Columbia Appearing

Gate to Seoul

On the banks of a river at the edge of a storm,
I reflected on how the past gives the present its form;
How the sun and rain in close cooperation,
Allow the fields and farms to feed the nation.
On far away mountains, abundant ice and snow,
In spring and summer make the rivers to flow;
Then a trickling brook can a mighty torrent make,
When storms and erosion cause a levee to break.
Soon floodwaters rise and a harvest is lost;
Because the natural balance became tempest tossed.

As from a dream, a mythic visage then I spied-
On clouds Columbia, Goddess of Liberty, personified;
Dressed in Phrygian cap and star-spangled gown,
Carrying sword and laurel she made her way down.
With eyes full of sorrow and a contemplative sigh,
She opened her mouth to speak as she drew nigh.
Though the storm tried to silence her with thunderous roar,
She held up her sword and prepared for the war.
Lightning flashed as the gale blew from the left and right,
Columbia stood firm and still, displaying her might.

Then her voice a chorus of millions caused the storm to abate
As the judgment against her namesake she began to relate.
The politicians and partisans from the left and the right,
Through unending struggle for power created a blight.
Their turpitude and greed, as a source of division,
Could not go unpunished for failing to maintain her vision.
Liberty and Freedom require compromise and equanimity,
The battles of partisanship leads to slavery and inequality.
Then she struck down the villains and started anew,
Governance for the people both balanced and true.

Then she gave a gave a promise before returning to the skies,
That it is up to the people to determine if Liberty lives or dies.
If governance for the people by the people is to be our goal,
Then compromise and cooperation are what makes us whole.
As nature itself models the governance of our nation,
Yields its best fruit with balanced moderation.
So too we must balance against our own selfish fate,
The values of others, and the needs of the whole state.
Every individual must dutifully do their full part,
To prepare Columbia the room to live in their heart.

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.

A Dead Star

Hajis traveling, halted
To whet crows’ feet.
We’d grown too old
Squinting at the sun.

The pilgrimage made
Strangers bedfellows,
And marriages to a cause
If not each other.

But we spoke the same
Inarticulate tongue
That can only be
Transcribed by heartlight,
Illuminated by hands,
Onto the soft vellum,
Leaving indelible ink
On ephemeral skin.

Our love was a dead star,
Over before we knew it.
But it shone through us
Even after. Ever after.

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.

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.