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Patrick Kelly Poem
She became a symbols of American pride,
as she made her run down the tracks.
Those big drivers turning eight wheels
and smoke pouring from her stack.
Pulling cars from Chicago to Memphis,
on across that Delta Land,
running down to Baton Rouge and over to the Gulf Coast sands.
She saw the Yellow Dog run where the Southern Cross the Dog
ate the shrimp in New Orleans and the ribs from a Kansas City hog
She pulled corn out of Illinois and a load of wheat to sell
Rumble on down to Mississippi on the Monday Morning Rail
The engineer, with his hand on the whistle,
keeping the train on time.
His schedule became a badge of honor,
As he ran the railroad line.
He rolled through village and town
then turned the throttle loose,
A hundred tons of solid steel, a
hundred cars and a caboose.
She was called “the future of America,”
Before the diesel took her place.
She kept her date with destiny and lost
In the final race.
History has told the story of an era
that has come and gone,
A hundred years of running the rail,
the steam engine has sung her song.
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2021
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Patrick Kelly Poem
“Get your crap together, we’re leaving,” were the words but the
Cobwebs in my brain block out who said them. We started throwing things,
clearing out as dumpsters arrived with the Vietnamese. We throw in and they take out just as fast. It was better than Macy’s or Walmart for them. Gone are my boots, turned almost white.
My camos, faded and weathered were gone in a flash, my bush hat, gone
with the names of friends and the calendar with my days marked off.
Gone was my mattress and it’s sand, quickly hauled away on a bicycle. My little brush broom I used to sweep the sand out of my bed, tossed
was The Stars and Stripes, the Military Newspaper and the picture of
Actress Jane Fonda committing treason against her
fellow Americans. I cleaned it all out.
.
There was laughter and merriment, the war was to become
a bad memory, we were zealous in our leaving.
No more Band of Brothers of canned chicken, cheese and crackers,
Hamburgers and steaks danced in our heads.
The souvenirs I had saved meant nothing to me.
I left the AK standing in a corner of my room, taken off a very young Vietnamese soldier, “Death of a Boy” another memory to take my thoughts
through the years.
I left the memory of the little “Angel in Rags"
Who would later come back and haunt my sleep.
We left our friends, with never a thought, who departed in flag draped caskets, we left it all.
We brought them back with us and honored them on "the Wall" and in the dreams of "Old Soldiers" and the guilt of "Why Thee and not Me?"
We brought their faces and personalities back with us never to leave.
We hurried to leave but we knew in a very weird way there was almost a sadness leaving there too, as we flew out, we looked down from the air,
there were the rice paddies floating away as I gazed down making out places that I marked with my cans of trash, the only sign of my own little war effort. I hated leaving others behind. I thought nothing of it until I was in the air, flying away, flying back to the world. Vietnam was just as black as the POW flag, seeping into every pour of the body, every memory
ambushing dreams. Vietnam, never defeated, just a killing field but also welded
a brotherhood, never to dim.
The last we’d see of Vietnam. We made it and came back with our honor in tact.
Though suspect with many at home, a war fought from Washington by politicians who never saw war and never meant to win.We knew, we did the best we could with our hands tied and shackled under the rules of appeasement and bad leadership.
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2021
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Patrick Kelly Poem
Farewell old pard, I write this letter to you. Well, I guess I’ll saddle up and ride out with my new pard, he’s only a colt at three.
He’s a real beauty, a real eye pleaser and sure of foot with a cutting pedigree.
I’ll go on out to the rough country where the sky is blue, relive the
old times and try to work the rope a bit, so I won’t be thinking of you.
We were pards for many a year and we both tote the scars to show
and that cold back you had fairly tossed me hard every morning before you’d make up your mind to go.
But we never shared a cross word that ever meant much among friends,
Though, you did take a few hard comments when you got ornery now and then.
We purt- near worked in all kinds of weather, rain, snow and even a blizzard or two.
We shared our misery out on the plains when the cold winds off the mountain blew.
We’ve covered a lot of country, any closer, I don’t guess any pards could be
and though you weren’t much to look at, it never meant much to me.
You loved your job and worked it well with light rains and leg ques.
And there were times when you led the way, and I took my ques from you.
You were not a natural cutter, but you weren’t scared of bulls, cows or steer
and you worked the tight spots eagerly, never showing the jitters of fear.
We were pards, alright, never just a way to get the job done nor pleasure for me,
You loved it too, riding the open range with only the basics that kept us wild and free.
Why did you go and leave me, you just laid down in your stall and I was left alone.
I tell my stories and old pard, I tell yours too, since you’ve checked out and gone.
I look back through the years as I sit here looking over the grass growing high on the range.
How love for a horse can feel so right is hard for this cowboy to explain.
I can’t help but riminess’ and wonder, were there times you just didn’t feel quite well?
You always took to the saddle and in my selfish way, I never cared to ask, and you didn’t tell
We’d ride out and pretty- soon, you seemed glad you came along and there were
times we trailed in late, long after the sun had gone.
But now I look back on the past and sentimental thoughts tears my eyes and burden me.
Good-by old pard from your old friend, you were the best any pard could be.
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2022
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Patrick Kelly Poem
The American Indians have a story to tell
and a way of life that history knows so well.
