Thursday, September 17, 2020

I Fear Too Late Is Already Here | Protest Poetry


 

Gray-white fingers over the coastward hills.
They've been missed.
So has the patter of rainfall on our roof.
Heard it early this morning.
Soft. Quiet.

Smoke for days and days prior.
The smoke of ignorance and indifference.
Of consumption and greed.
Of authoritarianism, nepotism, racism, and suburbanism.
Choking, nauseating, relentless.

Favorite TV character before he shot an injured horse:
"I'd rather kill a thousand people than another of you."
How powerfully I agree with him!
For most of humanity is in fact already dead.
Soul dead.
It's why these fires keep coming,
and why the poles keep melting,
why most accede to authoritarian demands
without a single protesting word,
why dictators and fascists keep gaining power,
why so few refuse to participate, to get their hands dirty,
to jump in, to jump on, to fight, to think.
To think!

I watched those gray-white fingers lacing into the forest,
and I said a prayer for the trees and the sky,
for this tired river ready for autumn,
for the color to return and the tourists to leave,
for the shadows of gold to sweep over me
and fall's leaves to fall on me,
for the warmth of soups and stews
and the deep, still cold to escape from as I
hurry under the covers.

I prayed that this swarming, polluting, craven, ravenous
species changes before it's too late.
But I fear too late is already here.


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