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In The Far Great West
The things we used to believe
we called it poetry, we called it song.
With our dimly remembered impressions
of those revelatory days of our youth,
can we even acknowledge the remnants?

Walk a while again in the weeds and dust,
was it betrayal, then forgiveness and trust?
The bright words spin about, coalesce, then
flutter upon the screen, gathering imperatives.

Is there no sense of recognition, do the tones,
rhythms, cadences awaken no memories for you?
The renegade is gone, the far country is near,
hasten to the day, abandon all your fear.

We talk again of delights, feasts for the eyes,
this collection of DNA bits and bytes hailed as
the new revolution. The antidote for greed,
maternal embrace at newcomer’s arrival,
oxytocin’s touch, reach out now, cathedral
groves’ inspiration, humble humankind’s
jubilations and laments are all that can prevent
catastrophe, heal the planet, pay the rent.

Billions to bail out the banker boys, but
not one red cent to promote compassion.
The wretched edifice ready to topple
into an unholy mess, only salvation
is Old Abe’s appeal to our better angels.

We knew it then, and should know it still
but if you don’t embrace the world
wholeheartedly, you won’t hear the word.
Hop to it, scotch the rumors, spike the guns,
break out the rum, silence the drums.

There’s hope left, but there must be precise
navigation to pace our way from this dismal place,
only the best intentions can break us out of this
prison of capitalist calculations run amok.

Now you’re waiting for the crescendo, the familiar
refrains, the well-studied verses and quatrains.
Beware, that which comes with the dawn can dispel
certainties of the night and leave vulnerable to day’s
new disharmonies that no maestro can remedy.

Keeping pace with the second hand,
elan vital, every moment unrehearsed,
time’s advantages become the syncopation
for the bright-faced child’s recreation of
the Big Bang, choreographed in accord
with eternal, universal, beneficent optimism.

So we’ve spun the dials again, turned knobs,
tweaked the cat’s whiskers to apprehend
the soul’s appassionato and behold,
the choice is ours, cast away the dirges,
throw back the dark curtains, bask again
in the golden rays, bathe in autumn’s
first rains. The seeds are stirring,
everything’s turning, pick your spot,
state your case, play your tune,
this is all, this is everything, this is you,
reclaim your heart, find your voice,
take flight to the higher ground.
---Jack Oakes 9/28/09
 

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