- I feel the tide rising,
- I see faces all around,
- different shapes
- and shades of hair
- and colors of skin.
- In a Budapest museum, homage is paid to those who fled
- —inventors, theorists, thinkers
- —artists, musicians, writers
- Welcomed in another place,
- and what they brought with them:
- television, laser, computer,
- paint, piano, and pen,
- The HY-DRO-GEN BOMB,
- and the eighth dimension unstrung.
- They, the celebrated,
- are only the froth,
- the effervescence of the movement of peoples,
- Not the essence.
- Yet another wave comes—
- short, dark men,
- digging, hammering, sweating, straining,
- building houses, mending roofs.
- Imagine their struggles, their strivings,
- their sorrows, their fears,
- their loneliness
***
[…] Source: A Rising Tide (Winner first place – poetry Houston Writers Guild Press – April 28, 2017) […]
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