“He is over the hill!” We used to say,
When someone is missing. That or what, sick bay?
Do not worry now, just go! Wait your turn!
Army life is over, but when will I learn?
Stay out of the rain or I am her main concern!
So has it come to this? What is next out there?
Continue to write or rot in that chair?
I am 94, that is old! Sure, when most people die!
Long before, should I lay back and cry?
Sure, I do write poems but is there anyone still
Who like reading poetry? Or is mine, like, over the hill?
Of interest, sure, but movies now are the rage!
And I suppose it gets monotonous to sit and turn a page!
Television now takes much interest, eyes are glued,
Nothing left to do but sit and watch that tube.
I am near deaf and still have one good eye!
God likes my poetry so keep writing until I die.
Four poems a week, eighty copies of each,
I distribute and will keep it up, to reach
A lonely heart or unsaved! Sure, I must
Keep writing, distributing God I trust!
To reach someone in need of inspiration, too,
Since nothing else this old coot can do.
Long, long time ago sold some so am confident
That it is worthy, sure and God’s comment.
Perhaps the explanation unnecessary, too!
But as an explanation it will just have to do!
I am confident God wants me on His team so I will stay!
Keep writing through, one hundred and four or until I pray,
“Please take me home, Dear Lord! Just got no more!”
Inspiration took its flight, forever out the door!
But I am certain for forever if He,
God, says to do! Write forevermore!
The Sam will find new, fresh inspiration
There on that fair shore!
Sam, the Last Prophesy
In a fog for date?