Presidents and Poets
Their names have become
hollowed out husks
blown about the graveyards
of history. Emperors who once
claimed divine favour
and the imprimatur of the gods
now seem profane, despotic
caricatures of their age.
Loud cheers have ossified
to a silence or a curse lodged
in the throat of the citizenry.
Power still seeps its poisons
into the body politic,
even now into Prime Ministers,
Premiers and Presidents
of so called united states.
I look for a place to find
a little peace from the crowd
and the howls of an angry world.
Where once churches held
a sacred quiet, they too
have become loud stadiums
for opposing forces,
doctrinal battlegrounds
between the lost and the saved.
I retreat to that private space
where like souls meet, a room
somewhere, a forest or a beach,
or a corner of one's own garden
and there teach myself to listen.
I hear what has always been there,
transcending the reign
of emperors, wealth, privilege
and the power of the State.
And so it is, I hold to my chest
a well worn book of poems
by that saint, Emily Dickinson,
and here - renew my faith
and find a little rest.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2025
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