I wrote this in August, 2025. Now they have come to my state, targeting people based on the color of their skin and their accents. How is this my country?
there is no rest
for the weary.
And now, neither are there dreams.
Only waking nightmares.
ICE raids.
Trucks running people down.
Masked vigilantes rounding people up.
Handcuffed.
Disappeared,
to who knows where.
And their loved ones…
wait.
MAGA governors send in troops.
Troops to threaten.
Troops to arrest.
For drinking.
For smoking.
For standing
on one’s own front steps.
In Texas,
elected officials
sleep on the floor.
Not for comfort.
But because freedom
is being managed.
Because freedom
is being tracked.
And the White House-
oh, the White House,
gilded now,
tacky gold dripping from every wall,
a rose garden paved
in stone.
The “King” a court jester.
But Camelot still lingers.
Yes, Camelot lingers.
A memory of striving.
Not perfect.
Not constant.
But forward -
forward by inches,
forward by leaps.
Through the years and through each administration.
The Constitution prevailed.
And now
the clock has stopped.
The pendulum hangs,
almost still.
Who will wind the spring?
Who will restart the clock?
The clock of democracy.
The clock of freedom.
We wait…
We wait.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
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Written on 2025-11-20 at 14:53
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No Rest for the Weary
They saythere is no rest
for the weary.
And now, neither are there dreams.
Only waking nightmares.
ICE raids.
Trucks running people down.
Masked vigilantes rounding people up.
Handcuffed.
Disappeared,
to who knows where.
And their loved ones…
wait.
MAGA governors send in troops.
Troops to threaten.
Troops to arrest.
For drinking.
For smoking.
For standing
on one’s own front steps.
In Texas,
elected officials
sleep on the floor.
Not for comfort.
But because freedom
is being managed.
Because freedom
is being tracked.
And the White House-
oh, the White House,
gilded now,
tacky gold dripping from every wall,
a rose garden paved
in stone.
The “King” a court jester.
But Camelot still lingers.
Yes, Camelot lingers.
A memory of striving.
Not perfect.
Not constant.
But forward -
forward by inches,
forward by leaps.
Through the years and through each administration.
The Constitution prevailed.
And now
the clock has stopped.
The pendulum hangs,
almost still.
Who will wind the spring?
Who will restart the clock?
The clock of democracy.
The clock of freedom.
We wait…
We wait.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Read 50 times
Written on 2025-11-20 at 14:53
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Lawrence Beck |
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Ray Miller |
