A Poetic Postscript
to the four-part series just ended
I’ve roughed out a draft of the poem suggested in the final lines of the fourth part of the series just ended—”I’ve a brother convinced I hate America. I wonder what he means.” The poem has a deliberate structure (six seven line stanzas + couplet), but is very prosy as are many of my drafts (and poems). I’ve massaged the opening line a bit.
RAMBLE, W/ SLANT-RHYMED INTERCESSION My brother’s convinced I hate America. I wonder what he means—from which leaven, political or religious, his ruling rises against me, delivered with rage and red scare pejoratives that frighten his siblings, spouse, their children. Is he even aware the hurt he’s doling out? Am I alone wishing to place blame on chronic traumatic encephalopathy, the many hits to his head in football, that one blocked punt—first the ball, then the punter’s foot—and those lost minutes following the double impact? Not that blame makes any difference now. Now I would prescribe long exposure to the out-of-doors—big nature I call it— and listening. No tech. All senses on high alert for whatever may spark wonder. Binging sports TV doesn’t seem to work, except to excite competitive impulses that make it easier to label me an enemy. What is America if not an honest history, checks and balances, the rule of law, and everyone equal before the law? What is America if not the perennial push-me-pull-you of state versus federal determinations? What is America if not the leaven of liberty constrained by love? I want to think my brother, loving Jesus, does not also dream of such an empire as would exclude all who may desire the emperor’s removal by a free and fair election, one (if need be) closely watched by teams of international observers—not by the empire’s unregulated militias. I want to think my brother, loving Jesus, rightly cherishes his teaching and way with friend and foe alike—who always aimed for healing and reconciliation— and so the fits of rage and frightful words may be as grievous to G as to us who love him. O, may the poison cease to range in him, in us, in all the world. However crazy hard the wait, may all things end in praise!