Sitting Lark
He plays a song passed down for centuries,
By a nation that exists no more;
On a flute carved from a sycamore tree,
While sitting on the forest floor.
His father was a tribal chief,
For a people who once were great;
Now living on welfare relief -
His punishment for being born too late.
Holding fast to his cultural ties,
He is the last of a dying breed;
Not succumbing to a history of lies;
Warnings to fit in, he does not heed.
At home by himself in the thick of the woods,
Under a full moon in the quiet breeze;
He lives his life the way that he should -
The last to play this melody.
by, Joe Flach for Constance's "Tell His Story" Contest
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2011
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment