A Premonition

I looked behind sleep
and heard a collective gasp,
felt a collective shudder and rumble,
saw the collective tears running.

There I saw the celebrations,
the shameful, shameless,
earth-rattling celebrations,
the confused, cacophonous celebration.

I even saw the defeated one cry
as though she had relation
with the truly defeated,
dear, sincere tears.

The man became a giant,
at his feet were cunning,
or dismayed men and women
scrambling for that old sense.

That old sense of decorum,
of Everything-is-put-together,
that sign that it’s not time to worry,
rest easy, take it easy.

What we knew would not happen
did not happen, he said,
he attempted to calm
the outcry of so many in one place.

Now they are scattered
from town to city to state
making their own rattle,
fighting for their very lives.

Fighting for their lives with those
who are playing with their lives;
this adds to the unease,
you see, Character matters.

And Black and brown lives matter
and the lives of women matter
and children, the children, the children
matter and the lives of the white man.

The lives of white women and children
and the women, children, men
of those seeking asylum,
or those whose god is brown or without image.

You see it and your seeing it matters,
the flag in burnt tatters,
everything that matters in tatters
and a land made of blue and red cloth.

I saw the tearful, fearful,
parading, quick-trading,
mournful, scornful,
hating demonstrating ones hurrying around confused.

Dismayed and scurrying
on the quiet ground of a planet
that gives us our absurdities
and quickly ferments them.

Ferments them into a cocktail,
perhaps the one named after Russia,
perhaps a Molotov cocktail,
perhaps a cocktail of cement.

A thick cocktail not everyone can stomach,
the rich and with them
those with enough leisure
to try the latest drinks.

But the children, the children
will always be there, no matter whose
children unaware if just what
they are being flung into.

It is a flinging, what we do
with the helpless children,
to think of them singing,
in protest, with their own voices!

After anything that resembles a choice
is stripped from them,
when they are flung
as far as we can fling!

They still sing, the children!
After being ripped from the warm womb
and thrown with haste into a tomb,
they have such powerful voices!

We must learn to sing from them!
These little ones are prancing around
and will teach us a thing or two
about dancing on fire, or over jagged stone!

They will not only see the fight,
but fight the fight
to the terror and bewilderment
of the old makeup of the establishment.

Establishment, they’ll say and shout,
some unsure just what establishment,
what of the many useful and useless
establishments are being shouted about.

We found out she has a lot of clout,
he said as he spread his butter
over the Italian loaf,
but not enough to boast about.

Now we roast her, now we get her
the crud comes from the spout,
and it was a dream of shame
a sham dream of shame.

The lame observers could find nothing,
not on an earth which calls
for so much, with perpetual dignity,
nothing better than bicker at flickering screens.

They were so mean to her,
some said with indignation,
we needed the other guy,
some cried out with frustration.

But the entire nation,
whether in elation or a crushing sense
of damnation, were tracing the steps
forward and back, some fell.

Some fell and we couldn’t tell,
when we would bend down close and ask them,
what they were saying, what the objection was,
was it the injustice, was it just a trend?

Was it another trend to follow
amidst the many trends,
were we sending ourselves into civil war
like a lonely star sends its light?

Does anyone know, the pundits,
the analysts, even the wise know
what happened at that time at night
when so many watched, but so many slept?

When I couldn’t sleep:
I had dreamed before and had to witness
what’s in store; I had to see the faces,
and hear the unsure voices.

But finally I slept
and woke to a world of violence,
to a world of uncertainty,
to a world whose children are crying, fighting.