He was a new poet with the dew of youth
on his cheeks and childishness in his words.
He spoke of his God, of love and of truth
with a pony-tailed naïveté which implored.
Bicycles pedal through his posies chords.
He smiled when he spoke of A. Ginsberg, man..
nicotine stains the fingers of his hand.
thinking of the beat poets, Rexroth he'd read
tales of smoke ring round his brow garlanded
Dean resurrects in the cock of his head.
A new rooster was shy of twenty four
one ear ring, bow lips and shy of pretense
he wrote in a leather bound book of war.
He was all about peace, gentle innocence
yet the world, the world held troubles immense
A rebel of peace so like Siddhartha
to war he'd not go, not follow father..
A poet primed a new man with a calling
trying yet again to call each man brother
trying yet again to stop mankind's falling.