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And, sometimes with a whoosh!

at others with an oosh, glub sog

the year went to its dying.

What had graced its days,

what burdens the nights shroud in fog,

who fought evil past its mere decrying?

We and they, perhaps, and more unseen

the far-flung saints and heroes

those close, near home, those in between.

Whose Cassandra voice

looks deeply, shouts into the mist

Oh, freedom! Oh, humanus beneficium: choice!

Who mourns a principle's demise

as if it be the flesh's own kin,

while holders of the reins despise

all that does not add to power

to their fatted stations' bellies

this amassing of control their glory hour?

The conscience-hearted volunteer

with tender words, checkbook, or ladle

feels a gnaw not hunger but of fear

if he, if she, is yet sensate.

Perhaps another year of fragile grace

till liberty devouring wolves ingratiate

and gull the final necessary pawn

and cut the tenuous thread to Edenic earth

and we awake to find America gone.

November 25, 2009


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