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WINTER 2018-2019


Brendan McCurdy


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 

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 
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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