Herbert T. Abelson
Sing America (a choked voice after Whitman)
I cannot sing America—
where would I begin?
in the East, West
North, South—
in the red States or blue States,
on the coasts, mountains,
in cities, towns or burgs?
I must breathe deep to sing
to plead for life
in America the Beautiful
even in the midst of this pandemic
I want to sing America
with reverence and respect
I want to sing loud and long
to America’s heart,
to all the American People, but
I cannot find them—where are they?
—the good people on both sides,
the people who demand
equality, opportunity, fairness, justice?
Where are the people
anxious to address melting ice, forest fires,
hurricanes, tornadoes, flooding, famine,
the worsening warming disaster,
the decline in quality of the air we try to breathe?
There is a rich song,
and a poor dirge,
is there no key for middle ground?
I desperately want to sing America,
to join the birdsong, the crickets, the tree frogs,
all of God’s children, who sing to honor the promise,
the striving, the pain, the struggle, the love,
the tears, the toil, the last full measure
that all men are created equal,
but my voice is mute,
my limbs immobile,
my thoughts blank.
My dear country, now a stranger,
ripped asunder, foreign, frightening.
I don’t feel safe—sounds are dissonant, harsh,
voices ugly, where is the beauty of my country ‘tis of thee?
Where is the sweet land of liberty?
I want to sing renewal, hope, inclusion, respect,
sweet visions of promise for future opportunity and freedom.
Singing to the choir is out of tune as frustration grows—so much
greed, division, derision, coursing through our Country; our future a howling
dissonance, divided, ruled by fabrication, confabulation; the fiat of fools.
Conspiracies reign bound with half-truths and outright lies to
tie my vocal cords.
I can’t sing.
I can barely breathe.
—Submitted on 10/07/2020
Herbert T. Abelson is a retired academic physician, husband, father, and grandfather who writes prose and poetry about a grand career and life.
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