|Quelccaya Ice Cap|
Haven’t written since I cast my ballot
ineffectually last election
as if my public signature triggered
the loss of government dignity since.
This is down time, as in it’s all downhill
from here, as in now we’re down on the farm
although we’ve seen the glow of rainbow’s end,
as in haven’t we slid this slope before?
The cure, I’m told, is prayer for the soul
of officialdum, for seasons of hope,
for reincarnation of art, for plagues
of blessings on pharaoh’s first families.
I recall melodramatic sitcoms
where even Archie Bunkers would reform
if loss of privilege came too close by
or if his daughter brought stray puppies home.
If only well-being would work as well
as wilderness to wake unfeeling souls
to empathy and generosity,
if only they stopped climbing as we slid.
But let's stop grieving now and write the cure,
let's manifest its hope after we march
to find the angry core and climb past that
to faith and to empowerment once more.
My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.
© 2017 Susan L. Chast