Medal of Dishonor
“If you see something, say something” –anti-terrorism poster
Medals of Dishonor, sculpture by David Smith
I see anxiety
masquerading anger,
hatred masking fear.
I see lock her up means
stop and search means
them not us. I see
black lives matter
like litter matters.
I see freedom of speech
means speak up only
if you agree. Patriotism means
salute and sing along.
Don’t think too much
about the words
Indivisible under God
In the land of the free.
I say, You deserve a medal.
Make America Great Again
Let’s take America back
to the straight-
jacket of the 1950s--
when women knew
their place
and cops let
domestic abuse
slide, divorcees
were outcast
and the church
lied for priests
who brought altar boys
to their knees
while teachers and coaches
were given
a good talking to
or a year off
if they took advantage
of their boys and girls,
and gay kids
were routinely
beaten by macho guys
and mental illness
was cause for shame,
the retarded, objects
of ridicule.
The good old days
when no women
or Jews were allowed,
Blacks were happier
with their own kind
and America could do
no wrong.
Trump Country
We are the true victims
of oppression, PC
run amok. It’s our lives
that don’t matter.
We’ve been left out
of the recovery,
laid off,
replaced
by illegal
immigrants,
abandoned
by our own party,
dissed by our wives,
scorned by our kids
and the lame-stream media
hates us.
We’ve kowtowed
to blacks
Hispanics, women,
homos, lesbos, trannys.
It would be funny
if anyone could take a joke,
but you can’t even open your mouth
without being censored.
You can’t even order a cup of coffee;
they don’t understand
a word of English.
That’s why
We want to blow it all up
and take them out.
So thank God
we finally have a voice
who’ll say what he feels,
and send them back
to their own country,
build a wall
and they’ll foot the bill.
He’ll ban the Muslims
till we figure out
what’s really going on…
We’ll make the Chinese pay
for free trade,
and stand up to women
Because we’re the minority now.
Drones
You can barely hear the dial-tone
that hums through the wires of your brain.
It is the call of drones, buzzing as they fly
on their secret missions
known only to those
who man the remote controls,
striking the keys to send
unmanned Hawks, Ravens and Shadows
deep into Pakistan.
We have absolute confidence
in our sources. Our President
is in command, making
the hard decisions. Later
he falls asleep to the monotone hum
while Pakistanis, herding sheep,
look up, straining to hear
the unnerving buzz
of mechanical birds.
Ed Meek's most recent book of poems is Spy Pond and his book of stories, Luck, will be published in the spring of 2017