Holding Pattern
For 9/11
I am awakened
To the silent scent of
Ash
Paper ideologies
Drifting gently to the ground
In balletic surrender.
That morning,
The crystal morning,
That battered illusion
And ripped the remnant
Of a perceived safety
Has made us
One skin,
One nervous system,
Moving in molecular prayer
To transform the
Ancient rage
That shaped itself into
Taut missiles
And hurled itself into the looking glass,
When no one was looking.
We are a light show
Hyping the wattage
To force-feed the
Future,
While a band of soldiers plays with
Explosives and
Spores
And our surrogate fathers
Carry to term
A master plan
As we lay in their hands
Coiled in
Suspended meditation.
We are a nation of
Conditional beauty
And naive grace,
Shaken courage
And stunned silence
Kept at bay
With the deep distraction
Of techno toys
And tinker toys
And celebrity sightings
And the agendas of
Media management.
I am glued to the present,
Moving through crowds
With compassionate trepidation
And a deep love
For
My fellow traveler,
Bargaining and bartering
With the saints
To prevail
In this sea of unpredictable
Events.
I am hoping to stay
Balanced,
On the wall,
Not to crack,
Not to fall,
As I watch the heart
Try to repair
Economic lines,
Religious rancor
and self-obsession,
While the touching of colors in hands
And eyes
Move to the strains of
God bless America
And I wonder at
The irony
And why
It takes this,
To get here.
Cynthia Adler
November, Two-thousand and One
Return To Poems
Roar to the angels,
Play your music you pied pipers
For I am the borders