Poetry

I Hear America Screaming

After Walt Whitman

I hear America screaming, the varied cavils I hear,

Those of poor mentality, each one protesting as they feel, blithe and strong,

The donkeys exaggerate as they speak – mendacious words,

The lower classes loathe as they get ready for work, or leave work,

The red-faced owner keeping what belongs to him and his land, the other envious and needy,

The great muffled as they sit, the dull grinning as they stand,

The elephants’ songs, the race on their way up the candidates, awaiting to stomp out the

donkeys’ hopes,

The dedicated voices of the large and blue women, or of the queer counterpart, or of the

unlicensed billionaires,

Each claiming what belongs to them and to no one else,

The street what belongs to the street – at home the party of tranquil fellows, average, agreeable, 

Speaking with unafraid mouths their calm, equal minds.