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Generational Ideals

Cannon

My grandfather was a share-cropper
Working someone else’s land
My father and uncles worked in industry
Making machines run for corporations
My brothers are tradesmen
Creating things of wood and stone and metal and plastic
I was and am a servant of the state
A manager of programs and a leader of troops
Making plans and enforcing policies that are not my own
I’m also an academic
Writing papers to influence others
Or to teach them the things I know
But I can not shake the feeling that
Despite better compensation
Each of the generations
Have moved farther from truth
For thought it may not carry much honor
In this modern age we live in
There is something honest and basic
That can only be found
Through working in the soil.

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The Seal and the Motto

The Seal and the Motto

The Great Seal
E Pluribus Unum
Out of many, one

The National Motto
In God We Trust
In Deo Speramus Nobis

It is a new age
With fewer than half of Americans
Participating in organized religion

It is a new age
When polarity in our politics
Is the highest since our Civil War

If we only write the motto
On our money, and not our hearts
We easily become bankrupt

If we only seek unity
Without compromise
The only thing sealed is our fate

We live in an age
That revels in self
At the cost of unity

We live in an age
That revels in wealth
At the cost of faith

Poverty of Spirit and
Self-centered divisiveness
Are only symptoms of what plagues us

The lights are slowly dimming
From our city on a hill
And the eyes of the world are upon us

While a single candle glows faintly
Millions flickering together rival the sun
E Pluribus Unum

In times of troubles
Prepare against the worst by living for the best
In God we trust

In the reign of those who divide us
Focus on those that join us
Trust the greater good to unify us in spite of ourselves

In God We Trust
Out of the many, one

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Cause and Effect

Cannon

No single drop of rain

Flooded out the dam,

Nor solitary driver

Created the traffic jam.

No weightless mountain snowflake,

Drifting on the breeze,

Caused the massive avalanche

That buried buildings and trees.

The stinging of a single fire ant

Though painful, heals quite fast,

But if a couple hundred sting you

You’ll likely breathe your last.

So it is in all endeavors

Both extraordinary and mundane

Moderation in our actions

Saves us suffering and pain.

And yet in the world of politics

It seems that time and again

Nations swing from left to right

Because someone has to win.

To capture minds and funding

Politicians talk in extremes,

When an introspective milk-toast moderation

Would be the governance of dreams.

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My First Car 74/ 88/ 21

Bryan Batson

An Olds 88 from Seventy-four

Passed into my life in Eighty-seven,

A massive chunk of metal-

Pale blue and rusty.

You could see the road passing underneath

If you knew where to look.

Just 300 dollars, that I worked for all summer

Made that beat-up, used-up, beauty all mine.

Little did I know that at eight miles to the gallon

The beast would constantly need to be fed.

For two wonderful years,

She devoured every dollar that I made.

I was addicted to the highways and byways

Rolling through the hills and the pine forests-

Trying to find my place in the world!

They no longer make cars so simple,

With room to climb into the engine compartment,

To build relationships with machinery,

To tinker, refine and supe up.

New cars go to surgical shops with screens,

Get hooked up to computers for digital diagnostics-

Complexity beyond the ability found in the shade tree mechanic.

I learned so much from my old pale blue lady,

Not just about cars but also people and Love.

For a couple of years, I knew true freedom,

Filled with wanderlust and blessed with a full tank of gas-

Alone on the road with worn out tires with no particular place to go.

When I was a young man, cock sure of myself,

The political system seamed a lot like that old car-

Big and clunky, not very efficient, powerful and free.

Politics still reminds me of that old car- metal fatigued and rusted,

Sitting somewhere in a salvage yard, awaiting recycling.

Though I’ve moved on and stayed with the times,

I’m not sure I’m better off with the new models,

All the gadgets and progress crammed under the hood,

Inevitably drives the cost and complexity of ownership up.

So that the average person,

Has no means to manage how the engine runs.

Somewhere along the way between seventeen and fifty,

I traded the freedom of a wild, inefficient beast,

For modern computer-controlled efficiency and luxury.

Despite the comfort and power, the safety and style,

I still long for the days when people could crawl

Into the engine compartment

And actually change the way

That their government ran.