You are here:

glow - a poem by Caridad Svich

by Caridad Svich
(for Thanksgiving 2013)
in wintry dark
the spectral ire
of mischief
folds the night.
and silent tears,
a glass of wine or two
to friends lost
others won,
to others fast and true,
and talk of this and that rare book
held in the heart with rue.
it is said that thanks
is more than Fridays black
and Wednesdays red,
but little else is in the news
save for the pale rage
and ghastly scorn
of typhoon Haiyan's residue.
bitter tears
amongst the vanished
and those now left to muddle through
without homes
or clothes to wear
or even a cup of brew.
a lonely pall
a mournful call
what will we say we knew
when records show
this day of thanks
levelled another home or two?
in cities wide
across the miles
she sits in some corner booth
the forgotten girl
of yesterday's reel
the image of slender youth
remembered now for
a commercial's smile
and a viral misstep or two
in sudden morn
o'er brow forlorn
she rests upon the proof
of surveillance's dawn
lingering on
a march of privacy's mis-use.
who is she now?
who are the others
in this calamitous parade,
where rights are lost
at mighty cost
while someone somewhere gets paid?
who renders this
the everyday?
how is it one cannot choose?
did someone win
this battle waged
called once a health care boost? 
beg my tone
she cries at night
while others hang loose
i once recall
a lovely fall
of promises and truth.
an ocean's tide
a fine paid twice
the poor remain the poor
as countless more
surrender scores
of bits and files in view.
"the cloud is full."
"a portal blew"
will be deliverance's cue
for a reign of tales
told to those
who will in time make news,
while we sit 
before sorrow's bits
in our humble pews.
pray those that went
and those that came
while we praised the crews
who touched down
with grace
and called that foul
and let the world suspend
in games and songs
sung loud and long
with no hidden acumen.
oh reason, world,
do not forget
the waves of those you blessed.
stir not the fire
of greed's callous desire
to render even more dispossessed.
for if the 99 are here
multiplied ten thousand fold
then listen now
to their vows
their truths need be told.
pretty things
are pretty still
but they leave me pretty cold,
when i see that man,
woman or child
left unconsoled
on streets of mist
ice and rain
no legends here to behold,
save the endless one
of power's song
and resignation's hue.
another day,
cry you one,
let down by the many
and few
pray we learn
this lesson true
rather than make a show
of rancorous bluster
and impressive woe
to chastise history's wounds
we are it
there's no one else
to call on
in the morning dew
we are history.
gather round.
for in the debter's prison
salvation's overdue.
candle lit.
bargain struck.
that's all we knew.