Ensign Prime

Ensign Prime

The flags flying at Ground Zero
nine turbulent years after
the towers tumbled,
fill me with meloncholy
as Patriot’s Day dawns and ebbs.
Idiots in Florida threaten
to burn the Koran;
Obama pulled us out of the
quagmire of Iraq, and still
Afghanistan remains a stronghold
for terrorists of all regions;
Jehad still rings on Muslim lips,
still stings like a scorpion in our boot,
and the truth is still cloaked in conspiracy
and black ops and the World Bank.
We mourn for our dead, and kill
for our country, and follow the dictates
of those who wear Leader on their lapels,
but we run blind in the darkness
of a world gone mad,
and there are no doves,
no fortune cookie happiness,
no heralds, no scribes, no messengers
to show us the way,
to present us with answers,
or the truth,
or closure.

Flags flutter on office buildings,
over car lots, on front porches,
on government reservations,
on schools, on the post office,
and in parades, and I am reminded
that something good stirs
in each of us on July 4th,
something Norman Rockwell,
something Grandma Moses,
and to date we have had
234 chances to celebrate
our special freedoms,
to bathe deep in the rich sauces
of liberty, and so in the parks,
backyards, and living rooms
as we munch fried chicken,
swig libations, and chew lustily
on corn cobbs, we stare
at our flag, and we witness
an odd coupling as
pain and pride embrace,
and although most of us
do not actually salute it,
still it never fails
to stir our blood
to see it flapping proudly
in the wind.

Glenn Buttkus September 2010