Two Poems on Occupy Wall Street

Sam Friedman

Moonwords in a month of spreading occupations

As the tired sun crawls beyond
the world’s crumbling rim
seeking its troubled nightly bed,
Luna glows ever bolder in relief,
her eyes imperious,
her nose an arrow pointing
even leftwards,
signaling Nature’s nightly news.

 I can almost hear Luna’s fearful whisper to those
Occupying
below:

“Go left, like my nose!
Be Earth-life’s last desperate dice-toss!
Go left! lest I glow lonely,
a lifeless Luna with no more history or evolution
to watch below
to while away my endless future years.”

 


 

Occupations

Occupy
Wall Street,
all day,
all week,
drummers drum,
cymbals clang,
people chant,
people march,
I among them—
beneath a tower
built anew
as wealth’s latest power symbol,
a tower where my workplace burned,
my workplace fell . . .
where war years birthed.

Up Broadway we drum and we march.
Youth learning struggle
merge with workers embattled, workers remembering anew.
We march this day, we crowd this park
and we build a new kind of unity,
everyone’s anger mixed with joy and with caring,
with thoughts about power
now taking root amidst this long-trampled grass.

 

 

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