Two poems by Herbert F. Sims

A Lovebug

A lovebug has no stress,

He just flies around in pairs.

No worries about his dress

Or how he cuts his hair.

There’s no crisis due to race.

No bounced checks to fret.

No makeup lines his face.

No places he must get.

It doesn’t matter what he eats

Or how much weight he gains.

No timetable must he meet.

No cleaning window panes.

There’s no Monday morning rush

Or monuments to build.

Yes, a lovebug’s life is plush

Until he lands in my windshield.

The Eagle and the Veteran

A tired old eagle sat in a tree,

Pruned briefly, then a sigh he heaved.

He looked downward to the woods below

And saw two men; one young, one old.

“Dad,” said the younger, “look at that bird.

As ragged as ever, he looks absurd.

Look at those tailfeathers, jagged and torn.

Look at his crown, weathered and worn.”

To the men’s amazement, another bird landed

Beside the first, then spoke rather candid.

“Who are these men, father?  Why do they stare?

And look at the older, why I do declare.”

“He’s gray and scarred, from his head to his feet.

He walks with a limp and he’s missing some teeth.

His one arm is shriveled; he’s ragged and worn.

He looks so absurd in the sunlit morn.”

The old man cocked his eye as he said,

“Son, do you want to know why that bird looks half dead?

I’ll tell you the story of his tail feathers and crown.

I’ll tell you of how he almost came down.”

“That long tail feather, the one torn in two.

A musket ball fired by the Redcoats went through.

Those were tough times, but that eagle flew on.

Through Lexington, Concord, and the powder filled morn.”

“That scar in his crown came in ’61.

Brother fought brother with cannon and gun.

North against South nearly killed that bird.

But he lived and grew.  You still think he’s absurd?”

“Now look in his eyes and you’ll see a tear.

He cries for the Indian, slave, and the fear

That freedom and liberty won’t be here for all.

The fear that truth and justice will fall.”

There’s many more scars you can see on that bird.

From wars one and two, from the 7^th and 3^rd.[1]

From twin towers, to the Cole, to Iraq’s burning sand.

Instead of demeaning, that bird needs a hand.”

The weathered old eagle looked back at his son.

“You see that old man, those scars weigh a ton.

The gash in his head was from Normandy’s beach.

But that’s not all, hear my words I beseech.”

“His shriveled arm came from the march on Bataan.

Those other scars that cover this man;

Are from Pearl Harbor where he nearly fell down.

His gray hair he wears is a victor’s crown.”

The two young sons stared in amazement and awe.

At the other’s father, proud and tall.

The fathers stared at each other a while.

Then saluted the other, and respectfully smiled.