So many past generations have failed the generations of today, and regardless of the short gains being made by the Trump administration, this nation is headed to a dismal destination, in reality, whether or not anyone wishes to acknowledge the fact. ~ J.O.S.

A Spoken-Word Poem from a Father to His Children

My Sweet Children, I pen this beneath a sky gone gray, Where once the sun would swagger, now it slinks away. The clouds hang heavy, like guilt in a liar’s chest, And the wind moans low, like a world that’s lost its zest.

I had dreams for you – wild ones, bold and bright – of meadows unscarred, and stars that sang at night. But the world’s gone crooked, like a gambler’s grin, And the dice Americans roll now are loaded with sin.

They built this mess with manic pride, Stacked towers of glass where the forests died. Traded truth for comfort’s kiss, And called it progress – what a twist.

The streets are paved with plastic lies, And the hearse rolls smooth ‘neath poisoned skies. Its wheels are greased with silent dread, And it hums a tune for the living dead.

I look in your eyes—clear, fierce, and true – and I ache for the world I can’t give to you. Not because you failed, but because so many who came before did, dancing with devils, and truth they hid.

Why do men speak of freedom loud, Then bow their heads to join the crowd? They wear their liberty like a mask, Then trade it in for an easier task.

But you—my blood, my breath, my fire – You deserve more than this funeral pyre. You deserve skies that roar with light, And rivers that run clean and right.

You deserve leaders who burn with grace, Not thrones of stone, but hearts in place. You deserve a world that dares to care, Not one that chokes on its own despair.

So hear me now – this ain’t a dirge, It’s a battle cry, a sacred surge. Even in this twilight gloom, I see your spark, I feel your bloom.

You are the start, not the end, The broken world’s chance to mend. Build not with steel, but with soul, Make meaning your map, and love your goal.

So rise, my children, rise and roar, Kick down apathy’s rusted door. Speak with thunder, love with flame, And carve your truth into the name.

For even when the night is long, A whisper of light can right the wrong. And I — your Ol’ Dad, fierce, flawed and free – Believe in you and love you, with all I’ve got, no matter what

With hope for your future that howls and heart that knows no bounds.

~ Dad

September 23, 2025

Justin O. Smith ~ Author

~ the Author ~
Justin O. Smith Has Lived in Tennessee Off and on Most of His Adult Life, and Graduated From Middle Tennessee State University in 1980, With a B.S. And a Double Major in International Relations and Cultural Geography – Minors in Military Science and English, for What Its Worth. His Real Education Started From That Point on. Smith Is a Frequent Contributor to the Family of Kettle Moraine Publications.