The critical consciousness of the people
Is all but gone I fear.
I’ve been waiting for it to emerge
Poke its head out from the water
Like an inquisitive Otter.
Gramsic died in vain
Disillusioned by the proletariats
Choosing a fascist,
Over a collective consciousness, and
What dreams it could have fulfilled.
Not much has changed
Neo-liberal leaders rule by stealth
Designed to protect their wealth
At the expense of the dispossessed, but
I’m still holding out.
As long as there is poetry
We have a chance.
Poets undo brainwashing
By speaking of peace and love
Offering hope to the world,
I cling to poetry, like
A drowning person does a buoy.
The only hope we have,
It weaves thru lies and deceit of politics.
Exposing the truth to the masses.
Poets are considered dangerous,
Falling under terrorist laws, of
Designed to keep you safe,
Protected by technocrats and bureaucrats.
If you find a poet or a poem
Do not approach as they may go off!
Call 911, report them!
What of you in the halls of academia?
Is there critical thought being taught?
I think not!
But I’m still holding out.
Young minds can not continue this way
For the absurd and unthinkable
Has manifested into the American psyche
As the towers of powers tumbled down,
Revealing post modern coliseums
Amidst the carnage, dust, and smoking guns,
I’m still holding out,
For the new Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Whitman,
Emma Goldman and Leonard Cohen’s,
Poets rise from the ashes,
Sometimes turned to ashes,
That is a chance they take,
Laying it on a fine line,
Willing to bet all, that someone will be inspired
To take libratory action before expiring
Without a murmur, a chance to fight back
Exposing the hostile takeover of Earth,
By the new global royalty!
Where will we go, comrades?
Ask warrior poets, they know…
The Highland Clearances and holocausts
Are over, where will the poor go,
Wearing yellow P’s on their coats?
I’m still holding out!
I’ve bet it all on libratory poetry, like
A sleeper in a horse race
That pulls through, causing those
Holding winning tickets to jump for joy.
I know it is a long shot
A sling-shot in a dueling match, but…
We have not come this far for not.
Universal forces are at play
It is a time of hope and wonder
Great poetry is written in times like these
That will last throughout the ages,
In spite of patriarchal rages of greed,
Even now, at this late hour,
I hear vehicles screech to a halt
Heavy footsteps running up the old
Hardwood stairs, dogs barking,
Yelling and banging on doors,
They are looking for the poets,
And I am one!
(Say you received this email by mistake)
Gunshots are fired…
I slip out the window and up
An old rickety ladder to the roof
For when this colonized world gets you down
Come to the roof,
That’s where hidden poetry can be found…