Vox Populi
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Patricia Spears Jones: Discontented Summer
Lies and jests move rapidly glossy men and women repeat. Repeat.
At all you can eat banquets presidents toast.
Outside the blanched bones of dead children settle.
One huge wing dips beneath clouds, while the other crumples.
Every picture tells a story but which story and who makes the picture
Like the white winged dove—on the radio. On the radio.
Like a black winged raven and how spectacular the moon rise.
Tired of cacophony. Tired of lies. Tired of jests. Tired. Tired. Tired.
Are the people who drank chlorine added to the list of Covid deaths
Are the people who bought the bleach on the list of Covid spreaders.
Dice roll and drum feast. Guns shoveled next to buckets of nails.
Guns shuffle
All on deck with the liars and jesters. Children’s bones rattle. Rattle.
Who is feeling the shock of these lies and jests. Who is laughing?
Who Who Who to quote Amiri Baraka, Who?
~~~
Patricia Spears Jones’s collections of poetry include The Beloved Community; A Lucent Fire: New and Selected Poems (Copper Canyon, 2023). She currently serves as New York State Poet.
Copyright 2024 Patricia Spears Jones
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And so many of the lies are diversionary so we don’t hear the dying children’s shrieks, don’t see the grieving parents, don’t realize that we are slowly being killed by a damaged planet. Thank you, Patricia, for this powerful poem.
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Written from my heart.
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This poem reflects my growing despair for our world.
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This could easily turn into an epic and continue for weeks, so much wrongfulness passing under our noses in the last 4 years, We can barely keep track. An evil-doer has taken over our reality, changed everything. It is appalling to look back and see what has happened. My only solace is to look East toward the pasture, layered in mist, gathering light like a prism over the pasture, everything where and like it’s supposed to be.
Patricia, This moment, it is all I can do.
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Lovely prose poem, Sean, as your posts often are.
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this poem nails it, alas, this summer of our discontent under Patricia. Spears Jones’ razor sharp pen forces a painful acknowledgment in a way sometimes only poets can. read it and weep for us all. !
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