The chosen word

I was but a boy

when I first learnt to read

Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass

was but a dream

I was just a lad

when the pages tuned in me

and meaning became

the precipice of being

I was my Father’s son

when I first reached the sand

and words of pragmatism

could be heard

To become a man

meant choosing when

to beat the drum – only

the riled ended up unfurled

And once manhood had come

my silent whisper could be heard –

to rise amongst the many

with the carefully chosen word.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.