An Anchored Nation

I sit here, listening to an orchestra.

They are playing the Banjos of ingenuity,

and far from where I am, is a symposium

of wise men, sitting on the struggle
of the common American

oppressed but free.

Of what was meant to be a great nation,

I see fragments of constant befuddlement.

And now, in the amber air,

as the dust settles down on the yellow pages,

word has it, the translation from paper to reality

Is two centuries late.

Right beside the mighty Hollywood for saucy films

for the free American, the art director sighs,

and pulls down his placard asking for jobs.

Candles light up in the wake of disaster,

and the crowd is spitting flames

Tremendous numbers unbeknownst of their purpose.

Uncle Sam is wearing rimless glasses now,

and there is the light of hope seeping in.

He still wants you, but not to shed red,

but bleed the red and white stripes,

and see the stars of freedom under his blue skies.

But America, where are you?

Tell me, am I, the farmer,

The foreigner and the kid;

The immigrant lining outside the embassy,

and the juvenile on the block that wields,

but not the average peanut shells,

Locked inside an overseen dream?


Freedom is filed under a pile of litigations,

and the American Dream is artwork now.

Millions staring in awe at it,

Millions staring in disgust,

Millions that need it to be true,

But sold only to the highest bidder.

Written in honour of Black History Month