I don’t know if this qualifies as an occasional poem or not. Certainly it refers to a very specific moment in United States history, but it’s rather opaque and somewhat vague so may present some barriers to understanding for future generations of readers or those outside of the early 21st-century American political & cultural milieu. Who’m I kidding? I won’t have future generations of readers. Ha ha ha ha haaaa! I’m adrift on the swirling sea of insanity that passes for American society today. This is one way I try to make sense of it all while I wait with some anxiety for a return to normalcy.
A Coming Flood
It’s swamp-hot and sticky
at the ass-end of August,
but it’s cold, damn cold,
in the shriveled remains
of what passes for my soul
as I search for reason
in a world gone mad.
How else to explain my ancient
autumnal angst as anything
other than inherited curse
unless as the wreckage of
the maelstrom wrought up
by raging cultural currents?
Imagine a gently sloping bank,
my thoughts the river rushing by.
I stand sentinel as autumn declines
toward winter, picture fallen leaves
floating on white-tipped waves as
tearful revelations, shouted denials,
red-faced old white men screaming
disbelief their rivals can stoop so low.
The dam of secrecy is springing leaks,
the tear-swelled sea of cleansing
water refuses to remain contained.
Indignant oligarchs know justice comes
and scream their vain defiance.
November nears, and even the hottest
flames of anger and suppression
will not stand against it. December
will come bitter and cold. But flames
of new hope will rekindle my soul.