This is one of the first poems I ever wrote. It’s one of very few from my teen years that I am still fond of.
I sit and stare At the wrinkled man, His gnarled face And spindly arms Never move or sway. Not now. I try to talk To the old, wise man. He merely stays silent - Not even a whisper. Not now. I try to protect The kind, sleeping giant. He does not think Or know what I did for him. Not now. I stand my ground For this pillar of strength. He does not think Or know what he did for me. Not now. And then they came To take my friend away. But he did not struggle. Not then. He went in peace As they cut him down. His leaves will never whisper; His majesty will never rule again. Never would he sway in the breeze, Or creek, or crack, Or just stand and think Never again.
Dedicated to my grandfather: Ronald Kendall