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A Friday Poem for the US, with Love: “Get Out the Vote”
Happy Valentine’s Day! Love is in the air. And you may wonder where the love is when you read my poem today.
One of my heroes is Robert Bly. I’ve had the privilege of studying “at his feet” – yes, literally. And I read and reread his poems often. One of my favorite refrains he has written is “It’s already too late!” This is from his second collection of ghazals: “My Sentence was a Thousand Years of Joy” and the poem titled “Listening to Shahram Nazeri.” So, the other day as I was listening to the news, a commentator said something like: “how far is too far?” And my immediate thought was “it’s already too far!” So, with apologies to Robert I am echoing his refrain in the following:
Get Out the Vote
Russia, if you are listening; Lock her up:
Call and response, chant the chant,
Lies and deceit, cover up: it’s already too far.
Get out the vote, trolls take note, purge the rolls,
Establish the doubt, break the booth;
Lies and deceit: it’s already too far!
Electoral College completes the lie; three million votes,
worthless; Michigan’s few thousand swing the tide.
We begin the slide; it’s already too far!
State is in shambles, FBI firings, DOJ meddlings, DOD
next? Fourth Estate attacked day and night;
Can’t hide the slide: it’s already too far!
Babies in cages, walls blowing down, Native lands sullied,
Rivers muddied, bridges collapsed, brown water sickens:
American carnage, yes: it’s already too far.
Laws don’t matter, impeachment’s ignored,
Power unbounded in the name of us all!
Where is the check? Or, is it already too far?

©2020, Richard W. Bredeson, all rights reserved.
MONDAY’S POEM: Time
We spent the entire weekend moving; moving, no matter how far or how much is always a bit surreal. It’s difficult to know when you are finished; there seems no end to the stuff that has to be loaded, moved and unloaded. And time is like that during a move as well. It seems to drag on forever, and then it’s day’s end before you have moved the last box!
I wrote this a few months ago, but it seems to apply to our moving weekend quite well!
Time
Robert Bly says:
“It’s already too late”
In his Midwestern, Norwegian
Accent I know so well.
But is this true?
Are we out of time?
I would rather be in time,
Wouldn’t you?
Time is a slippery notion.
It slips right by when we are not in it.
How often do we kill time?
We spend it, waste it as if it were coinage.
Time is only an attitude.
We are either in it or out of it.
As we spiral through life
I want to live it, not be too late!
©2013 Richard W. Bredeson. All rights reserved.

A POEM: “Honor Your Grandfather”
I have decided to begin sharing some of my poetry. Mondays seem a good time to do that, a good way to start the week. If you enjoy these I’d love to read your comments!
The following, “Honor Your Grandfather” I subtitled: ‘A remembrance of “A Day for Men” with Robert Bly and Michael Meade at the Lisner auditorium, Washington, DC’. I had attended this day, a lot of years ago now, in the middle years of the men’s movement known as the “Mytho-Poetic Men’s Movement.” I was very moved and influenced by this day for men. And I did then and still do honor my grandfather. As we approach Thanksgiving here in the US I particularly honor all of my ancestors whose product I remain.
The clear day was filled
With heightened expectations—
“A Day for Men.”
At the entrance we were guided
Through a side door leading to steps
Descending into the womb of the theater.
Winding through narrow passages
Voices whispered “Remember your Grandfather.”
“Remember the ancestors,” “Honor your Father.”
A faint rumble echoed
At the Edge of perception—it began
To resolve into rhythm.
Dark warmth held us, then
Suddenly we were birthed
Onto a stage amongst fifty men.
Drumming! Dancing! We were urged on—
Asked to dance across the stage,
To perform for the sea of faces looking back.
The short trip was filled
With tension—light, sound, motion
Blending in splendid cacophony.
Off stage, at our seats, we stood
Dancing in place, pounding rhythm
Of drums, hands, feet—driving.
“Remember your Grandfather” echoed
On the rhythm. He appeared on stage
Larger than he had ever been in life.
Tears streamed—“He would have loved this!”
Primeval sensation drove his body
And mine as we entrained with the drum.
Remembered days with him—the
Dark tavern—blue smoke hanging
Sullenly in the sodden air.
The bar supporting elbows
Of overalled farmers—fresh manure still
Clinging to rubbered boots.
The sweet/sour whiskey and beer breaths
Mingled with aimless talk
Of weather, crops and cows.
They laughed and cried, shared lies
That covered their fears and
Broken dreams—we laughed/cried.
The almost painful rhythm
Brought back the now—then stopped!
We had arrived.
©1990 Richard W. Bredeson. All rights reserved.
