Dr. Ivan Edwards Poet Free verse

You Vote, They Run

A poetic musing about civics. Not partisan; just personal. The refrain is ours: You vote, they run.. But we remain.

You vote, they run. 
"Vote for me. I will cancel taxes, bring you heaven on earth." 
Sure. 
Taxes are high, mortgages bite, 
employment is down. 
Your savings are running dry, 
bills devour you, an alligator in your estate, 
chewing away your receivables. 
Your accountant 
hums the tune: You vote, they run. 

"Cast for me, my name will bring you glee!" 
You sign. 
You are important. He is your public servant. 
And you vote. 
You give his cause money, thinking it mirrors yours. 
He wins. 
Your priest and nun 
dance to the melody: You vote, they run. 

Tomorrow comes. 
The man is surrounded by a wall of security. 
This time, he is unapproachable. 
He is important. You are not. 
Your cause died the night he swore in. 
His causes became the top. 
Roles were reversed. 
The jackals 
sing back to you: You vote, they run; promises undone.

You did right. 
You wait. 
"Maybe things take time. Be patient," you tell yourself. 
But things don’t work out. 
Suffering intensifies. 
You borrow to pay bills. 
Bank accounts bleed red. 
Your parents and children
echo the refrain: You vote, they run ; a tale too often spun.

Finally, you reach him. 
"Can I talk to you, Sir?" 
He looks at you as though you’ve stepped out of Jupiter, An alien. 
"Who are you?" He doesn’t seem to know you now. 
"I am the man you asked to vote for you. I ran in the sun for you. I paid money to see you in office, even when I had little to give." 
"Sorry, make an appointment," He says, walking away, 
The reporters 
sing the chorus: You vote, they run; the cycle begun.

At the podium, he preaches: "I am for the people." 
Aren’t you the people? You look around. 
The people look like him. His pals. 
None from your zip code. 
Sure enough, 
The jacaranda 
sway their dance, You vote, they run; the truth undone.

Now you see. 
The hyenas feast before the lions. 
He sold his soul to the devil. 
Promised heaven on earth. 
No deliveries made. 
Heaven on earth remains on standby. 
The elephants  
trumpet the anthem: You vote, they run; the betrayal begun.

Flashy suits. 
Money spilling from pockets too small to hold it. 
Lights. 
Glitzy life. 
Now surrounded by the elites he vowed to dismantle. 
He figured, joining them 
Was the best way to deal with them. 
Grandma 
waves her finger at you: You vote, they run; the damage is done.

The ultimate betrayal. 
He dances like the night dancers at the shores of Kyoga lake. 
He sings melody.
He has a new him
That does not look like his old self
You dream: You vote, they run.

But the truth is yours now. 
His term will end. 
And with it, his chapter. 
Another will rise. 
And you will elect again, 
this time, wiser than before. 
Hope renews itself, 
Not in the politician’s words, 
But in the lessons you carry forward. 
The power of change lies in your hands. 
You vote, they run; but you remain.

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Joe Maverick October 18, 2025 at 2:03 PM Maybe..? I think change at local levels Is a start.' Its tangled web, quite the Dark art.) Dr. Ivan Edwards October 18, 2025 at 7:47 PM Thank you for reading, and for that reflection. Yes, perhaps local change is the ember that lights the larger fire. It’s true . . . civics can feel like a tangled web, and at times, a dark art. But maybe naming the pattern is the first act of untangling it. Maybe poetry is one way we reclaim clarity in the fog. Grateful you paused here.