Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

They are such  tiny people,
slipping in your blood stream
unperceived as you, crusading, 
ride the clouds and seas
exposing unseen cavities 
within the noble paragraphs our children read,
or did upon the times of innocence.
Semites all, they roamed invisible
with Moorish wiles through Constitution Hall.

We are the ones who still
may fight the Saracens beyond the Alps
and take no prisoners, the enemy
is always with us, always must  be killed
to save our way of life.  Better there
than here.

The Asian hordes are dead,
the swastikas are torn away,
the jungles with their bloody footsteps
have decayed to grow anew
upon old screaming ghosts
now silent, yes, too silent underfoot.

The Moors are hovering—
too small that we may see them;
they dive into our brains
and steal our mushroom clouds—
they thrive on secret plans and planes 
and black economies
that rise from underneath the earth;
as dark and slippery as their own skin.

What presidential grace bestows
this Lilliputian race upon us;  just
as we were out of enemies,
these riders of the sands to test our will,
our sons, the peril of our peace, our love...

Now we may raise the flag again
and sing of bursting carapace above
and not of bloated bodies
in the cargo space below.

Oh no.
Unthinkable.
         ~

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