I wrote a poem recently about how we, as a country are dealing with truth in our modern world. Poorly!
Sink so Low
All-precious agua sinks,
Reluctantly draining into oblivion.
Swirling, snaking, agitated and squeezed through
those narrow channels, trapped.
The chipped white porcelain bowl,
The vessel that, if plugged could save, nurture all.
Instead goaded and polarized.
Now so cold, hard, unstopped,
Unyielding under the unseen gravity of it all.
Yet is it all tapped out?
That universal nourishing fluid,
That swivel mix of warmth and cool.
Those gate valves of life,
or withering death,
Marked right and left,
or red and blue.
Why do those faucets flow and mix no more?
Wrenched in place
by tiny, deliberate, revengeful and unwashed hands.
Throttling and robbing with the numbing repetitive choking off.
Soon, if not released,
Empty, dry, cracked,
And therefore ruthlessly truth-less.
This cannot be.
Will not that Divine plumber lend His hand?
We must resist, insist, enlist,
To loose the spigots, restart the flow,
“We, the people” must rust shut nevermore.