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We, the People

Endless Road

On display, for all the world to see.

Scribed in blood upon the stretched flesh

of the oppressed. Freely given,

though seldom recognized.

 

Children flock to see me in bright yellow busses.

Foreigners muse over me as a novel concept,

with noses held high. Enemies gnaw at me from

within, like plague-ridden rats.

 

Still, I remain.

Battered, yet unbroken.

Perfect? Not even close.

Timeless? No, but living.

 

Slowly dying of neglect.

Watching the blood of innocents flood our streets

as I wait patiently for a transfusion.

A firm hand, the quill awaits.

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The Child Coming

Endless Road

The midwife said,
At some point
In labor, all women
Believe they’ll die.

The terror creeps in.
The heart contracts,
Expels all its hopes
Into the child coming.

Curling her courage,
To speak the fear.
If I die, tell him,
I’d do it again.

Through soul seizure,
And corporal torsion,
Now only the tears
move with grace.

A cry rents the room.
Capitulating, stitching,
Resuscitating her
Wrecked body.

It wasn’t the labor.
It was the battle
To give life-
And yet retain it.

One day, he’ll feel
The same love-terror.
Not for his mother.
But for another.

A mother knows
No expectation
Of receipt. Only
Love paid forward.

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Dissonance

In concentric rows they sit,

stand, and display their wildfire

red or tsunami blue plumage

strutting and posing, posturing, like so many

magnificent birds

in heat.

 

“Look at me!” “Look at me!” They beg

through veneered smiles. Professing truths

with fork-ed tongues.

Forming committees to form

committees. Planning meetings to plan

meetings. Conducting hearings

about the hearings. All-the-while, throwing

shade with sideways glances

as they stamp

out Progress.

 

The Earth spins, the seasons pass,

crops and wars come

and go

like ant-hill dictators.

Currency, their Commander,

Personal Gain,

their Objective.

 

The Five Hundred and Thirty-Eight—

this is their Thermopylae.

A Spartan, each they see,

beholding the mirror.

The paper piles high

in the wake

of Battle.

 

Behold the great deeds.

Proclaim the accomplishments.

Praise the mighty as they

trample

each

other.

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Our Lady

 

She is a gallant, regal lady,

A grand dame, the focus of the town.

She continues in grace and beauty,

Though time and circumstance brought her down.

As the crowd sang “Ave Maria”,

In the quiet flickering without fuss,

The breaking heart of one city,

Became a heartbeat in all of us.

For a moment, all her splendor

May not be quite as apparent to see.

Yet this Lovely Lady will Rise again-

Notre Dame de Paris!