It is difficult for some people

To be good poets

My Dad was like that,

Though he was a living one

He struggled to join in

While his soul protested

But supporting his families

Won out over writing

And his poetry took a back seat

In his Studebaker

It is difficult for me, as well,

To write good poetry

I am like that, though my spirit

Expresses its calls anyway

Against the wrestling

Of this world's violence

For I have tried not to bother

With the cares of this Earth

Though my Dad's living poet soul

Cries out through me

It is very difficult to have lived

And yet not to have lived

To listen to those

Like Carl Sandburg posit dreams

And not be inspired to pontificate

My surreal desire

The ideals that long for existence

In the bad world

Full of suffering and poems

To expel the desolation

It is very difficult to transcend

The drawing of blood

When Gore is shed everywhere,

Having truly won the election

Yet not appointed to subjugate

The conquering quests

While the "father" over reason

Is a fascist in a mask

"Only a cowardly escape

From the problems of peace"