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Further observations of a furious blend, a poem by Chad Norman

Photo Anthony Crider / Flickr


Mostly a man,                                                                             
carrying a gigantic gun,
death and disease                                                                                     
causing a certain patriotism.

Parading the dreams of thieves
he stands where he wants to
before settling on a position among
who he believes are trusty brothers.

The gigantic gun seems to carry him
even though his shoulder submits,
at times it outsizes how small
he seems to be, even though the media
has a specific size for him,
a choice several stations select
to pass off a threat I dismiss.

How he turns up on the steps
or poised like a soldier in halls
of so many government buildings--
I am sure you have seen him there.
Seemingly so confident, unalone
and unafraid, the gigantic gun
falling over him like a fashion
chosen by those brothers,  everything
to do with a white Romerica.

Something has stolen the man inside
all the appearances and marching
brings nothing more than he had...
the gun will never be big enough
in order for those trusted brothers
to be men too, something so seen,
so obvious, let his longing out 
to be as white as his willing hatred.


Mostly a woman
lifting a legible slogan,
birth and burden
write: “Caring For One Another is Right!”

Hearing the dreams of marchers
a question keeps being asked,
“Is this how she’ll be a part of change?” 
Over there beside the burnt cop-shop,
over there beside all the murdered
black loved ones, stolen from a
family somewhere, to be left in
a cemetery to be alive forever.

Her voice is from all the voices
I hear in the marches, in
my other family members
who choose to carry the colour of skin
in other than the weight on faces,
carrying it on placards and signs
made for the day it could be seen
and able to speak, the colour of,
the skin of, all of them like a
harmony, like a collection, like
what she says about a country,
a house so sick, a house so white,
yeah, you know it, where traitors
and liars enjoy success, all being
part of what so many eyes see.

A woman has taken back sanity
what can be defined as a “return-
to-sender” put in rising fists,
and then when the streets want
more voices, more of other
than the furious blend, it is good,
it is all about how what is going on
out there in Romerica, brought down
by a red-headed misleader, put in place
by an addict in love with the mix
he needs daily: fraud, incarceration,
racism, cheating, infamous addictions
labelled a presidency, the reason
to walk with her dealing in
some further observations, lucrative
when another election brings reprieve,
points to a way out and a way in,
a future less eager to be a mystery.
Photo Jonathan Bachman

Chad Norman’s most recent books are Squall: Poems in the Voice of Mary Shelley, released this spring by Guernica Editions, and Selected & New Poems, from Mosaic Press. He lives in Truro, Nova Scotia.

See also: Megaphones in a parade, a poem by Chad Norman

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