Surviving

We survived the Cold War, the arms race,

enough to wipe out both sides, us and them,

huddled under our desks, tucked into little balls,

scant protection for what we knew of war;

 

we survived Vietnam, mostly, the war brought

live into our living rooms in black and white,

the protests and folk songs decrying the war,

the man, the establishment, us against them,

the walkouts, the sit-ins, and the soldiers

returning home, disgraced, demonized, broken;

 

we survived 9/11, the towers falling, death

and destruction on US soil, downtown NYC,

arm in arm united against foreign aggression,

unfamiliar terrain and the bombs and blasts

tearing us apart, us – again – vs them –

 again - a new war, a forever war.

 

And now we wonder, afraid, them against us,

a new enemy, a people attacked fighting for their lives,

self-protection, fighting back, surviving an undeclared war,

one man and his image, his greed, power hungry,

driving us back into war, back into ruin,

a country, a people, a constitution, ignored.

 

But we will survive, we always do, rising up,

united again against this new foe, not a desert country,

but the men who would take us there, a formidable

enemy, for we face our own government, face ourselves,

our safety nets now torn and broken, we the people

divided, but this, too, we will survive, and perhaps,

just maybe, be made stronger in our persistence, surviving.

Today

Today of this year, this time

of dissent and division and darkness,

we seek the Peace of democracy,

a Constitution that binds us

not just to these United States,

but to each other and to humanity,

the global community once but a dream.

Poetry Revealed

“Maybe when the world seems to be ending, it needs poets.”

 -Mohammad Hanif’-

 

Poetry reveals what lies

deep in our souls, our spirits,

who we are, our selves laid bare,

and perhaps the fear of discovery,

the anxiety, the despair of knowing, 

blocks our own understanding

of the words on the page,

the rhymes and the rhythms,

the metaphors we fail to see,

the poetry that is us. 

The Children's Dreams

Overseas, a child dies,

her blue bear stuffed and cast asunder,

collateral damage in a useless war

of words and weapons;

and here, too, a child dies,

more slowly over time, collaterally,

while the fat get fatter, the rich, richer,

her dreams abandoned, lost in poverty and ignorance -

the children dream perhaps of hope,

of love, perhaps of peace.