Jericho
Wind torn
dusky warm evenings
the sticky heat, oppressive
Jericho,
the old Negro, sits whiskered,
holds a scuffed, dog-bitten stick,
I have listened to his stories
deep resonant tones
almost sung,
His rain fast laughter
river slow eyes
he smiles,
“We were wild then
we lived, burned
like prairie fires,
Have you seen a prairie fire?
Have you touched its sky-full flames?”
He holds my eyes
a moment,
head tips back and laughs
– the wind
“Ha, boy
Live!”
Holds out his closed hand
to give me something
opens an empty palm,
Life is here
and gone,
live.
Si Philbrook 
😀 true and true. Love love love this.
Thank you, anonymous person, I love love love that response!
Si
Nice one Si…..full of warmth and soul
Thanks Carly
Excellent message in an excellent poem!!! (tho’ the caps & puctuation threw me off)
Yes the caps & punctuation do look odd today. When I wrote this twenty years ago they looked less odd. I dither about how much to edit stuff from back then, does it change the peom too much? Thanks you for your generous response.
Si