Iconoclastic

This was also posted to the  http://voicesofcommonfolk.blogspot.com/?view=classic

I originally wrote this poem in 2009 during some period of perceived American strife. I penned the original a single sitting and shared with a small and select group of other poets in an online writing forum. While that forum is now inactive, I'm still friends online with several of the writers. One has obtained Master's of Fine Arts and is nearly ready to defend her PhD. Another started a journal and he also began publishing chapbooks and books of poetry. Quite a few people have published their first books with his small publication.

This poem sat in that little inactive poetry forum for the last eight years. I didn't remember exactly what I wrote, but remembered it was well received from few other poets whose opinions and critique I valued. With the inauguration of Donald Trump as President in January, 2017, I fear America is facing her first true threat of fascism. With the authoritarian disposition of Trump and his administration, the urge to sing through writing is upwelling in me again.

This poem, Iconoclastic, was calling out for me to release her from her dormancy. I think she fits today as well as she did in President Obama's first year as the first Black President of the United States. She had something to say and her time arrived with the election of Donald Trump.

I believe the voice in this poem is that of us common folk.

Iconoclastic

America
I witness your pre-pubescent strife
as I purse my lips to blow a breeze

across your continental

divide.

America

the defiant teen-ager

grasping for identity
searching for that one iconic symbol
to be a single culture

stitched from nations
and patches of aboriginal tokens
tucked away on reservations.
The history you deny.

The rules changed.

You are no longer allowed

to stumble along in your illusion

of Norman Rockwell and apple pie

Come on, America,
I’ll hold your hand

or squeeze your balls

to drag you along.

Come with me, America:
I am the Indigenous;

I am the Immigrant;

I am the Muslim;

I am the Mexican;

The Brown, The Black, The White and The Blue.

We are the old and we are the new.

America

your wild Mustangs are corralled
it’s time you stop bucking
for we are the ones who know how

to break you to a smooth stride,

sit atop a calm gait and ride

your freedom and equality for all

across your iconoclastic

divide.

© D.Y. Wiley

April 9, 2009 

February 8, 2017 (rvs)