Hooray for me, I am a survivor
A fern in the garden of Gaga
A devotee of truth well revealed,
Of literature and poetry well written,
Of science and good medicine
Well pursued and freely given.
So where does a poor one dance
A pair of worn out shoes,
A soul well traveled but tired,
Write verses as useful poetry,
Deeds that arrive in overalls,
And a face traced with many tears?
Dare to look upward and declare
Fear has been felt and fallen,
Sorrow and strain collapsed,
Dissatisfaction has sold out,
And the lies, larceny and tyranny
Have no nourishment worth consuming.
The rational, sensitive pilgrim is me
Who walks up and toward mendacity
And calls B.S. when I see or hear it,
Speaks truth to power in soiled robes,
Helps the need without a spotlight
And loves generously the poor in spirit.
Standing still and sitting still are
Not the same human instinct
One loses and the other gains peace
It is better to be caught trying
Than motionless with regret
And keep yourself on the move!
Copyright © 2021 Charles Edward York
No part of this poem may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*