Judith A. Brice: Call Me Simple

A Poem in honor of Serge Kovaleski¹

You may shoot me with your words…
But still, like air, I’ll rise…
— Maya Angelou

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Call me simple, crippled, a gimp—

With a hitched limp, weak in my walk,

I’ll arise, to take you down,

slap your hate— trap

your deceiving sleight of rage.

“Mr. President,” you won’t get ahead—

there’ll be no clamor

nor claque of men to praise

your spiteful gestures, your sordid words.

Few fans with ire to slake your thirst.

They’ll soon fade and vanish

into their cold and scabrous souls,

their own grimed and empty minds.

I won’t surmise your abhorring

shadows of dark, your source

of ire, deceit or lies—

you’ll not rise—

you will soon be gone:

no statues to say you’re great,

no speakers to praise your thoughts.

Call us simple, handicapped or gimps—

our words will long surpass the time

when yours like an ignoble, withered vine,

will sink below the ground and molder

lost, too soon, to slime.

Copyright 2017 Judith A. Brice

¹Serge Kovaleski is a disabled reporter whom Trump made fun of during his campaign for president

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Donald Trump and Serge Kovaleski