Poets simultaneously have class,

teach class,

and move seamlessly

between all classes.

We run our hands through the soil,

wet our fingers and taste the air,

feel the direct pulse of the earth itself

and its inhabitants, the masses.

Poets see things before they are things,

we have the thoughts in your head before they occur,

the phone rings, the bell tolls, the whistleblower sings, 

as we are the inception and the blur.

Be here with me now.

Let your presence overwhelm me

within this same pocket of air.

Quiet your rusty hinges

with the WD-40 

of spiritual quickening.

Fling wide the door to this story,

and let the moral in.

Forgive a dangling participle

as it hangs next to my hope,

over the edge

on the precipice of enlightenment,

along with the curly locked angels

born to my chosen family,

constantly pulling at threads

to hold on.

Be here with me now.

Let my presence record whispers

upon the equilibrium of your innermost yearning and calling

within this same pocket of air.

As though we are all variously modified and altered lint balls

being jostled around in the front right compartment of God’s 501s.

Life is breathing through us,

alone is no one,

as the spark of madness 

will choose us

to alleviate confusion,

to walk amongst the masses

in order to get more work done.

We are a part of installations, committees, boards, teams, clubs, 

laughing and crying with fellow staff, 

classes, congregations, casts,

a whole heaping pile of misfits

and outcasts with a past, 

who are part of humanity at large,

I’m trying to climb up, get my paws on some applause 

based on writings when given pause,

inspired by the creative life force of love in charge.

We poets will snap your necks, snap your hands, snap your attention back 

so it understands what’s at stake here.

A nation using fingers to point and to scroll, while everywhere we look and hear points to an imminent conflict or quake near, 

worried over what “they” and “them” are yelling today, 

knowing full well the words of MLK

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

With the media and the politicos both swearing ‘you can trust us’ 

while attempting to create consumption as they make fear.

Convinced, if the bow of the moral universe keeps bending it will break here.

It seems our evolved consciousness would have moved beyond the same tragedy and wickedness as have plagued before the days of W. Shakespeare.

I’m not trying to trouble you with a history exam you will take to clear 

the door, before we will let you leave,

I’m suggesting to follow the arc across time 

and ask if poets aren’t the ones to believe.

Be here with me now as we represent the collective breath which will shape the focus of humanity’s guiding light

within this same pocket of air and space.

We lawyers in the courtrooms of public opinion, 

we who love to gesticulate and masticate on our material.

Posturing and becoming on stage before a wide array of strangers.

We are the conducting arrangers of the narrative so it will stand the test of time.

We are the celestial magistrates with literary superpowers such as rhyme.

Be here with me now for the sake of our surviving, thriving, and diving into the pool of marrow that is aliving. Let me be with you and help you in your striving. 

I am a poet, across time, well ahead of what is to come. I’m a poet, of the soul and wild things I’m from. I leap like Ferlinghetti’s little Charlie Chaplin man from the sheets to the streets, from the page to the stage. Laying waste to wicked wages, saving grace for grand displays. Commenting, responding, being present in this day and age. Sharing my voice to both weep and rejoice, amidst the blitz of division and rage.

The fire within is greater than the fire around.

Refusal to give voice

to the storm of creativity inside

is the true natural disaster,

we gather here to feel the resonant sound,

and prepare for what comes after

now approaching even faster.

I am a poet.

Be here with me know.

We will acknowledge all things,

and lay down the law.

We will have breakfast in bed,

and save humanity.

We will make our own rules,

and lead the entire world to the light and warmth,

the sting and comfort, the dissipation and dreams, of gathering to tell 

around the fire.

To be performed at WRITERS RESIST 

January 20th, 2020

Prompt: Writers to read in response to

Percy Blythe Shelley’s quote, 

“Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.”

Added significance: Event held on the acknowledgement of MLK day.

Him = Born: August 4th, 1792

Me = Born: August 4th, 1976


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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1 Response to Acknowledgement

  1. Brilliant writing 🖤

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