Flowers And Trees And Love And Such

Flowers and trees and love and such 
are ours to freely discuss, 
are what is
allocated to us.
When we add a note

of concern or rage
at how each
is polluted or policed
or killed, they call us 
out of line. Sometimes

they call us onto
a firing line of our very own — 
enough, the Powers say,
enough, troublemakers;
you should have stuck to

writing of flowers and trees
and love and such
as they are and no more,
should never have sought or
assumed then proclaimed

connections to wider agonies 
and grander ecstasies — 
damn all you poets.  Stick to
pretty wordcraft; leave
the statecraft to the State.

For us to be of
soothing voice and
half-sound mind
is all they ever ask
of us; anything we choose

to carry or inhabit or disrupt
beyond that,
any words for the choices 
we fight for or against, anything
we choose the words to nurture, 

is ours alone, and we are
too frequently alone
with language — the machine
that makes truth happen.
We can’t turn it off, even if we die

by its churning. We can’t do otherwise;
seasons, rain, flowers and trees
and love and such ask us to speak for them.
We can’t do other than we are asked.
Even if we die. Even if it kills us.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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