I Will Not Be Quieted

When I grow up

When I have no need to dream

When time is all past tense

Blossoms no longer excite the heart

And the smell of a baby no longer catches the breath

When puppies are nothing but a nuisance

And the Sun’s rays bring fear instead of joy.

When a country drive is about watching the road and not the fields

When thunder brings only thoughts of shelter

And the magnificence of a Sunrise, only indifference

 

When passing the homeless is an inconvenience on the way to a destination

And a child’s cries of fear and pain are an uneasy annoyance

When “I” is more important than any other word

When compassion takes a backseat to self-interest

And self- righteousness replaces righteous indignation

When killing is a game and guns are a Christmas toy

And home means bigger and newer, not cozier and warmer

 

When I grow up

And all these things have come to pass

 

I hope

 

That I will not be quieted

That WE will not be quieted

I hope

We will seek the higher ground

And not the higher wall

I hope

We will stretch a hand in welcome

Not curl a fist in fear

I hope

Our voices echo across the land

And not fall on fallow fields

 

 

 

Dik Hatchell                                                 September 15, 2015

 

 

JUDGEMENT OF LONG WINDS

Before the long winds blew

Trees stood straight.

Tall.

Fence posts aligned to the North Star,

And waist deep fields of shimmering wheat

brushed back on the edges,

When rust bucket pickups rumbled on old farm roads,

And the children chased dreams

In worn leather boots made heavy with the red mud of the road,

Believing the sweet night air

Would carry them to their dreams

If only they worked hard enough.

 

The days before long winds blew

Before mud became dust.

Before death stood vulture like

Ready to pick bone.

 

You know when I'm talking about.

We all know.

 

We did this.

Looking the other way

We did this.

Thinking it someone else's problem to fix

We did this.

 

Inaction did this.

And inaction will do it again.

And again,

And again.

In many different ways.

 

Fix it!!

Fix it together,

Or,

Own it together.

 

We have a future to answer to.

And Mercy may not be its judgement.

DH    2017

 

 

 

In The Twilight Before My Dreams Begin

In the twilight before my dreams begin,

I often see images.

Vague,

Sepia in color, I’d say,

Blurry on the edges like an old newsreel come to life.

Images of people.

Human beings.

Ten Thousand score

If I had to guess.

 

In a drift to slumber

My mind’s eye gathers the faint light for one more look.

I gasp.

Like a far-flung wheat field they stood.

A winter wheat.

A field so vast that not even my imagination can see the other side.

Undulating under a gray canopy, racing forward, a harbinger of storms.

They moved with a sea’s rhythm

Waves in sync

Swirling

Swaying

A perfecting of orderly chaos,

Moving ever forward

And always moving my way.

 

Every

Night

I see them

In the twight before my dreams 

Those masses,

Those people.

Not the well to do,

But the disenfranchised.

Not just youth,

But the aged and ill.

These are not people of the self-assured and privileged,

But the meek and needy.

They did not come with overflowing pockets and visions of grandeur,

But pockets thread bare and worn and empty.

They have given everything asked of them,

This field,

These people,

This storm,

And they have received nothing in return.

And

            They

                        Are

                                    Angry.

 

 

Night after night in the twilight before my dreams begin,

Grasping for sleep,

Catching only rest in fits and bits,

I grow closer to the masses.

I see faces:

            Mothers holding babies

            Loved ones pushing wheelchairs

The strong helping the weak

Young men, locked arms, in the defiance of righteousness

I see the hollow stare of their eyes.

 

I hear voices

            Of anguish and anger

            Of discourse and denunciation

            Of defiance and dread

And I feel the rage beneath the towering thunderheads

Of their righteous indignations.

 

I smell the crowd

Their sweat

Their sweet

Their stench

Of youth

Of age

Of life

Of death

The smell of humanity.

 

I shake their sweaty palms

            Great two-handed pumping shakes

            Kisses on my cheeks welcoming me

            Reverent nodding of old men’s approval

            Bringing me into the fold.

I am lost in a dizzying circle of faces,

And sounds,

And touchings,

And smells,

And I am absorbed into the masses like an ant back into the nest,

My arms locked with their arms, and I realize:

We are not single grains but a field to nourish the future.

All the same.

Independently united to stand

And sway

And move

Ever forward

Sometimes in silence

Sometimes with a deafening roar that rattles bones and changes minds and has every man seeking his own redemption

All future saints, every one.

 

Damn the cursed twilight that allows me no peace!

That vision of truth that lands like a sledge

Bringing me back to center!

When next the twilight falls before my dreams

I am no longer the watchman

But the watched.

The Watched

Whose mind wanders at the edge of sleep.

I am the crowd.

The masses.

The people.

The We.

The Us.

I rub shoulders

Call out orders driving them down the street of Titans

Home to those little people of great greed

To whom we made everything possible

And in turn ignore us in our needs.

 

We move up the stairways of the modern Parthenon

Where a tiny few dressed in black

Cast down their decisions upon us, without really knowing us,

As though we have no voices of our own.

In an instant they are humbled by their lack of omnipotence.

 

We are the storm that has been gathering in plain sight,

To be reckoned with,

Escape and appeasement no longer options!

We will cross the land,

A great wind of our time,

An unholy alliance of the masses,

Indivisible,

Courageous,

Determined,

Fearless,

Gathering the fury of others like ourselves as we go.

 

In my twilight

We move in sync

A rhythm of sight and sound

Placing fear in those who need to fear us.

