all about you.
I know who you all are, I think
(although you couldn’t tell)
and you’re my inspiration and my audience both.

Lastly, I write for myself
(otherwise I’m blind)
so I can see or hear.
I write my feelings out in here
(otherwise I’m empty)
and somehow they become beautiful again.
I’ll always write these words
(otherwise I’m nothing)
because these words are me.

I write for the words.
I write for you.
I write for me.
I write.

Writing is a mirror in my life
(it took me long enough to see)
so I can know what I really am.
For a scary minute, I couldn’t write
(it took too long to get back)
and I realized the whole truth.
When you see the words, just remember
(it took me long enough to say it)
what you’re seeing is me.

I write because I am the words
(or at least I try to write)
I write for you, the readers
(or I write to help you see me)
I write for me because writing is me
(although you couldn’t tell)
I write because writing is real
(otherwise I’m no different for it)
I write because writing doesn’t have to be real
(it took me long enough to understand)
I write because without writing, I am nothing.
The only thing I can’t write is you.

I am writing.
What are you?