Enemy Of The People Poem by GORDON GILHULY

when does the tide turn



standing here the shining rainbow

waves tirelessly practising

at striking and hissing a little

the sand dunes crouching

behind me along the back

of the blackened beach like

tired hounds resting waiting

and i in this moment not

knowing not seeing the line

which divides retreat

from advance the shift of

sea air that signals intent



i have missed it

i have missed the slow

and imperceptible slide from

benign to malevolent

from friend to foe



this is dream becoming Abaddon

bodies blossom on the beach

strange polyps the flowers of

disfigured gods who have forgotten

their bloodlines their inventors

the beauty of death has not

yet embraced these dark shadows

they scuttle sideways heads down

bodies slack with the absence of

hope careful not to offend careful

not to appear ungrateful for the

gifts of thick black air pestilent

water and impotent earth that

has become their home



beyond the beach reluctant fires

cajole and comfort a multitude of

small groups rag-infested old men and women

children old with the slump of

poverty in their shoulders and violence

in their eyes short range ballistic

missiles aimed only at their brothers

there are no revolutionaries here

no banners crying in the

wind for glory bravery or justice

if hope is a thing with feathers

it does not fly here for hope

and pride were eaten long ago

just after food stamps were

proclaimed to be aiding and

abetting the terrorists the traitors

the just plain lazy



there are no speeches made here

a heart pumelled by betrayal and

a mind embalmed with deceit

are as dead as brave

black men with dreams as

young presidents who ask too

many questions



up by the newly-visible fence

smaller groups no more than

two or three as proscribed by

Homelands Security and an ever-lasting

Code Red prowl still angry

still probing for gaps for reasons

answers for anything that will

explain why they are here

prisoners in an imprisoned land

and why there are armed soldiers

on the other side



here on the beach the night has

grown bitter and churlish

its warmth withheld full of

spiteful warnings of the coming

ice age but not far away in the

softly glowing houses of the holy

the air seems guardedly warm and

sweet a radiance fuelled by burning

power and stone cold laughter

here in the land of SUV where

Christ is the CEO of the Church of

Holy Mendacity where the one

commandment is avarice where the

Host is become the blood and body of

Xenophobe here perhaps is where the

tide turned here is the truly great

Continental Divide the point in

time and space at which self-appointed

gods crept over the rim of the world

creating graven images of themselves

government for and by the people became

the enemy of the people and the great

lies began there is no money for health care

for education for the elderly for social services

there is only money for me



here on the beach strangers

in a familiar land that once was theirs

lie burning in the cold


"Abaddon" is, variously, the Hebrew word for destruction; the angel of the botomless pit. It is the personification of the idea of destruction; of "sheol", the realm of the dead.