Che Guevara

December 4th, 2007

I saw Che Guevara Yesterday,
He was 20 feet tall and looming,
His shadow cast like night to day,
His beard in need of grooming.

He spoke in a accent all to familiar,
Talked of human rights and freedom,
He made some sense, I guess we are similar,
But he'll always be just a rebel to some.

Then out of the ocean came a great fright,
An actor with top hat on head and gun in hand,
John Wilkes Booth was reborn this very night,
His undead feet walk upon the virgin sand.

Cocking his gun he approached brave Che,
While he was reading for himself some Marx,
Then Booth shot him, I had nothing to say,
I remember that old revolver shot sparks.

Cold in warm blood pooling,
Hot in hell flames burning,
Dead on floor not breathing,
Alive in hearts yet beating.

Booth jumped down from the moon,
Broke now his other leg,
Castro searched like a bird in monsoon,
Nixon drank from a warm Keg.

The limits of freedom shackle us here,
Penetrate our minds with words and lines,
Subconscious changes endorse our fears
Bless our eyes to behold the signs.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Poor Che Guevara had a worst death then one bullet. He was torture and beaten after his death. I like the story in this poem. History can make a man larger then life. Che did write poetry. I found his poetry once. He was a passionate man in life and died for the cause he believed in. I like the use of the many characters in the history of the real world. Thank you for the outstanding poem.
Coyote