when i visited
aunt bea
there was a young man
sitting on the curb
in front of her home
who
quite
reluctantly
moved
as i drove up
when i asked aunt bea
about his behavior
aunt bea
said
that child
always
nods his head
and
says
yes ma’am
at least
acknowledging
that
i’m taking
but
his actions say
he hasn’t heard
a word
i’ve said
i do believe
that child has
a promising future
in
politics
flagrant lies and crimes
are summarily dismissed
by hate’s disciples
charlatans face no judgment
shielded by a nation’s myths
the key’s self interest
feed disciples their fears and
they willingly drink
whatever poisonous brew’s
placed in their chalice of self
ken and karen don’t quite get it freedom isn’t about the small amenities and tokens tossed here and there as some conciliatory means of reducing their guilt for that doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a cage for those
ain’t got
no fancy
iambic pentameter
to wrap around
my words
nor
sweet rhythms
to conceal
the crimes
of our time
no metaphors
for the sounds
of bullets
ripping
the flesh
of children
huddled with fear
in their classrooms
can’t find
an anonomatopoeia way
to say
the gun lobby
is french kissing
dollars
into the mouths
of senators
so they’ll
turn a blind eye
to the streets and classrooms
flowing
with innocent blood
but they ain’t
the only ones
refusing to see
that racism
defines this nation
and perhaps
the entire white world
for tears are shed
when ukrainian children die
but not even a sigh
is heard
when children starve
to death
in africa and bangladesh
or
children are struck down
by an israeli drone
there’s no fixed meter
that can convey
the absolute sadness
of parents
with their child’s death
no poet can ever
capture the emotions
for such an event
we merely stutter
our thoughts in words
onto the page
hoping to express
our personal rage
at the inhumanity
of mankind
i wonder
if
anyone
stops and stares
at
these billboards
of
my mind
the words
that
i place
upon
the page
i suspect
most
will be forgotten
along
with
my name
that is
of
course
not much
of a surprise
we poets
for centuries
have pasted
our feelings
on
every surface
possible
words
often erased
by
ignorant
self-serving hands
or
those frightened
by the truth
but
we have
had
our say
and
on occasion
are able
to give voice
to those
who dare
not speak
giving voice
to those
unheard
we poets
attempt
to yell above
the vulgar platitudes
of
concern
and
empty promises
promises
for a better day
if only the oppressed
will
give
it
time
time
the one thing
they’re permitted
to have
and
oppressors
want them
to waste it
waiting
for what will
never
come
i’ve just been talking about life and sometimes it’s not so pretty but my words merely reflect what you already know so there’s nothing new in what i say my words are just a reminder that there’s a hole in the bucket
seems like a harmless toy
but
i’ve begun to wonder
if it wasn’t
an early indoctrination
about mexico
and
its people
people
portrayed
by
speedy gonzales
and
pablo
a gun packing
and
no doubt
violent
lazy mouse
while
speedy’s
promiscuous nature
was conveyed
in lines
like
speedy gonzales
is
friend of my sister
quickly
appended by
speedy gonzales
is friend
of
everyone’s
sister
what strange
saturday morning lesson
to
precede sunday school’s
love thy neighbor
oh
and don’t
get me started
about
three black crows