Political Poem


I don’t want to write political poetry,

but conflict washes over my native land
like a Katrina surge.

A tempest in a teapot
doesn’t mean much
compared to the
relentless fury
of the tsunami.
This year’s leaves, floating
gently to my lawn
glowing orange and gold
through the afternoon sun,
signify more than any inept

but when I see a policeman,
a man I want to call
protector, hero, friend,
spray orange pain
on crouching kids;

when protesters become enemies
of the state, and plans to smash
hope are made
on great, glistening tables
in bank boardrooms
with the tears
of the foreclosed,

then must I write political poetry.

I’ll lob a simile
into the executive suite,

I’ll make strong the barricades
with my fierce metaphor.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s