The tighter a country wraps itself in its flag
The more it becomes constricted
Unable to see the rest of the world clearly
Nationhood is less about freedom and more about control
No matter what any constitution or zealot patriot might say
Countries and all our multi-layered levels of governance
Keep people in virtual feedlots
Penned in by ideas and concepts that overlay reality
In our shared delusion of civility
Look at the absurd lengths we go to
Interrupting each others smooth glide
By creating complex rules and imaginary lines
Which at their core only exist inside our minds
Now, storm troop clerics have returned
Like old testament prophets
Calling for retribution and revenge
Binary thinkers are the death of the rest of us
Auditing beliefs and creative thoughts
Against a template of hate and bitterness
All those angry faces calling for compliance
Fall into line!
Fall into line, they say
Judging everyone
Harshly critical about every action
Every reaction
So we dance these complex dances of bizarre ritual
Looking about as civilized as an ant colony
To our visitors from beyond
You know who I’m talking about
They must be quite amused
At faith-based hatred that legitimizes torture and murder
As we go around killing one another over ideas
Borders
Morality
Sexual inclination
Racism
Prejudice
Which pleasures are allowed and which aren’t
Ideas that have no physical presence in this plane of existence
But manage to keep us nose to grindstone
Brown-nosed and beaten
Through passive acceptance of the status quo
Instead of standing up and looking around
Making our own judgments about what’s in front of our eyes
Not behind them in some surreal zeitgeist
Informed by myths and legends long since twisted into barbarity
Anyone can choose to see clearly
If you want to
Be free
Be free enough to look at a field without mentally imposing
Some line running across it like an impenetrable force field
Be free to see things as they are
Not how you’ve been conditioned to think they are
Be free
Be free to see reality
Look at the stars
Let go of control
Let go of everything
Be free
David Trudel © 2013
Nostalgia
I don’t miss the racism
When I think about the past
Sure I’m nostalgic for the good old days
But they weren’t all good and golden
We taunted everyone back then
Watercooler jokes bit deep
Certain nationalities were pilloried with regularity
Enough to fill a Polish suitcase
And god help the brown skinned
So we would shout paki or camel jockey slurs
Across schoolyards or cafes
Not caring that we cut to the quick with meanspirited ignorance
So blind to our transgressions that we would point fingers
At South Africa or the deep south and decry the bigotry there
Self righteously proclaiming our innocence
Only because an African heritage was rare in our tarnished world
I don’t miss the bad cooking
When the Joy of Cooking was the only book in the kitchen
We boiled and stewed the same plain foods into daily submission
Thinking salt and pepper were the only spices necessary against bland
And if we watched Julia Child with amusement
It would be a rare day that her recipes would end up on the table
I am not nostalgic for the constant smoking
Blue hazed offices where each desk held overflowing ashtrays ad nauseum
And parking lots being used as garbage cans
Drivers upturning car ashtrays into shared space
Cigarette butts a constant presence carpeting our walks
More prevalent than the flowers we couldn’t smell over the stench
I am not nostalgic for misogyny
Which sadly hasn’t gone away entirely
I don’t miss the catcalling taunts or times
When every man or boy felt dutybound to visually strip each female in view
Giving free rein to saddle romping fantasies
Those times when stereotypes were a given and not questioned
I don’t miss the hidden abuse
Open secrets never spoken of
Bruises that flowered unquestioned
Times when silence was permission to continue the violence
I am not nostalgic for pesticides that we sprayed with abandon
Not caring that the green lawns and flower borders
We so blindly protected were an artificial construct of oppression
I don’t miss polyester double knit suits
That never wore out but should have
I don’t miss blue rinsed big hair
Buzzcuts or ducktailed tops
I am not nostalgic for the pain of the repressed
Or laws that forced love into closets
Or into the bloodstained offices of back alley butchers
I don’t miss ignorant hatred
How can I, it still exists
But the next time somebody celebrates forgotten freedoms
Of a golden past
I’ll take up a knife and scratch the gilt off
To expose the brass
David Trudel © 2013
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Tagged as abuse, bigotry, blank verse, community, double standards, false memories, free verse, golden oldies, hidden abuse, history, nostalgia, oppression, poetry, prejudice, racism, repression, social commentary