It's all true
I'm five foot five and have plenty of dash.
A beard, a mustache and a little panache.
I'm broad and full and built like a bull.
But to see me you'd think I was too wistful.
I swam and dove for treasure in the keys.
I've done paintings even a critic would please.
I once played the organ but have forgotten some how.
And now write poetry but will not take no bow.
Flown in a bomber dumped destruction on sod.
Seen mushroom blossoms prayed to God
Cried and pleaded kissed the ground on my knees,
Had a belly full of man and all his deeds.
I'm sorry what I did, I'm sorry for the bombs
I cried and I prayed and had death in my arms.
I've grown tired, quiet, sort of a recluse.
I very rarely talk, for there isn't any use.
I just want to be with myself in peace,
A little bit of quiet, a little surcease.
Bear with me if this poem sounds of rue,
But damn it all, this poem is all true.
So forgive me if at times I shy from the crowd
But for me some times the bombs are too loud.