Are we
Simply locusts
A blight
Plaguing the
Earth or
Perhaps we’re
The pervasive
Gnawing of
Hunger deep
In the
Belly of
A child
Or perhaps
We’re a
Glacier scraping
Resources and
Retreating once
We’ve had
Our fill
Are we
Not truly
Charged with
Change as
Poets aren’t
We supposed
To incite
Riotous inflection
With words
Why then
The imagery
Of angels
When we
In fact
Live amongst
The damned
Poor means
Poor it
Doesn’t mean
Broken nor
Does it
Mean ignorant
Or lazy
Or unlucky
Or dirtier
Or even
Less fortunate
So many
Of us
Have so
Much that
We forget
What we
Have why
Not give
Those forgotten
Things away
Not to
Make room
For more
But to
Raise the
Poor up
From the
Very bottom
Of life
Sometimes the
Most painful
Memories and
Fears take
Years to
Expose buried
And hidden
Often best
Left to
Decompose we
Sat in
A park
Naked and
Drilled down
And while
Together the
Pain was
Gone but
Now alone
My exposure
Is beginning
To throb
Did I
Say too
Much did
You I’ve
Always thought
That the
More we
Say the
Stronger we
Are then
Why do
I still
Feel like
Crying today
I do
Know why
It’s the
Frostbite from
The truth
Napping he’s
Far away
He could
Be in
A boat
Off to
Sea or
On a
Mountain top
No closer
To me
I guess
This is
What you
Become the
Blissful silence
Of love
Always happier
After I
Write after
The weight
Of thought
Is carried
On the
Backs of
Words do
I then
Rest but
For a
Moment until
A trickle
Begins to
Pool then
Gather then
Lifted skyward
Forming on
Some far
Off horizon
Billowing until
All at
Once another
Saturating downpour
Of words
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 