Frank Gardner

Lake Ridge, Virginia, USA

Frank has been writing poetry more than forty years. A retired federal employee, he is a husband of 46 years, father of nine children, grandfather of 15, and an active member of his church. Frank, a Marine Corps veteran of World War II, took part in the amphibious invasions of three islands in the Central Pacific; landing on Saipan, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa. His poems have been published in local newspapers and by The National Library of Poetry. He has also published a collection of poems entitled Musings in Iambic Meter. Frank writes mostly about his family and life experiences.

Do the Best You Can

The world around us doesn't wait for us to make a mark;
For waiting is so futile when we have so litle spark.
So many do the waiting as they watch the world go by;
So many sit and wonder how the mountains meet the sky.
It's those who climb the mountain, yes, and those who leave the ground,
Who find that, in so doing, simple answers may be found.
The ones who show their fellow man the way good things are done,
May not make easy money, but are good at having fun.
Let's get up off our haunches! Do our thing, though it be small;
It's better late or little...than to not have tried at all.
Each one of us can make a mark upon our fellow man....
And on the world around us...when we do the best we can.

John Kennedy, Eternal Rest

The day John Kennedy was shot,
He bowed his wounded head...
His wife embraced him frantically,
Her lap, a martyr's bed.
Within the hour he was gone....
His wife kissed him good-bye
A world in dismal disbelief
Was heard, softly, to cry.
The final sacrifice she offered
Was her wedding band...
She took it from her finger,
And placed it in his hand.
So, thus began the journey home
For freedom's leader, slain ...
Two children there would never see
Their dad alive again.
As line of march began to form,
With caisson, flag, and band,
His little girl brushed back a tear,
And held her mother's hand.
His little boy, three years that day,
Then gave one last salute,
As widow, throng, and nations joined
In wonderful tribute.
A million mourners lined the road;
They whispered last farewells,
As millions more around the world
Would hear slow tolling bells.
He's buried 'cross the river now,
On Arlingtons' hillside,
Where burns a soft "eternal flame,"
A symbol of our pride.
The crowds go there to meditate
On how they loved him best,
To pray that his immortal soul
May have eternal rest.