PHOENIX (poem, 1-4-74)

They call him Phoenix, but few know why,

For few know legends or why men cry.

It’s said that this man’s sorrowful past,

Was dark and gray, the color of ash,

And that his youth laid under a cloud;

An untimely and nearly fatal shroud.

Some say he staggered to his knees,

When told the news of his disease.

He withered like an oasis surrounded by fire,

As if hit with a spile that sapped his desire.

When all but his mind had burned to ash,

He rose from the soot with a vengeful crash.

Taking a look at himself, he said,

“Damn you fool! You’re far from dead.”

Then he reshaped that twisted grin,

With a crescent smile above his chin.

Standing tall and proud with smile great,

He set new goals and spit at fate.

They call him Phoenix, but few will know,

Just where he started or how far he’ll go.