Baltimore burns
Blame the police
Blame the kids
Blame the thugs
Blame the agitators
It doesn't matter who
lit the match
The city is full of kindling
to feed the flames
Fire fueled
by poverty
hopelessness
injustice
disenfranchisement
empty promises
Watch it burn to the ground
Watch it on our TVs
in our big houses
in our safe, green suburbs
Shake our heads and withdraw
from the insistent sea of angry black faces
Our own fragment of reality
so much more pleasant
We, the privileged,
who send our sons off to school
with a peck on the cheek
don't wonder whether they'll come back
We
who curse the crabgrass in our yards
not the clay colored stain of dried blood
on our sidewalks
We
whose souls are unbattered
ungnawed by daily injustices
ground down by despair
We
who matter
without having to write it
shout it
burn it
into consciousness
to make people pay attention.
submitted to Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Get Listed for May, Pablo Neruda
*
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen
5 comments:
Lola, I hope you post this for The Tuesday Platform as well - it deserves to be read. Thank you for adding your voice ~
This is really strong and shouts from the rooftops. Sometimes we have no notion nor care about the daily plight of others.
Anna :o]
This reminds me of when I was the suburban kid watching the smoke rise downtown.
Sometimes the best indictments are the ones we make on ourselves. Thanks, this worked as poem and polemic.
A mighty poem! Please may I have it for my 'I Wish I'd Written This' column over at Poets United? You can email me at rosemary dot lifemagic at gmail dot com.
Post a Comment