I feel as though I am pretending to be something I am not. I am comfortable writing prose and producing visual art. I am not a poet. I honestly don’t think I’ve written a poem since high school.
Once this poem started to form in my mind, there was no letting it go. I stayed up far too late working on it, but enjoyed the process. I am pleased with the result. Hopefully, you enjoy it as well.
City on a Hill (Where They Shat)
They are eating the dogs.
They are eating the cats.
They traded democracy
for fear and red hats.They howl at the truth,
claim alternative facts.
They poison the well
and brand it “clean acts.”No justice remains,
just straining at gnats.
The city on a hill
lies where they shat.They’re feasting on freedoms
while talking heads chat.
They dance with tyrants —
Gilded plutocrats.Again we are great.
We are healthy and safe.
Still we must fear
the immigrant waif.All of the best people —
not nasty or stupid.
Tim Apple, Little Marco,
Ketamine Bladder: deluded.No two-state solution,
a real estate illusion.
Develop the Strip —
risk nuclear fusion.I’m tired of winning
at space and at life.
Yet who cares?
Not an estranged trophy wife.No kings, no monarchs —
save butterflies and salmon.
The faux-king with crypto,
Bibles, emoluments, and mammon.No justice. No mercy.
Walk humbly? No — with pride.
Trade love for power.
Bring unity? No — divide.Forgive us, Father.
Lambs to the slaughter.
White robes: stained.
Wayward daughter.
by Rondall Reynoso
Image: Pamela Reynoso
About Post Author
Love your poem!!
Thank you. I appreciate the encouragement.