For Ken, and my brother, who had the good sense to move to another country.
The weeds are pushing through the streets,
And all the things we used to own are in the
Hands of hucksters, who will let us use them
For a fee. The line of those who once had
Homes and jobs is long on Maple Street,
It's end: a stack of blankets and some
Shelves with battered cans of food.
We are as those who came here were,
Defeated peasants, dispossessed by
Lords, whose troops advance at us.
To New York, friends; it's time to
Turn the woman in harbor, have her
Backward, as the clocks have been,
To show that those who hope for better
Lives should plan to leave.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 17 times
Written on 2011-12-03 at 16:08
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The Dream isn't American Anymore
The clocks are running backward now.The weeds are pushing through the streets,
And all the things we used to own are in the
Hands of hucksters, who will let us use them
For a fee. The line of those who once had
Homes and jobs is long on Maple Street,
It's end: a stack of blankets and some
Shelves with battered cans of food.
We are as those who came here were,
Defeated peasants, dispossessed by
Lords, whose troops advance at us.
To New York, friends; it's time to
Turn the woman in harbor, have her
Backward, as the clocks have been,
To show that those who hope for better
Lives should plan to leave.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 17 times
Written on 2011-12-03 at 16:08
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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