Brendan McCurdy |
THERE ARE NO BOOKSTORES AT THE WALT WHITMAN MALL |
There are no bookstores at the Walt Whitman mall
And somewhere a poet is crying
iPads, Kindles and zip drives aplenty
Please don't ask about paper products
Words printed upon the naked page
Go wander the mall and look
Where is this mall's namesake?
Crying in the corner
or maybe
Amongst the discount racks
O Walt I cry for you
For me
For what this country has become
Where does one turn
To look for the truth of the words
You penned
Cast a cold eye
And think
Back
A nation learning how to stand
A civil war bloodying its newly formed soil
You a witness to the carnage
Forming your soul to reveal to me, your gentle reader,
All the promise yet to be revealed
The poet's burden
Cobbling words
Together
To make the thought clear
Expressing the energy enigmamatik
For now and forever
That peace which passes understanding
That promise unfolding
On your page
O Walt your voice so clear
A bell harkening
Our wakening
O America open to me
Your voices so varied and so fine
Meld your sound
Entwined to the heart that beats our name
O America
O our land of aspirations
O does the sun shine on this sea to shining sea
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