Well, we die whether we stay together or fall apart.
Finally the world goes on its way without us.
The most scourge-like name alive today will one day
be spoken seldom if at all. To what purpose
this sighing and raging? To what purpose this pain?
The main thing is to be a part of one's time,
no matter which side seems to be winning. It's OK
to be a noble failure, a fool in the eyes of the world,
to die in the relentless faith of a Pete Seeger
or Rachel Carson. The big truck taking up so much
space will one day come to the end of its road.
Insults will be forgotten. Offended decency
will be forgotten. In a hundred years, new
people and new problems. And we can be
sure there will be some glory in being alive
in just their moment, as there is in ours.
Even as I write and as you read, the termites
of ruin are chewing day and night at the under-
side of the hypocrite's mask that shines with
such shameless intensity in the national
spotlight. The time to speak is always now.
Say your truth if only for those who may be
listening from the galleries of dead and unborn,
if not the childish public locked in their
death tango with destruction. Reserve for yourself
days of uninterrupted silence in which to hear
those things that have settled in your heart most deeply
sing their faithfulness beneath time's altering sky.
(Note: This poem originally appeared on the New Verse News web site on October 8, 2016, a month before our disastrous election. At rare moments a poem one has written can return to comfort, as though a past self speaking to the present. I feel this to be the case with "Note to Self" on this very dark morning of November 9, 2016. Courage and perseverance, friends, for the difficult road ahead. May we, as Thomas McGrath wrote in his poem "Epitaph," "journey together joyfully, / Living on catastrophe, eating the pure light.")