THE BALLAD OF FREDDIE POTTER

Hard not to notice
His acting like POTUS
Born in a bees nest
In this life

Like a bee who
Lost its stinger
His life did not linger
He died before manhood
In a fire

With brother and sister
In his arms
At life’s window
Overtaken by smoke
His actions spoke
His last words of gallantry

What was in his spirit
I have asked myself
For decades, ever since
The moment when I sat
Biting my toes
While hearing that
All three were dead

I had played baseball
With him
Not much more
Than an hour before.
I must have touched him
At some point
At the last I ever saw him.
Playing baseball.

This is much to take
At nine years old
Knowing little of life
And seeing the fires
Of death
But what about Freddie?
Was he ready
To die?
He was the Potters clay
On this his last day
Formed and hardened
In life’s kiln
For early demise.

For years I saw his
Painful life in memories
Of his living in squalor
Just a house and
A road away
Brand Street

I heard him
Being beaten
And screaming
I saw him acting wild and
Younger than his
Age

I saw him once
In suit and tie
So proud as he
Waited to be baptized

Now I know
He was no
Vessel of dishonor
He died lit up
With courage to
Give his life for

His brother and sister
Perhaps he was
A fool for Christ
A lesson for my life
He was given
No free will

His life was a cage
Filled with strife
And rage
Yet he died a saint
Giving his all for
The innocents in his life.

The newspapers said
That Freddie died
A hero that day
And I now know
For me
These events have
Led the way

My father came
To my bed
As the sun rose
The next day
Finding me with
Eyes wide open

He sat as in
The seat of wisdom
And spoke soft words
That seeded my soul
With some faith again.
For me to live another day
And a life time to ponder
The ballad of Freddie Potter