I have yet another too long poem that I originally published in a small chapbook back in 1991. Once again, it is a poem that has kicked around in the Briefcase of Old Poems. So I figured I would dust it off and transcribe it from the old typewriter version to a more modern, digital existence.
Silent Rage
A soft blue sky
merges with the bay
on the distant horizon.
A cool, refreshing breeze
blows through my hair,
rustling the grassy shore.
I step into the water
that reluctantly clings
to a Michigan winter.
In the distant bay,
a single, white sail
catches the morning sun.
I'm far away from the river
spilling city sewage
and relentless factory fog.
But this deserted beach
still holds back human
civilization and spoilage.
I can almost imagine
a simple time of wonder,
when Indians lived with nature.
A small reflection catches
my eye below the water,
in the sand at my feet.
From the bottom silt,
I pull out a syringe
covered with algae.
How could this be?
I kick through sand
and find more refuse.
An old Indian Chief
crying on television,
explodes from my memory.
Below serenity,
is a wasteland,
washed upon beauty.
Now I understand the tears
and the loss of sacredness;
Living with the silent rage.
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