A year has past and it seems nothing really changes – and sometimes it even seems to move backwards in time and space.
Here is my US Thanksgiving post revisited. Still one of my better poems.
because they are forced
They did not choose
to have bombs dropping on their door
They do no want
to live on a hostile foreign shore.
with what is precious
in aching arms
frightened children crying for food
They would rather
be anywhere than in their homes.
casually watch them
like swarming ants
afraid to share our warm comforts;
“not my problem!”
forgetting the words etched offshore:
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
The words reshaped for our store-time romp
and shopping trips “Give me your deals, and more,
We’re huddled shoppers yearning for cheap goods,
Those wretched products imported from foreign shore.
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