A Poem

Written by:

Bill Wilheim

I don’t think they make them like that anymore
In this land of plenty
Where gold is an albatross that hangs around the neck of the ungrateful
Where we think our good fortune falls from trees
Instead of from the storehouse of the creator
And it annoys us to have to bend over to pick it up
As it lays on the ground

And it didn’t come easy for him
This humble man
who always seemed surprised
at his measure of success
Grateful for the opportunity
To be what he worked so hard to be
Defending and protecting
Those who couldn’t defend or protect themselves

Riding that black and white Harley down the freeways of L.A.Back when you could ride
Without choking on the smog
A small group of groundbreakers
Keeping the peace, driving fast, where one wrong turn
Or one drunk driver
Would send you to the undertaker

And he saw things that give a strong man nightmares
And never shrunk away from them or shirked what had to be done
And never thought more of himself
Than what he was
And was always grateful
For the day

And he’d sit outside of his silver airstream
In his golden years
With his wife Ruby june
In his cool black cowboy hat
Holding his Martin
Welcoming whoever came by
Ready with a story
Ready with a song
A little flat picking’
A cup of coffee

And he wrote a column in the bluegrass breakdown
About his bluegrass friends
And there were a lot of them
And I was one of them

Jan 2010 (cliff Compton)

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