Ghost of Grassy Knoll
On the shores of 1968 I played in puberty
and finding myself before the world found me.
Poets fled to Canada and trumpet players
bled in Vietnam.
Streets were electric and a
balcony in Memphis was sighted by the ghost
of grassy knoll.
Felons and goodfellas did what
they’ve always done, run the reaping machine.
A book of poetry, written in 1968, by a
writer whose name I can’t hear in the
dream where I see the cover matted by a
pastel sky of orange and blue, limns the
truth in lines about the war.
I search for
this book, my errand tasked from outside
time.
I haven’t found it yet, but I have found
hope because
the world is searching, too.
Mike, this is powerful, so many references to sad times, yet so much hope at the end. And “balcony in Memphis sighted by the ghost of grassy knoll” — wow!
If found that book of verse might save us from death kneeling and covid ravages, or it might not. The looking is the best of it perhaps. I so like your work.
Your title is awesome! (maybe the title of a book?) I love how this poem reminds us of other trying times in our country; and that, in the end, so many of us just strive for the truth as redemption. It speaks of hope. Well said!
Your dream covers common and uncommon ground, Mike, & is historic in its reach.