independence…..
On this holiday weekend, I have been dwelling on our nation and the direction it is traveling, and the roads it has already taken.
I found myself thinking about the peoples who have been trampled in the course of our nation’s “destiny”.
I found myself thinking about the people who struggle with the difficulties of daily life, not finding the strength to wave plastic, Chinese made flags at fireworks displays this weekend.
What follows is a poem that grew from these ponderings, that grew from sights seen on the streets of my home town this weekend, that grew from a faint feeling of hope for something better…
independence
part I
there is a loud bang, high above the ooh-ing and aah-ing crowd,
a flash of colors, reds and greens and blues and yellows,
spread out across the starless night sky,
sending brief lightning glances across the skyward cast gazes,
and the scraggly haired man in the dirty t-shirt
spills tepid domestic brew in one hand,
while back-handing his prattling child with the other,
and there on the hot Saturday morning street corner,
in the tough part of town, in shiny new hospital issued wheelchair,
wearing a dusty brown military shirt with his name across the left breast,
sits a young man of thirty one, maybe thirty two,
waiting for the crossing light, while his right pant leg
drapes over the blunted stump of his upper thigh,
and there are banners and flags and symbolic gestures
on each porch and patio and tiny flower bed,
a statement of independence, like one so long ago,
but this time, against a country heading along a long wrong path,
and there will be more flashes and more bangs
high in the nighttime skies,
both over parks and playgrounds and
battered overseas desert alleys.
part II
there is a loud bang, high above the ooh-ing and aah-ing crowd,
a flash of colors, reds and greens and blues and yellows,
popping over brass band overtures, trumpeting triumphing American way,
and there is a superhighway snaking through former forest lands
where the spirits of a sun darkened red man run chasing
phantom shadows of spirit dream extinction scream creatures,
and he hangs his head and cries knowing his time has come and gone,
unceremoniously cast aside in the name of stretching mighty arms
from sea to shining bloody sea,
and there is a dirty man, wild eyed and high, chasing invisible unattainable dollars,
digging deep into the receptacles of discarded cardboard culture,
looking for a scrap, looking for a feast, the hunted hunter of urban wild alleys,
he looks to his dirty hands, his fingers cracked and raw and bloody,
and he knows his time has gone, crushed under the massive treads
of capitalism’s mighty tanks of war,
and there is a father, sitting alone in the dark, late in the early morning hours,
staring at the empty seats around him, staring down at the papers strewn about him,
wondering how each crushing demand for green will be met,
how each growing demon of debt will be battled,
and he knows that he has no other choice, he must fight or he loses
and he ends up alone on city alleys looking for a scrap,
and there is a black man, one hundred fifty years gone,
his back is broken and tobacco and cotton stained,
his spirit struggles to keep an aching soul singing, struggles to suppress
those murderous thoughts held against the man with the almighty key,
and he knows his day will come, he knows that someday, somehow,
he will feel the sun shine on a free man, whether he or some son some time away,
and he lifts his head up high and begins to hum a song of strength,
a song of defiance with dark words of freedom,
and there is a family, sitting in the high grass, their feet cool in the evening shade,
far above, the sky flashes with reds and blues and greens and yellows,
and a brass band trumpets song of triumph, celebrating an American spirit,
and a young son, maybe aged five or six, looks to the sky,
and sees beyond the bright lights,
he sees a red skinned man, strong and proud,
he sees a humbled man, desperate and afraid,
he sees a frightened father, determined to make life work,
he sees a black skinned man, defiant and unbroken,
and he smiles a child-like smile,
for he has seen the truth of
American spirit.
part III
there is a loud bang, high above the ooh-ing and aah-ing crowd,
a flash of colors, reds and greens and blues and yellows,
and there is a man, a politician, but not a politician, tired of the same old story,
tired of the nuzzling to the poisonous bosoms of blood red dollar influence,
and he stands up and says “no more!”, and the crowd grows around him,
and the men in charge, bloated and sweaty, greasy and grinning,
try to envelope him, try to slime him, try to contain him, but they cannot,
and there is a young man, sitting alone at a small screen, a cursor flashing back on stark white page,
he has ideas, new ways of thinking, and he wants to wrestle his nation back from the edge,
his fingers move over keys, madly typing word after word after word,
he sends it to the world, hoping someone, anyone will listen,
and thousands follow, opining and planning, working together to back the nation,
and they gather, they open eyes, they will not be silenced,
and there is a painter, a poet, a singer, a cartoonist, all honing their crafts,
sending terse statements of defiance, throwing stones of creation in the faces
of the masters of growing global war, standing against the push of “democratization”
at the barrel of frightened American soldier’s shaking guns,
and their voices grow ever louder, howling in the wind, and more and more
turn to look, to hear, to listen, to react,
and there are the eyes of youth, the strength of change, awaiting direction,
they are eager to learn, but need to be taught, need to be nurtured,
for they are our growing statement of independence,
they are our hope for an evolving American spirit,
these boys and girls, watching, growing, learning,
but, the question remains who will teach them,
and what will they learn?
Darrell J Gahm
July 1 – 3, 2006
