John F. Kennedy | Hope in His Voice

We tell ourselves stories about American presidents because we need to believe something permanent can be made from charisma and crisis. On May 29, we remember John F. Kennedy, not just as a man but as a myth that refused to die, even after Dealey Plaza, even after the reels stopped spinning.

He was young, and we liked that about him. He made us feel young too — vital, restless, full of borrowed time and impossible dreams, like touching the moon or walking through history with clean hands. This is not about nostalgia. This is about pattern recognition. It is about the cadence of a voice that once told us to ask not. About a nation suspended between idealism and consequence.

To mark his birthday, please enjoy this acrostic poem — a simple structure, yes, but that’s the point. It’s an order trying to make sense of chaos. Letters stacking into lines like a motorcade winding through Dallas. This is about Kennedy, and what he still stirs in the marrow of America.

John F. Kennedy

HOPE IN HIS VOICE

Just at the dawn of a new, restless age,

Optimism soared from the inaugural stage.

Hope in his voice, with courage to lend,

Noble in vision, with words that transcend.

Facing the Cold War’s shivering tide,

Kept steady resolve with the world at his side.

Equality called from Selma to D.C.,

Nationhood shaped by the dream to be free.

Never backed down from a just, moral fight,

Elevated the stars in America’s night.

Daring the moon with a promise so wide,

Youth and ideals walking side by side.

By Greg McNeilly