A grand dance of defiance

A right foot stomp with a gut level grunt

A bellow from the hungry bellies of two million voices saying:

We’re coming!

WE ARE COMING!!

A left foot drag with

A right foot stomp

A grunt from our hungry gut!

Step by dragging step,

Stomp then grunt,

Drag then groan,

Stomp then grunt,

Drag    then groan.

Louder!

Closer!

We may fall

But we move forward

Ghandis, everyone!

Mandelas among us!

Sister Theresas in linked arms!

Free men and women,

Each knowing the possibilities of their stars.

Each step girding their loins for a battle of self-sacrifice!

Onward!

Onward!

 

And in the twilight, I see a Dawn.

Is it real?

Will it last?

Can it spread to shine on all?

 

I do not know.

 

But I do know this:

There will always be watchmen

Who in the twilight before they dream

See an image.

They are in it

And they can only go forward.

Ghandis, everyone.

Mandelas among them

Sister Theresas in linked arm.

DH                                          2016

 

 

 

THE BONE THROWERS

 

We are cold,

Old,

Tired,

Sick,

Hungry.

For endless hours of an endless dark

We sit on our haunches by the edge of their fires.

Whimpering,

Salivating,

Nipping and growling at one another

So as not to lose our place,

Waiting for the Bone Throwers to finish

What meager pickings will be ours.

There it is!

A hard scramble fight among ourselves,

Tearing each other apart, dividing the pack,

For a pittance of sustenance!

And the Bone Throwers just laugh!

And throw even more our way!

 

Corpulence of unimaginable girth

Whose very breath

Reeks of the actions of their lives.

Stealing.

Hoarding.

Wasting.

Spilling.

Lying,

Controlling the packs

That live at the edge of the fires.

 

Their very presence screams

Of the derision they carry for us!

.

“Stay your distance Mongrels!!  Know your place!!

Come closer and there will be no more bones!   Stay your distance!

You want more??   Find your own!!”

 

How do find your own,

In a never-ending Forest of plenty

That they own?

 

And when your whelp looks to you

And asks

“Why do you cower so?”

How do you say,

“Because we have no courage.    That fear and hunger makes us willing to settle for the trash of others.    That the Bone Throwers are the new gods, judging whether, when and how we live or die.”

How do you say that??

Without crushing the spirit just born.

Somehow,

For too long,

We have found a way.

 

But we have a chance!

We are not dogs!

We are individuals!

Families!

Communities!

We can make them change!!

 

We have a choice!

Better to die in defiance of the immoral

Than be complicit in its longevity!

Better to struggle on two feet

Than exist in subservience on all four!

 

Better to end this now

Than watch the light of hope

Go out in the eyes of our children!

 

So,

If you find yourself

Sitting on your haunches by the edge of the fires,

Listen!

Listen!!

It is not the roll of thunder coming your way

But the thunderous crushing of our footsteps

Coming,

Coming to end the reign of the Bone Throwers!

 

We are getting louder!

We are getting stronger!

We are getting closer!

 

And we will be there soon!!

 

DH                                          February 12, 2016

 

 

 

WELCOME TO THE WAR

(The Beginning of the Trump Era)

It has begun.

That which we have known about,

Whispered about in silent preparation

Of the nightmares to come,

Yet hoped against

For countless generations.

A brooding beast awakening,

Casting a black stench across the land

Blocking the light of reason.

How better it would have been

To die a filth laden pauper in utter despair

Among the lowliest

Than to face hell’s minions

That lie just beyond the horizon.

Waiting.

Waiting to unleash the unholy upon the innocent.

Why?

To turn back time.

Wise men to fools.

Man to beast.

Women to property.

Children to laborers.

Civilization, to mere brute survival.

Disease will be your bedmate

And fear your constant state.

 

It has begun

It came cloaked as royalty

To hide its pustulates of hatred.

Some saw the stains

Others had their own

And chose not to see.

Lies, are its history

More lies, its promises.

Its corpulent body covered in the leaches

That grow stronger

From feeding on the black puss

That rages in its veins.

And those who needed hate to justify their own existence?

Walked lockstep blindly following.

And the beast’s mark fell upon them.

A white hood.

A swastika.

A gun in every pocket.

A knife in every boot.

A bourbon bomb to throw.

A child to frighten.

A woman to abuse.

A shouted slur that gurgled

From their phlegm filled throats,

A croaking of hatred

Better suited for a mirror’s reflection

Than those to which they were aimed.

For the twisted minds and lazy among them:

So much easier to hate

Than to understand.

Heedless of the consequences.

 

So, welcome.

 

Welcome to the war.

 

It’s time to rise.

One more chance to stand in the company of humanity.

To push back against the red eyed evil

That wants to consume us all.

One last chance to take yet another step to the future,

Not a tumble into the dark ages.

One more chance to give voice to defiance.

Once more to strike a blow.

Once more to bury the evil

That wants to smother the steps we have taken

In the name of Liberty for ALL.

 

DH     2016

 

 

PLOWS INTO SWORDS

There are people
We have never met
From places
We have never been to
Who want only
What is not theirs
They do not care
About you
They do not care
About me
They do not care about the future
Only the Now
The tale has come full circle
If we
Are to survive
We must reverse the tale
And turn plows
Into swords
And our words
Into action
There is no other way
No other avenue
No reasoning
With the unreasonable
To save
What belongs to the future.

 

DH   2019