by Dick Altman
I imagine
my grandparents,
who traded
the Old Country
for America,
asking me today,
Should we come?
Should we come,
given the chance?
I try clearing
the knotted throat
of my mind,
to find an answer.
Would I
want to start
life over,
tattered
and patched,
I ask myself,
in a land,
that didn’t
want me?
I reel from today’s
headlines,
sleepless,
as I wander
the streets
of my American
Dream,
comforting,
familiar,
welcoming
no longer.
But where to go,
begin anew?
America,
you’ve shaken
the globe
off its footings.
Turned yourself,
in many minds,
into a nightmare
of economic
submission.
Turned your back
on those
yearning,
deserving,
to be free.
I feel estranged,
increasingly
out of touch.
The periodic table
of my life—
all the elements
that spark mind/
body/spirit—
my American
Dream’s
essence,
runs riot.
Have I reached
the terminus,
where it’s
no longer
if you,
my country,
want me?
I plumb the dark
for harmony,
once heart
of the American
Dream.
The day’s unfurling,
a rampage
of dissonance,
ravages my sleep.
my grandparents,
who traded
the Old Country
for America,
asking me today,
Should we come?
Should we come,
given the chance?
I try clearing
the knotted throat
of my mind,
to find an answer.
Would I
want to start
life over,
tattered
and patched,
I ask myself,
in a land,
that didn’t
want me?
I reel from today’s
headlines,
sleepless,
as I wander
the streets
of my American
Dream,
comforting,
familiar,
welcoming
no longer.
But where to go,
begin anew?
America,
you’ve shaken
the globe
off its footings.
Turned yourself,
in many minds,
into a nightmare
of economic
submission.
Turned your back
on those
yearning,
deserving,
to be free.
I feel estranged,
increasingly
out of touch.
The periodic table
of my life—
all the elements
that spark mind/
body/spirit—
my American
Dream’s
essence,
runs riot.
Have I reached
the terminus,
where it’s
no longer
if you,
my country,
want me?
I plumb the dark
for harmony,
once heart
of the American
Dream.
The day’s unfurling,
a rampage
of dissonance,
ravages my sleep.
Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, aming others. His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 250 poems published on four continents.
