Author: Barbara Goodhew
We complain about our life.
At least we have a life.
Our worries are small.
Others have worries that are tall.
We worry about paying for our home.
At least we have a home.
Safe and sound in our home.
Others don't feel safe and just roam.
The worry about loved ones.
Being left alone by husbands and sons.
Isn't it nice to know some care,
enough to fight for us so our
worries stay small.
Comments on this poem/writing:
|Martin Vann (22.214.171.124) -- Sunday, March 23 2003, 07:17 pm|
Your poem is very honest and yes, I love being free. The freedom to worry about bills unpaid, yet when I get "Home" it will be warm and I'll have something to eat. I won't have to fight my way to reach my front door, or search for land mines buried in the floor, I have so much, to be thankful for.
Your "kicking Hips" here, big-time Barb.
Very sharp, sincere words, spoken like an American!
|barb (126.96.36.199) -- Monday, March 24 2003, 12:33 am|
thank-you martin Yes I think I'm lucky too. I may be disabled but free to not go places if I don't want to.Or freedom to eat when and what I don't want to. lol
|Capricorn (188.8.131.52) -- Tuesday, March 25 2003, 01:24 pm|
true words again Barb. It is good to have freedom and very humbling to realis that some are prepared to give up their live for that freedom. Well written.
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