DIRGE FOR AMERICANS

by Greg Friedman 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

They came in search of virgin 

land but found earth who was 

mother, sky who was father 

to those who walked on, under, 

in harmonies unknown across 

oceans. Unaware in the grasping. 

 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

They told us the stories: patriots 

of liberating pine trees and snakes 

un-tread-upon, wresting liberty  

from plough-wielding hands and  

chained feet brought unwilling, 

un-asked-for to bondage. 

 

shoot first, 

lie after 

 

We learned the lie, detonate it 

annually with fanfare and fire, 

touting tricornered hats and parchment 

promises which excluded souls 

with hypocrisy’s math which 

wove the original sin into 

the flag-fabric of a nation. 

 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

Even the taciturn words of Lincoln, 

mixing the knife-edged speeches of 

Douglass, passed into shades on blood- 

lands, and twisted into stone idols of 

Lee and Jackson, while newer  

promises stonewalled freedom. 

 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

Riders of terror hiding under white  

in black nights un-re-constructed 

the fragile facades of freedmen’s 

bureaus and the warrior-president, 

while carpetbags carried the poisons  

of our Adam’s choices, the apple  

eaten once and choking, choking us still. 

 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

They marched, some walked into water- 

cannon resistance, some earned ropes 

others bullets. But a people progressed, 

overcame, would not be moved until law 

moved and protections etched on stones 

hewn from prophets’ preaching. Alas, 

though, alas, the original grasp of  

the banned fruit reached again to 

roll back black tides of truth, un- 

write the engraved securities and 

spread denial with ballots and faces 

shrouded lest we see hate’s true faces. 

 

Shoot first 

lie after 

 

What mirrors can poets hold up  

to who we are, the maga-faces of 

us, masked and armed with original 

animosity, that snake-fed wish for 

the knowledge of evil without good, 

the forbidden fruit of persistent 

preferences, potent with orange truths, 

to contrive, convince what eyes saw, 

not innocence—but what hate reshapes. 

 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

Our weak words gain spirit in gathered 

places of open and zoomed assemblies 

of naming, crafted calls for hands to 

join and more voices to move between 

the guns and the victims, recognize 

the lies as they spew like Connor’s 

cannons to push us off the streets 

of spoken truths. We speak first, 

second, third and always,  

after  

and until. 

Greg Friedman is a Franciscan priest, author and poet, currently living in Rome, Italy. 

JERUSALEM LAMENTS

by Greg Friedman

William Blake, The Emanation of The Giant Albion, Object 41 detail from “Jerusalem” 1804 to 1820

From the south I hear their cries: 

David, 

Wala’a, 

Yochered, 

Aya, 

       Oded, 

      Muhammad. 

They call from the tunnels, 

the dead unburied 

from beneath the ruined hospital 

    where mothers search  

    in the dust for the lost. 

From the north I witness the terror, 

from the south I suffer the terror, 

with my sons I bear the terror, 

with my daughters I carry the terror, 

the whistle of the anonymous messengers, 

raining their sentence of vengeance: 

alarm across the city, 

dread beyond the border, 

anger unchecked by reason, 

retribution fueling the advance, 

memories etched in blood staining 

my land gifted, 

inheritance claimed, 

my land usurped, 

inheritance ignored— 

my land where only the stones now cry 

to me its mother.  

I hear them from captivity,  

I hear them from subjugation, 

I hear them from internment, 

I hear them  

from Nasser Hospital, 

from Kibbutz Nir Oz, 

from Deir al-Balah, 

from Kibbutz Kfar Aza, 

from the shrines sacred to my children, 

from mountain, mosque, temple, basilica, 

from the holy rock, 

from Herod’s enduring walls, 

from the ancient sepulcher, 

from the sudden sepulchers of rubble, 

from the entombing walls of Gaza City. 

 

I hear them all 

from mountain, mosque, temple, basilica, 

ancient in my mourning, 

young in my anguish, 

vigilant for their outcry, 

I wait for the silence, 

I despair for the peace, 

I remember and watch and listen. 

Greg Friedman is a Franciscan Friar who travels frequently to the Middle East, leading pilgrims. He has been a magazine editor, radio host and pastor.