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Poem


Every man woman and child is a poet in their own right.
The gems a child comes out with can be a delight.
The words uttered by a father when he holds his first child,
Will turn a heavy weight prize fighter, meek and mild.
The prayer a busy woman says at the end of each day
Giving thanks for God’s help to make it all the way.
Yes each of us blessed with emotion to be a poet.
Even though all possess the talent and do not know it.
My emotions ran riot at the age of 14 during the Vietnam war.
20  years old conscripted, who didn’t even know what they were fighting for. 
My words held anger and rhyme was a secondary care. 
I didn’t think of it as poetry, it was out of despair.
Euphoric stimulation rushing through my mind from inspiration. 
Passion for the topic born of fury and indignation.
When ever emotion became too heightened to ignore, 
I would take up a pen and write some more.
These utterances of mine became more eloquent as time went by.
When the subject allowed, a little irony and humor became my catch cry.
No one ever saw these poems pasted in an old scrap book. 
But I never considered them wasted by the time they took.
The book is long gone, lost in one of our clean ups over time.
Gone forever my book with all my emotion and rhyme.
Retired, surfing the net for something new to do that would dazzle my mind,
I found a site called Poetry Soup which was quite a find. 
I felt the poet’s vibration. Did this come from some unique inspiration?
I now dare to call myself a poet, I’ll keep my poems for my next generation.

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