I fish the inky depths,
trawling dark waters for the hard words
to tell the hard stories
tossed like trash by the devil and his damned
overboard, where they want them to sink.
Where he sends truth to die,
sends victims to lie
beneath oil-slickened, oil-sickened waters
where false rainbows plume, false promises bloom
at the greedy hands of powerful men.
So many left capsized to sink in the ruin of his reign.
But I’ll start with The Kids.
All the children of the lesser gods.
All The Kids not made in his image.
The Kids wrapped in girl bodies,
sealed transcripts and semen-stained trails
and tales so no one will see nor will hear.
The Kids wrapped in historical faiths, covered in
shrapnel and terra cotta skin and bones and pleas
our nation refuses to see nor to hear.
The Kids trapped in red tape and undocumented
tugs of war between parents who love them and
a government that relegates with reptilian hate.
The Kids tagged with special needs, basic needs,
clawed back with initiatives meant to
educate and feed the least of these.
The Kids of all needs, colors, creeds
returning to schools with clear backpacks, but no clear
game plans nor gun laws to thrive and stay alive.
Kids. So many Kids.
Discarded. Discounted. Dissociated. Detached.
From our eyes and ears and hearts and minds.
Without a thought.
Without a prayer.
Kids.
It’s February, and a finch couple
flits from branch to branch
between waxy camellia leaves,
plucking at blossoms, at twigs.
It’s early yet to feather a nest,
so maybe they’re searching for
aphids, simply sustaining
themselves in this long winter.
I, too, need sustaining
in this long, bleak winter
and turn to poetry to search
for truth, diversion, comfort,
calm, as entire branches of
our great nation are stripped
of softness. Too riddled,
we’re told, with corruption.
And while pruning keeps things
healthy, this is far from healthy —
all decency peeled and hacked
to feed and feather already
substantial nests.
And I am at a loss which way to lean
with my poems in this storm. To settle
in and steel myself against the cold
currents left after caring and kindness,
inclusion and liberty and justice for all
are gone. To write of soft feathered things
staying the course, perching in the soul,
and singing loudly for all to hear?
Or to steel myself with implements of war?
To load my poems with brimstone and
fire, flashes of anger, to sound the alarm,
to blast the eye and ear of friends,
neighbors, countrymen.
And whichever way I go… will anyone
listen? Will anyone care? As they
don’t seem to care anymore anyway.
postmodernfamilyblog 