It was the sixties when he came
from nowhere in particular, it seemed.
The country was divided into haves
and have-nots, as is usually the case.
But further trouble brewed in Vietnam,
young boys were being sent to jungles,
and many stayed, although unwillingly.
His name was Rod McKuen, poet,
war correspondent of the mad Korean War,
he wandered into many lives and was adored
as idols were so very much in short supply.
So many albums, countless poetry creations,
it was the human hiding in between the lines
and looking back I say those truly were the days
when Frank Sinatra did it, like McKuen, just his way.
What makes a poet or a butcher or a baker,
who is the judge and who the final undertaker.
Two million copies in three years, and who did read
those golden words from number one in USA?
He spoke to us from heart to heart, he soothed
and took our hand on all his journeys into Awe.
He was persona grata and a trusted friend,
one who would stand out in the storm, and all alone
until the masses felt their need to be united
and to be counted as they stood in someone's shadow.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-rod-mckuen/
