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After Katrina If I were a poem, I'd flow with fury right now Separating wisdom and virtue Without ever knowing how. If I were a poem, I'd ride the beats of African drums Releasing fear and bitterness Upon the rising of our sons. I'd be poetic words In search of better tomorrows. I'd be answers to questions Birthed from our sorrows Was it because of our status That help passed us by? Was it because of history That we watched each other die? These are our questions, And we ask them duly, But can anyone, will anyone Answer us truthfully? If I were a poem, I'd flow with fury right now. But because I'm human I write the madness down. We watched the horror As it played out on TV, New Orleans in chaos Under waters far too deep. American babies crying, The elderly weak and lost, Americans left to perish, As gangsters became boss. Too many days In filthy clothes, When help would come, Nobody knows. Streets paved in trash, No security in sight, The dead left to die, Where ever they might. Horrific, embarrassing, A travesty it was . . . When the government waits To aid its own citizens. Where was America The great white hope Securing the Middle East From dictatorship's scope. The world watched in awe As the victims endured hell. And though help finally came, There are many stories to tell Of the natural disaster Known as Katrina And the inept response Of what America calls FEMA. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2005-11-04 09:39:56
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.66667
But YOU are a poem! Everything you do and are is a poem. It shows up in the physicality of your writings.
You are being heard. Good synopsis of the disaster.
There is a Canadian millionaire that is building homes free of charge to house up to 150 persons on the west coast of florida. Forgive me because I cannot recall his name. It was on the news this morning.
Peace/shalom, oh now I remember....his name is Jack Stronach. Have you heard of it?