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          Story of an Old Poet
This is where the story begins,
     Late at night he sits and writes
 Pros that flood his aging mind.
     Stories of yesteryear and sweet red wine
 from there to here in double time.
      The Eiffel tower, bull rings in Spain
Lines penned are beau coup as the clock strikes two.
      He wrote of many places and many things
Childhood days, high school events, backseat consents.
     He wrote about love and lovers, haters, and candle stick makers
He wrote from barracks, ships at sea, and the battlefield so surreal.  
     Of war, bullets and bombs, and black body bags stacked like rubber drums.
He wrote of dying young men and the year of the monkey, Tet at the city of Hue,
     and the names of all those who stood tall, solemnly engraved on that black marble wall.                                                                         
He wrote of whaling mothers and tearful fathers, grieving wives and crying children with
    their cold and  forever aching hearts. 
He wrote of the men, who survived the horrors and today still holds the devil’s tail.
He wrote of racing cars, baseball games and rocket ships with fancy names,
       and of morning dew  drops on budding roses and  colorful autumn leaves, lonely scarecrows,
 tall oak trees and wishing wells.
 He wrote of Princes Di, whose death made everyone cry.
     He wrote of little Johnnie, who now lives happily in the land of Honah Lee with Puff the magic dragon.
 The old poet still writes, but the sands in the hour glass are catching up with him and soon
      he’ll be just dust in the wind, and that my friend, is where this story ends!                                                                                                                       
Jackie R. Kays
© 5/18/12

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