“The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready.” –Walt Whitman
Father of free verse, I consecrate your words,
lost in time, propped in the back of one of your
many photographs.
We no longer sing the world eclectic.
Your smirk used to lie on the elitists’ coffee
tables—the scene, a symbol of hypocrisy
and ignorance. Each blade of grass laughed
at its capitalist owner while your laughter
screamed democracy.
And how do you feel about the men and women,
the college leaves, green and vibrant, flooding
the gates of wall street?
They scream, “O me! O life!” so that the new
elitists hear—still so similar, so synonymous
with the old.
The leaves are there to sound their barbaric yawps.
Yet, their lavish technology summons others.
Yet, their protest is unkempt.
Yet, they see your portrait, Papa Walt, of the
young children by your side—heads
on your shoulders,
and they do not understand your will.
And all the while, your book, your lines
of free verse that celebrate themselves,
sing themselves
lie alone, still, on the elitists’ coffee tables—
purchased with capital they either earned
or stole, whatever the case,
the book smirks.
“All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses.” –Walt Whitman
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