Great Inaugural Poem

[two-blocked]

One Today
One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.
One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.
The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.
Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.
One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn't give what you wanted.
We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always — home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country — all of us —
facing the stars
hope — a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it — together

Read more: Inaugural poem text - The Denver Posthttp://www.denverpost.com/nationworld/ci_22419123/inaugural-poem-text?source=pkg#ixzz2Ie3l0Gwg

[scootrd]

I was also moved by the poem when I heard it.
Thanks for posting . I was going to share with my better half and was looking for it online.

[rio grande]

It was ' nice'.  But I miss Ezra Pound.


USURA . (Usury)

With usura hath no man a house of good stone each block cut smooth and well fitting that design might cover their face, with usura hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall harpes et luthes or where virgin receiveth message and halo projects from incision, with ursura seeth no man Gonzaga his heirs and his concubines no picture is made to endure nor to live with but it is made to sell and sell quickly with ursura, sin against nature, is thy bread ever more of stale rags is thy bread dry as paper, with no mountain wheat, no strong flour with usura the line grows thick with usura is no clear demarcation and no man can find site for his dwelling Stone cutter is kept from his stone weaver is kept from his loom WITH USURA wool comes not to market sheep bringeth no grain with usura Usura is a murrain, usura blunteth the needle in the the maid's hand and stoppeth the spinner's cunning. Pietro Lombardo came not by usura Duccio came not by usura nor Pier della Francesca; Zuan Bellin' not by usura nor was "La Callunia" painted. Came not by usura Angelico; came not Ambrogio Praedis, Came no church of cut stone signed: Adamo me fecit. Not by usura St. Trophime Not by usura St. Hilaire, Usura rusteth the chisel It rusteth the craft and the craftsman It gnaweth the thread in the loom None learneth to weave gold in her pattern; Azure hath a canker by usura; cramoisi is unbroidered Emerald findeth no Memling Usura slayeth the child in the womb It stayeth the young man's courting It hath brought palsey to bed, lyeth between the young bride and her bridegroom CONTRA NATURAM They have brought whores for Eleusis Corpses are set to banquet at behest of usura. [/t]

[powderman]

[ironglow]

  Sometimes I "versify" a bit.. often it's better original than copied..  Of course, this little ditty is only my opinion..
  Matter of fact I suspect all poems are the author's opinion..so here goes..
 
 
      Inaugural
 
We see festivities in Washington;
 
     Which evoke a sardonic laugh.
 
So many just 4 short years ago;
 
     Cast their vote for their sacred calf.
 

We were promised then that the debt;
 
     Would be neatly cut in two.
 
Those idle words, so easily said;
 
Vanished, with the next morning’s dew.
 
 
 Many were charmed by words of freedom;
 
    And they were sold a “bill of goods”.
 
Now we’re 16 trillion dollars in debt;
 
     And foreclosures ... stalk all neighborhoods.
 

The promise of “hope & change”;
 
      Held some in rapt mesmerism;
 
The rest of us stood in disbelief;
 
       Seeing the stark shades of dark communism.   
 

What happened to that great promise;
 
       Of a land filled with “milk & honey”?
 
It may be there, but most just can’t touch it;
 
      They have no job, no hope & no money.
 

The face and the voice is everywhere;
 
       But there is little left to console.
 
That face brought great division;
 
        Along with frustration and “gun control’.
 

The campaign railed about a “war on women”;
 
        Until it resounded within our head.
 
Yet not a word about the “war on babies”;
 
       ... The score is now 55 million dead.
 
　
 
　
 
He claimed that he would “spread the wealth”;
 
        And he said it with great elocution.
 
But in it’s place he spread only poverty;
 
      along with racism, rage and destitution.
 

The great promise of freedom;
 
       Is not found locked within bricks & mortars.
 
It is found in the hearts of Godly men;
 
       And not in “executive orders”.
 

Many have seen clear through the façade;
 
       The government's deceit is going viral.
 
This once mighty and lone super-power;
 
       Is now crashing in a deadly spiral.
 

Can this republic be salvaged;
 
       Can our leaders be again patriotic?
 
Can we again enjoy sweet liberty;
 
       And avoid being ruled by the despotic?
 

We can only regain our freedom;
 
       If we learn to research on our own.
 
We need an intelligent rise of the people;
 
       One man cannot do it alone.
 

Shall we barter our Lady Liberty;
 
       For food stamps and free cell phones?
 
Should we just take the “freebies’ offered;
 
       And live in a hive, ....like a drone?
 

I say no, let’s stand for what’s right;
 
        Let freedom once more be a flood.
 
And should it again be required;
 
       Let’s water liberty’s tree, with our blood!
 
                                                                             Ironglow  1/23/13
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
 
   I could carry this little rhyme for hours...but I think most here "get it"..

[BUGEYE]

    Ironglow, you kissed your calling.  I recommend you for POET LAUREATE OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.