It is the fourth of July. Independence Day, or so they say. Independence, at least for some. It was not quite the same for slaves or women, but that was then, wasn’t it? We try to celebrate this day, though I am broken-hearted by what is happening to the country I grew up in.
Muted celebration came to mind as I recalled the many times, as a child, I watched parades on the fourth. So rather than write yet another lament or false cheer about, I decided to share, today, my own poetic reflection, filtered through our history, crafted and reworked over the years. It may take some of you back, or some of you forward.
Patriotism
At the edge
of the grey cement curb
the boy stands alone;
small town pride
passes in review.
first the flags
flutter in the summer wind
held by wooden standards
tucked in manly leather pouches.
boy scouts in green summer shorts
adorned with ribbons of reward;
Theseus dreamers seeing Minotaurs to slay,
maidens to rescue.
then the marching band
high-hatted drummer in the lead,
horns blare hope, drummers pound
epitaphs to the dead.
a battalion of soldiers next,
heroes of Kabul and Baghdad
ribbons flutter, metal gleams
remember, remember.
the stallions
step high, heads aloft,
cowboy riders in leather saddles
weave side-to-side down Main Street.
grey haired vets follow
stomachs sag, feet falter,
Pleiku memories linger;
they hope for quiet sleep.
at last, the streetsweepers,
spin brushes down the curb,
erase patriotic memory;
prepare for the next parade.
Patriotic
I remember all of that quite well, except for the cowboys. We had marching bands and ballons instead, along with a straggle of inebriated men, young and old. We were all proud Americans living in the very best country in the world, literally number one on the list. Today I cannot help but wondering what the people in Highland Park are thinking about that on this 5th of July.