Not for me the centurion
who hundreds worship
and a hundred thousand obey
whose word is sword
to which uncountable necks surrender,
godlet of unmanning dread*
A loud, unruly Emperor
Is trending in the storm
His crown is made of mud
His scepter a fiery whip
His army boots and pounds
Our earth in its softest spots
His submarines disembowel the oceans
Dying dolphins collide with wailing whales
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Strike and slaughter,
Boast and bomb
Raiding distant lands for their precious treasures
Transport their kings as cargo in crippling chains
Might is right
When the wrong are strong
When Justice changes its name
To just-as-it-is
When penpoint bows to gunpoint
And those who know so little
Now ply the globe as leaders of thought
While the Emperor reads the book, upside down
It is a long, long time now
Since cruelty found a place in
Our Bill of Rights. But if night
Precipitates its darkest hour
Can Dawn be far behind?
From “Grass in the Meadow”, Village Voices, p. 62, 1984