Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Fevers of the Mind. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com
45200 - Old Glory
That haggard man - his Okie played,
me in the States, from Leftie slate,
so sympathetic, draft card burn -
as teen saw napalm, ’Nam girl run
as naked, flame, scene black and white.
Strap ‘Kill a Commie for Christ’, line,
those hosting me, Kentucky hills;
Nixon resigned - they cried that night -
no LSD trips, shaggy hair,
beads or sandals - Old Glory flown.
Like livin’ right and bein’ free,
the place where squares could have a ball,
so Merle sang words, echoed their thoughts
in country western tones with chords
that pulled their heartfelt strings withal.
As youngster raised in boxcar home,
his father died, and working class
was reform school where learnt more crime,
then gambling, brewing, San Quentin,
until Cash concert changed his life.
His passing stopgap trading ways -
short order cook, well shooter, oil
hay pitcher, and truck driver, spuds -
that gravel voice, not stopped, deployed,
till friends, good fortune brought his stage.
Few knew his record, inside times,
till Ronald Reagan pardoned crimes -
for he expressed inchoate fears,
returning soldiers, with their stance,
uneducated U.S. mass.
The sound was good, roused audience,
and though he sang against my creed,
I yet hear what was played back then
in parkland trailer where I stayed -
heard gaolbird, four five two, two noughts.
Fevers of the Mind 
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