Poet#18 - "Untitled"

 People are made of recycled people
and energy caught from the sun.
And since we're made
of water from rain
and minerals found in the dirt,
you'd think there'd be peace on the earth.

Well I was proudly satisfied
when I had finally realized
the common things we share.
I leaned back smiling in my chair.

Yet-
as much as I dreamt optimistic thoughts
and shut my eyes hard to believe,
inevitably-
some meaty-head man shouts,
"we gonna kill them Arabs!"
And an old Jewish woman
whispers curses at the German,
even when she's with him at the dinner table.

A man from Pakistan
draws a map out on a napkin
and explains my country's strategy for his.
How Americans take sides,
force his people to divide,
then conquer fractured groups,
one by one.

So I'm uneasy in my chair
like I forgot to wear a pad.
I'm planted in my seat,
listening to their grief.
Defenseless from
what's bound to come.
Handcuffed to the present.
Hurling toward a painful, violent future.

And I deeply suspect,
from the groaning weight inside my chest,
too many hearts are damaged past repair.
Like a cat
whose legs and back
are crushed into the road,
ground into the pavement,
pawing with a dying hope.
He struggles but he can't get up.

People are made of recycled ideas.
Perspectives passed on to their sons.
And since we're raised
with our ancestors' pain
and made to avenge their hurt,
I fear that we'll never
in all our endeavors
succeed to have peace on the earth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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apprehension.

The End

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