Math Poem by Roy Blokker

We are complacent.
We see others in turmoil
While counting coins.
We see great difficulties
While counting votes.
We take pity on our on war dead
While counting bullets.
We are untouched, well fed,
Counting billboards,
Slipping into second place
Like the hare,
Unaware in our dreamscape
That we no longer lead.
We have forgotten how,
That these pesky sparks,
Not out, have cooled.

I say I sing a pagan song,
A warrior’s song,
A spinning medley
Of the unheard.
I scream, . Cassandra!
As incoming cars rush by
Headed perhaps
To the Mall of America
And holiday bargains
Not to be mailed
Overseas.
And you sit quietly,
Thumbs furious
But language mute,
To the rhythm of the saints
Choking on sacred bones.

But the ground is red,
The air is choked with dust,
The crimson fields returning,
And no one seems to mind.