A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
A Poem in honor of Serge Kovaleski1
You may shoot me with your words…
But still, like air, I’ll rise…
— Maya Angelou
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