The day John Kennedy was shot,
He bowed his wounded head...
His wife embraced him frantically,
Her lap, a martyr's bed.
The years have passed since Kennedy...
With heartache, war, and strife....
How would it be if, only,
He had not then lost his life?
This early morn I woke befuddled; .
Came downstairs to write
These thoughts that in my mind were muddled
Through the stormy night.
There's got to be another poem;
Perhaps a book or two.
I have ideas for writing them
By then I should be through.
Pope John is dead! The crowds go home,
Their vigil's over now;
Their prayers continue for the man
Who simply showed them how.
On Echols Street in Sixty Three
There was some 'painting' done,
And those who did that painting
Said it was a lot of fun.
We're separated by the creek!
Frustrated by the pike!
We're cut off from the town in ways
No one of you would like!
In spring when buds are popping,
And the leaves are showing green,
Who could enjoy it better than
A girl of seventeen.
Another year has passed, my love,
And now it's twenty five:
The total years our marriage has
Been true, and been alive.