Branson tells MPs to end the war on drugs
METRO, 25 January 2011
Hanging over the gate
like the green Virginia staked
up in the curing barn
daydreams weaving with the creaking corn;
their coming thundered out
of the ground as if the beets
were straining to meet them
in battle, and stalks of corn
clacked out a warning
long before they were sundered.
We’d known they were coming,
hunkering down with neighbors watching
smoke rise over the horizon,
columns like scores on a gatepost
marking off the days, we knew
Nicaraguan soldiers were coming to raze
our cash crops to the ground.
What have we done to them?
What have we done?
To them what must we have done?
They say our leaves enslave their young.
They say our leaves pay organized crime.
They say they come for God.
We’ll melt into the blue grass hills
and live like the people
who made this great land;
behind us the gate-rails splinter,
a new sun reddens our necks,
the vermin swarm in barking alien sounds.
(c) 2012 Slush Poet
Hi, Hard to comment poem on current events, to know where boundaries are.... Not just poem and news, but also the strong feelings I being to the topic aside from the poem. So reading this is a tangled experience hat makes it difficult to sink into the poem on its own terms. Sorry this isnt helpful. P.S. Does corn clack, or rustle? Thank you.
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