America – A Poem



America is a delicate child who always
carries with her a curious sense
of the absurd.

She can be seen in the gardens, from
time to time, lounging under the
banana colored

canopy reading Dickens or Chandler.
Or dropping pebbles into the
pond, imagining

they’re her lovers, watching as they
descend forgotten past
the tadpoles

into the murky depths, her hand crushing
the moss and the lichen
clinging to the rocks.

Dazzlingly beautiful, the blood of her
forefathers shapes her, curved
and luscious

in blue jeans, long curls of hair, red as
autumn apples, falls languid over
her white t-shirt

that masks her in innocence and purity.
The July heat thunder rolls over
the fences and

tickles the walls of the house where she
dreams of paper planes and
charlatans. America

bears a strong patience in cruelty with
charming sophistication. She gives
hope that waits

on assurances of prosperity. A captive of
her own lusts, America constructs
complex designs,

ambitions born with feigned nobility that
that she sees will never come
to fruition.


10 thoughts on “America – A Poem

  1. Joseph, I apoloigize man. Your poem came up, I was swampewd and I savedf it and when I got your notice about Dans la Nuit I remembered it. I haven’t had time to read it more than once through. Let me get back to you tomorrow. Sorry.>KB

  2. Joseph, I really like the extended metaphor of a young lady liberty you lay out and the imagery is stunning. Though I like the end I am confused about whether she causes them not to come true or they don’t cometrue because they are goals set to high. All in all beautiful though.>KB

    • Thank you KB. Both, really. She creates and speaks of grandiose plans yet actively works, either by design or some form of incompetence, to keep them from growing, or mutating into a gross mockery.

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