The rhyme that wrote itself
"They Called Her the Lady" was its name.
Full blown in my sorrow new thoughts came.
My first poem. Its writing helps to proclaim
The rage we now feel.
"She was the lady," a scared witness proclaimed.
"They called her the lady" was the new frame
To contain all the words that now inflame
My new poet's feelings.
The courtroom was stuffy and filled end to end.
We're at the trial, feeling we have to attend.
Their kin and buddies, and her very dear friends
Who still feel it's so very unreal.
This lady, this woman, this friend of ours,
Was senselessly murdered. It was after-hours.
For her purse alone, the coward over-powered
Her as she sat at the wheel.
How could Linda's life -- her name I reclaim --
Have been taken by the small bullet that maimed?
Royalty she was not, nor was her good heart's fame
Widespread. Our mentor, she was ideal.
The rhyme that wrote itself, the healing flame,
Seared over my sorrow. After years I've reclaimed
My peace with it. After death it is never the same;
Know the poet's pen can help to heal.
Cross-posted at Southwest Blogger
My topical post today is at South by Southwest and The Reaction .
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