Eyes Of Onatah
2018 01 20
The honking of cars in the morning glare
of sunlight, that wakes ancient memories
illuminating ghosts in business suits
who wear polished shoes that clack cement streets,
wakes something strange beyond the busyness
of people walking through glass tower doors.
The eerie glow of the computer screen,
flashing numbers when I type clacking keys
to calculate the balance of new sales
which track progress of delivery trucks
hauling boxes of cereals to stores,
envelopes me in hope for soaking rain.
Reflected in the window of my office
I see ten thousand farmers, in large fields
checkering the country between dirt roads,
who tend crops of wheat and corn that gleam gold
in refreshing wind rustling through their leaves,
so I eat corn chips like communion wafers.
While large semi-trucks glide on gold highways,
delivering wheat and corn to factories
where people produce cereal and bread,
I climb mountain between two shining seas
to discover Walt Whitman and Carl Sandburg
drinking whiskey as they chant reverent hymns.
"I am large and I contain multitudes,"
Whitman shouts, prancing in boots and broad hat,
"I am untranslatable, and not tamed,
and I shout my barbaric yawp of love
over the rain-wet rooftops of the world,
and give myself to dirt to become wheat."
"City of big shoulders," Sandburg proclaims,
strutting with arm upraised to the gold sun,
"tool maker, stacker of wheat, wicked town
with your painted women luring farm boys,
killers who go free, and women and children
starving for love, freight handler to the nation."
"We love this land from sea to shining sea,"
they sing together, dancing arm in arm,
then from the swirling mist two singers leap,
and they all cheer in their joyful reunion
when Woody Guthrie and Allen Ginsberg
arrive with marijuana and red wine.
"As I was walking that ribbon of highway,"
Guthrie sings, strumming guitar that kills fascists,
"I saw below me that broad golden valley
where wheat and corn flourish in wind and rain,
because this land was made for you and me,
and all lost refugees from war-torn lands."
"America, I have given you all,"
Ginsberg chants and leaps like Shiva in wind,
"and now I am nothing, for I have seen
the best minds of my generation mad
with hunger for love, angel-headed hipsters
burning for the starry dynamo of light."
Then at white flash of lightning in the sky
they all four kneel around tall shining stone,
and like the brazen giant of Greek fame
the mighty woman with bright torch appears,
Emma Lazarus, good mother of exiles,
who holds large book with names of all lost souls.
Dressed in white robes like ancient temple priests
those four poets of the American spirit
lift up their hands with ritual implements,
Walt holding the Wand, Allen holding the Ring,
Carl holding the Cup, Woody holding the Sword,
then Bob Dylan steps forth holding the Crown.
Like Liberty who stands over our land,
Emma proclaims from the high mountain top
with flaming mouth, "Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
and send your homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door."
I feel the spinning of our fragile world
as Earth spirals around indifferent sun
which hurtles blazing through the boundless void,
then down with beam of light on angel wings
the wise corn maiden Onatah descends
to stand before us in glow of pure light.
Standing on the stone of justice and truth,
Onatah spreads ten thousand arms with corn,
that shine like warm rays of the blazing sun,
and fills our minds with nourishment of love,
so we sing hymn of worshipful respect
while Bob places the gold crown on her head.
Wise Onatah, First Mother of this land,
names every person living on its soil,
and spirit of her fertile generation
bursts through the hard shell of buildings and roads
to shroud vast continent in blazing corn
as we sing hymns to liberty and love.
I snap awake from vision of the Goddess
whose spirit flows through the soil of this land
and ride the bus, crowded with silent people,
back to my apartment where I drink wine
and watch Game of Thrones till I fall asleep
then dream about the eyes of Onatah.
#Poem #Poetry #America #Whitman #Sandburg #Guthrie #Ginsberg #Dylan #Colossus #Liberty #Onatah #Goddess
@ellowrites @ellopoetry @ellopoems @ellobooks