Merle W. Kinne

Long Beach, California

A year ago I was in limbo, basking in my unexpected success as a writer, when out of the blue I received from The National Library of Poetry an invitation to enter one of their North American Open poetry contests. I was alarmed that they even knew who I was. But the workings of the literary world are weird, so I did not dwell on it. Although I had dabbled in poetry for 25 years, I never looked upon myself as walking in the footsteps of the laureates. Half-heartedly, I dug into my files. One of my favorite subjects is the old west. I selected one of my favorites, Threads of Steel, made a copy, and let the mail man handle the rest. The award they sent for semifinalist was as startling as my first publication ... Things like that just don't happen to me! Especially a third place award for one of the five analogies that rest on my book shelf ... and being selected as A Best Poet of 1996 ... and recently elected into the International Poetry Hall of Fame. But at the age of 79, all I can do is accept with humility the honors bestowed upon me at such a high echelon in the literary world. May my work in the future prove me worthy of this kindness.

A Secret

I had no one with whom to share a secret,
Not until you took me by the hand.
Then it was so easy to reveal it;
That's because I knew you'd understand.
When your eyes were looking into mine, dear,
Then I knew just what I had to do ...
That is when I tenderly embraced you,
And said my secret was: "How I love you!"

Threads of Steel

Threads of steel across the land as far as eye can see,
With barbs that rip and tear the flesh of cattle, horse and me.
Not long ago this land was owned as far as you could see
By God and the government; and myself made three.

We got along real peaceful, no fence to mark our lot;
We understood each other ... respect was ne'er forgot.
Then hooves and wagons charged across our still and peaceful land;
The buffalo were slaughtered ... it all got out of hand.

The Indian lost his hunting ground, he had no place to hide;
Bereft of all his heritage, he fought hard for his pride.
Then came the scorge of settlers who settled on our lands,
And with bloodthirsty fences made their stern demands.

Mile after rolling mile threads of steel were strung;
The death knell of our freedom was slowly being rung.
No more could deer or antelope claim the prairie as its right;
Here-on rider took his mount with caution in the night.

Though 'tis sad to see all this, there's nothing we can do
But sit and think about the time the west belonged to you.
And now a way of life is gone, no freedom do I feel ...
The open ranges that I loved have died from threads of steel.

The L.A. Riot

Batons flailing, curses and wailing;
Senses wrung, jury's not hung.
Verdict shocking, nation rocking:
Anger and tears, hate and fears.

Tempers wearing, passion flaring;
Pent up anguish through the years.
Conflagration, torches flung,
Cries of bitterness are sung.

Riots peaking to a stage
of utter chaos in rage.
Burning, looting, senseless shooting;
If in the way, one dies that day.

Guns reloading, minds exploding;
Your time has come ... You cannot run.
City burning, stomachs churning;
Panic, fright throughout the night.

Dreams are shattered, burned and battered,
Once a goal now burned out hole.
Violence reigns thru' tears and pain;
Smoke is dense ... It makes no sense.

We cry for peace and quick release
From all this strife and loss of life ...
But hate and greed this night is theirs
To burn and kill ... Not hear our prayers.