An August Poem

When Nazis with torches get a pass but kids with plastic bottles get tear-gassed:

Rage would be a constant of consciousness
Were I not so anxious to bury it,
Sublimate it,
Imagine the pressure of awareness
Will squeeze it into gemstones,
Emergent soft and beautiful words
That will turn every human eye to sunsets and sunrises,
And cause every thinking, feeling being
To cast away weapons and to smile.
For all I try
I’ve no words to so inspire,
And I’ve watched those with such words
Stand ignored.
Yet I know
The gemstones of gentle words,
So compressed to be impervious to fire,
Are life’s only hope,
For nothing else will withstand the brimstone voices
Fanning the mob’s ardent flames.

Marty Price, poet