For many years, the great tribes stretched across the land.
Raising their families from nature’s own hand.
They built their homes in the mountains, deserts and plains.
Planted their crops and hunted the wild game.
They used the land as a way to survive,
Built their homes from the buffalo’s hide.
There were many things about them that seemed so strange,
A different way of life before the white man came.
And when they fought a battle that would take a war to win,
They were put on reservations and lost their hunting land.
The white eyes gave them food and built them a home,
Took away their honor, as they tossed them a bone.
As the years pass, we love to think back to the day,
And paint our picture in the color of the Indian way.
For the silence of a village sitting on the banks of a stream.
Could there be a prettier picture of the American Dream?
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2021
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Patrick Kelly Poem
Daydreaming, on a sunny day
I develop thoughts of grandeur as the afternoon slips away.
I can be the hero as I step upon my stage
When the boy gets the girl and inhibitions slip away.
I will be the leading actor and I will write the script.
The pilot of my airplane or the captain of my ship.
The scene can be a majestic mountain or the roll of the
mighty sea,
And I can stand like solid rock, as my thoughts are
running free.
I may fly like a bird right out of a comic book
Or soar through a million stars, eager for a cosmic look.
People walk around me as I sleep here in the shade.
Do they somehow know of all the leading parts I’ve
played?
When I finally wake up and rub the sleep from my heavy
eyes.
I have to remove my mask and I lose my disguise.
But there will be another day and I will take a trip.
I’ll fly through the universe aboard my rocket ship.
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2021
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Patrick Kelly Poem
The Word was with God and the Word was God
The “Book of John” bares witness to the same
The maker of all things made that which was made
There in the beginning before the foundation was laid
The giver of light in the firmament of space
God’s divine light offers salvation, in Amazing Grace
Creating heavenly bodies orbiting a cosmic void of time
Jesus gave his life for the sins of man, he is the living vine
Crucified on the cross and his blood stained the land
The Christ, gave his life the greatest gift to man
The serpent, bruised his heel and he was buried in the grave He crushed the head of the snake, the debt of sin was paid
A cross stands alone and there’s not a body in the tomb
The curtain splits down the middle and the darken day resumed
Clouds blackened the sky and sin lost its deadly sway
The quake’s mighty trimmers ceased and silently passed away
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Jesus paid it all, his gift so all can be saved
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2022
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Patrick Kelly Poem
When looking back on thoughts of despair, words in haste so hard to bear. Where sharp tongues take control, shaking the mind while crushing the soul. Speaking words from the heart, stern but true, brings hard thoughts into review, it’s hard to smile and easy to weep, hard to stand on tender feet. Like the hand that wrote on the brings remorse as feelings fall. …….Written trough the night, don’t really understand it and yet I do. This poem wrote itself and that is why I kept it.
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2021
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Patrick Kelly Poem
Right before dark in the middle of June,
Between the setting sun and the rise of the moon
I feel an eerie vapor, damp and dim,
Exhale from a distance fence and over its rim
It steals like magic over grass and field,
A motion in sunder, my eyes reveal
Dare, I stand there wide awake,
Dare, I stay for pretty words sake
The strangest presents from a silent tree top,
Through a lattice of limbs a bodiless drops
So, fearful above and close to my wall,
My chest like shadows rise and fall
I say to myself, “have no fear,
Why or what are you dreaming here?”
Shaking from nerves from unopened eyes,
I stand and feel the ghost go by
Does he sleep just over that fence,
What kind of a danger does a ghost present?
Does his tomb have a sounding door,
Do you hear that echo or more?
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2021
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Patrick Kelly Poem
I see a smile as a shooting star
That soars to the heights where the eagles are
Yet, a smile is like spring in its freshest hue
Or maybe like a jewel of morning dew
A smile is like a wind in its breezy bands
Or tiny bubbles where water stands A smile in the eyes clears the morning light
And a smile on the lips touches the sky at night
But the wind can blow out and bubbles dry
The spring fades into the summer’s sky
The dew dries up, and shooting stars, shot
But a smile, on a face is never forgot
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2022
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Patrick Kelly Poem
I’ve walked a mile in the other man's shoes that have left me tired and sore. Each step has piled up through the years,
He had problems galore.
I jumped off a fright in Nashville,
my pockets can’t find a dime.
My stomach hungers for a burger and fries But my lips thirst for whiskey or wine.
I cling to the wagon, grabbing for a chance
So, I’ve traded my thumb for a boxcar,
swaying with the rails in step to the devil’s dance
The rain is slowly falling, and the lights of a bus stop come into view.
It’s a chance to rest my bones
and a roof to cover me too.
I start a little lizard as he hides
from the passers-by.
His perch is safe from worry his home is dusty and dry.
He eyes me with suspicion, his little legs
pumping up and down.
He lives his life in colors,
changing from green to brown.
He seems to except my failures
and he peeps up without a blink.
Could a lizard have pity for a tramp? It’s a notion, too shameful to think
An old, dejected dog trots by,
with pause he stands exposed.
The rain washing his ragged coat
and wetting his dripping nose.
I welcome him in for the night
making it a lowly band of three. Considering as far down as I am
It’s a step up for the likes of me
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2022
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