It’s Mother’s Day in America

Weep not for the mothers laying dead in bombed out villages

or their sisters and brothers shot in the back

as they waved their flags of black, red, green & white

weep instead for the children they leave behind,

far out of the world’s sight

as we pay no mind to the plight

of the broken and battered

their whole world shattered

can you find it in your heart to shed even one tear for them

this Mothers Day?

 

Is your fear so great that you remain paralyzed

with subconscious hate

and apathetically nod, ‘but it’s their fate’

as you eat Medjool dates

grown in places erased from the map

to further slap those orphans upside the head,

it’s Mother’s Day in America, but theirs are dead

 

and we stay well fed on dates and aging lies

but when did stolen land become a prize for genocide?

And when did love for one equate hate for another?

 

Brother, don’t shed tears for me

please weep for our mother.

 

Why did auntie’s independence

become mamma’s catastrophe

as the clock strikes seventy years

the caged dove still longs to breathe free

while it’s choking on the smoke

from burning fields of ancient olive trees

and through the smoke we can’t see

that we hold the keys

 

we drive the Caterpillar bulldozers destroying what’s left of homes

we hold the gasoline and matches burning down those ancient olive groves

we fly the jets dropping death from above

 

but we hold the keys to unlock the cage and release the dove

and we don’t need a sage to advise us about right and wrong

and we don’t need to wait on a page-turning book or a catchy song

 

There’s no mourning in America this Mother’s Day

there’s no money in the truth my friend, and skies are grey

don’t just bow your head and pray

and wait for things to change

as you pay to turn the world into a target range

and say you think it strange how things are as they are

as you search for lucky coins and look for shooting stars

you curse the President as you fuel Air Force One

and watch him Bob Ross mushroom clouds out of a price-tag gun

 

you think Uncle Sam’s come undone

but he’s long been this way…

 

I hope you find a tear to cry on Mother’s Day

 

 

 

 

About soitgoes1984

I was born and raised on land stolen from the Pocumtuc. I now live on a small island in the middle of the Pacific ocean, on land that was stolen more recently, from the Hawaiians. I am addict, struggling to kick the habit of fossil fuel. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
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