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BEANIE THE CAT November 7th, 2020
Anne and I have been holding our breath
for three days, trying not to think,
or feel, or contemplate the implications
of another four years of madness
if our current president should win,
astounded it should be so close
we still don’t know who won.
What kind of country could this be
to have so many voters ready
to return to office such a man?
Dishonest, criminal, amoral,
pathologically narcissistic,
ignorant, uncaring, vile. A grifter.
One struggles to avoid despair.
But then there’s Beanie, curled up
beside my wife, sound asleep. She’s
had her breakfast, asked and gotten
some attention, belly scratched, ears
massaged, green eyes almost iridescent,
happy, I suppose, at least content
if purring signifies contentment.
What goes on behind those glowing eyes
we’ll never know, but she’s not worried
in the least about elections, this
or any other. She’s got us. Moreover,
we’ve got her. Reason enough, perhaps,
to face whatever’s coming next.
by W.D. Ehrhart wdehrhart@gmail.com
Thank You for Your Service
Yes, of course; it’s what you say these days.
Like genuflecting in a Catholic church.
Like saying “bless you” to a sneeze.
A superstitious reflex, but, of course,
sincere. Or is it just to ease the guilt
of sending someone else to do
the dirty work? Whatever. I just say,
“You’re welcome,” let it go at that,
when what I’d really like to say is,
“Thank you for my fucking service
in that fucking war I’ve dragged
from day to day for fifty fucking years
like a fucking corpse that won’t stay dead?
That fucking nightmare that my
fucking country told me was my fucking
patriotic duty to fight? For what,
exactly, do you think you’re thanking me?
Service to my country? You empty-headed
idiot. You think I want your thanks
for what I did? You shallow, superficial
twit. You’ve no idea what I did, or why,
or what it cost a people who had
never done us any harm nor ever
would or could. You can take your
thank you for my service, shove it
where the sun doesn’t shine.”
But you wouldn’t understand.
You’d only get insulted if I told you
what I’d really like to say. So I just say,
“You’re welcome.” Smile. Walk away
By W.D. Ehrhart wdehrhart@gmail.com
Manning the Walls
The day the towers came down, goggle-eyed
we stared in disbelief at death for once
so close to home we couldn’t hide
our terror in the rubble of Manhattan:
complacency turned upside down and strewn
across a Pennsylvania field in burning pieces,
even Mars, our God of War, in flames.
Who’d have thought it possible? What next?
Overnight the world had changed forever,
all bets off, all the rules suspended
in the urgency to save our way of life
from lethal challenges so sinister
we need the Stars-n-Stripes in every classroom
and the FBI needs secret access
to the records of the books we’re reading:
Dostoyevsky, Danielle Steele—you never
know what might be useful to a terrorist.
Well okay, I was as scared as anyone
that day, and I won’t deny the world
we live in is a dangerous place.
But I remember gazing at the tiny
dot of Sputnik in the darkness
over Perkasie when I was only nine,
my country at the mercy of the Reds,
the world changed forever overnight.
I learned to Duck-n-Cover at my desk
in Mrs. Vera’s room at Third Street School.
I learned to recognize the yellow signs
on public buildings reassuring us
of shelter from the Russians’ atom bombs.
I learned we had a missile gap, a fail-
safe point, a hotline to the Kremlin.
That’s how I grew up: Nikita Khrushchev,
Ich bin ein Berliner, Armageddon
always just a missile strike away.
One hell of a lot of good the basement
of the Bucks County Bank & Trust would do
against a thermonuclear warhead,
but anyone who tried to point this out
was either nuts, naive, or communist.
Most of us got lucky in the Cold War—
provided we ignore Korea,
Vietnam, the brushfire wars our proxies
fought around the globe for forty years,
the millions dead and maimed and dispossessed.
At least we never dropped the Big One, and
the good old USA came out on top.
No wonder our surprise on 9-11
to discover Huns outside the gates again.
Cry havoc, sound alarums, man the walls!
But any history buff can trace the rise
and fall of empires: Pax Romana,
Rule Britannia, Persia, Babylon,
Ottomans and Incas by the sword
made arrogant, and by the sword brought down.
Catastrophe is history’s middle name,
and taking off our shoes in airports,
locking up librarians, inventing
threats that don’t exist, I pledge allegiance
to the flag, one nation under God or not,
isn’t going to save us from the Visigoths,
the Mongol hordes, Bin Laden, or ourselves.
Barbarism, communism, terrorism,
name your ism, something’s always out there
in the darkness wanting in. You’d think
by now—we’re talking generations here,
millenia, the whole of human time—
we’d figure out we’re all in this together
and it’s time to learn to share. Ask the Greeks.
Ask the Hittites. Ask the dinosaurs.
Read by the author, Bill Ehrhart at the Anti-War Rally, West Chester,PA., on April 21, 2018
Reprinted from The Bodies Beneath the Table, W. D. Ehrhart, Adastra Press, 2010.
Address to the President http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=0
As the Party Rages On http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=1
The Shadow of War http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=2
War and Peace (2005) http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=3
America Pt. 2 http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=4
I am a Liberal IV http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=5
Silent Faces http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=6
The Conference http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=7
On the Mall, October Afternoon http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=8
Over there http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=9
News from the Front http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=10
The Night of the Bulldozers http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=11
Going Over (2004) http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=12
Pearl Harbor Day http://www.ccpeace.org/poetry.php?poem=13