Drawing

So long ago, we learned our cursive, learned our tables well,

Could multiply, unaided, and a longer poem, tell

To all who listened.  And they did, with rapt attention.  Tears

Welled up when it was sad, and apprehension and our fears

Were quite apparent, for there was not much, then, to distract,

To quell the call of boredom, the desire to interact.

Not much, that is, except a book, those, few and far between.

Or intercourse with neighbors, friends, by pen.  Without a screen.

We learned our elocution, those who sought a greater crowd.

Our audience grew wider, our projected voice grew loud,

And we became the statesmen, who then represented you,

Those few, whose skill with word and pen could prove it was their due.

Yet, most could write in cursive and so many, read, as well.

There was an interest in the papers, issues, that would swell

The Nation full of rage and fury, pull us at the seams.

Independence.  Abolition.  Power, paired with means.

In due course, the workers met to fight their monied foe,

And contract deals of need, regret, so lopsided and slow

To change.  As country changed to city, union made the rich

And powerful think twice, before they threw us in the ditch.

And all the while, we had the Vote, or many of us did.

Who took it, when they took it, why they took it, sometimes hid,

Mysterious, unknown, within the halls of Tammany.

Machines run by the Dalys and the Tweeds made mockery

And insult of Democracy, manipulated votes.

And here we are, another iteration of this joke.

Would men control the populace, its sure and stubborn stance,

They must have many tools at their beck and call.  Enhance

The chances of one party, so that all the votes align?

Today, one merely colors states all red, and draws a line.

This, sanctioned by a body with a Papal-like decree,

Infallible, appealable to none but God, and He,

Like men asleep in Congress, rather than the Court defy

By passing legislation, lets the sleeping dog just lie.

Oh, we were once a land of Slavery, as you may recall,

With black men worth three-fifths a man, and women, none at all,

Worth nothing, electorally, fit just to cook and mend,

And now both with full rights, hard-won—you’d take us back to then?

As now, at last, our history approaches parity,

Where represented, every sex and color, all, are we,

Now, you would turn the clock back, silence voices far from white,

Turn off the glaring light of day and steep us all in night?

There’s cursive in our Constitution.  Who can read it now?

In every palm, a microphone, cacophonous and loud,

We shout our bold opinions, exercise our free-ish will,

But who will pay attention?  None.  The net effect is nil.

Make loud your voices now!  Be as a chorus, not a tweet!

A lark song may be beautiful, but easily defeated,

Silenced by a weedwacker or mower, blowing smoke.

Our days of speaking Truth to Power are past.  Our only hope:

To speak, each, to his neighbor, ponder well, the consequence

Of doing nothing in this era, lacking most in sense,

Chaotic and neurotic, filled with sycophants and curs,

Where one man paves the way to war and none, his path deters.

The words of Declaration, though in cursive they may be,

Shout out to us through centuries, declaring Men Are Free,

And “men” we understand now, are all colors and each sex.

One can’t erase this understanding, put a brutal hex

Upon our houses, used to voting, proud and bold and free,

To manifest a Victory for a slim minority.

We draw this line upon the sand.  We draw our breath and shout.

We draw but one conclusion:  We must vote the Bastards out!

For a poem on another incomprehensible decision, read this stream of consciousness poem (also the opposite of a blackout poem) State of War. For a State in Anticipation, wondering what’s next, read the hurricane poem, Silent Frogs.