Dan Cross Poet Free verse

To My Representative in Congress

Hear me, O Muse, as I summon the roll of his ruinous actions,  
Telling the deeds that the elders recite when the fire is low-burning,  
Listing the woes that the bards, with a sigh, have reluctantly counted.

First in the tale is the theft of the healing the people were promised:  
He, in the stories the wandering minstrels murmur at twilight,  
Stripped from the multitude blessings the healers had granted in mercy,  
Leaving the sick to entreat the indifferent heavens for solace,  
Praying to gods who turned their inscrutable faces to silence.

Next is the famine he birthed in the fables the grandmothers whisper:  
He, who was sworn to deliver the grain to the hungering children,  
Took from their mouths the sustenance meant for their trembling survival,  
Hoarding the feast in his hall while the little ones waited in shadows,  
Watching the smoke of his banquet ascend like a taunt to the helpless.

Then comes the tale of the travellers who trusted his guidance through exile,  
Souls who had left their old hearths for the promise of gentler horizons;  
He, with the voice of assurance, proclaimed he would lead them to safety,  
Only to wander astray into valleys where echoes were warnings,  
Paths where the stones themselves seemed to whisper of misadventure,  
Till the bewildered companions cursed softly the name of their leader.

After this follows the feast where he claimed the lion’s portion:  
Though he had lifted no hand in the hunt nor the labor preceding,  
Still he proclaimed himself worthy of honors reserved for the valiant,  
Knitting excuses as deftly as spiders weave webs in the moonlight,  
Leaving the hunters astonished at gall that defied explanation.

Last do the bards recount how he turned simple choices to turmoil:  
Tasks that a child could complete with a lantern and half of a notion  
Swelled into crises of thunder and smoke when he laid his hand on them,  
Till even the gods on Olympus looked down with a mixture of pity  
And a reluctant amusement at chaos so artfully fashioned.

Thus do the singers recite the long roll of his troublesome ventures,  
Not to exalt him, nor crown him with laurels of glory or triumph,  
But to remind the unwary that folly, when given a herald,  
Marches with grandeur and pride as though destiny walked at its shoulder,  
Leaving behind it a trail that the wise will observe with a shudder.

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