One Nation Under God
by Mary Rudge
With broken eyeglasses and broken veins
she stands on the corner showing things
have a kaleidoscopic other view.
When she asks spare change
but you pass by
her only response is “God bless you”
and a broken-toothed smile.
She shows you how hearts really break,
can you feel your own?
She lets you see a whole country with
a government full of broken promises.
TO THE MISSING
by Mary Rudge
I desperately look for your face
among the homeless
and hungry.
I cannot find you.
I will feed this one,
I will take this one home,
in your name.
When I said I was searching for you
they asked: which ward do you
want to see?
What Multiple Sclerosis looks like?
What it looks like to be dying?
Have you seen AIDS? Schizophrenia?
Hunger?
One
turns like a flower toward the sun
toward love
like you, delicate around the mouth
with violet shadows,
everywhere I look.
Do people slip through the slats in
picket fences, the slats in hospital
beds? Become lost in trees?
Has anyone fallen past the Pacific Rim?
Is any poem I hold
strong enough for a lifeline?
EMPTY CUPS
by Mary Rudge
I am sitting beside an empty
styrofoam cup.
How can I fill it up?
In front of the
Mattress Discount Store
With no place to sleep.
In front of the grocery, the café,
without food to eat.
In front of the Clothing Store,
no coat,
shirt and pants threadbare
In front of the social club,
with no one to care.
In front of the church
with hope and a prayer —
In front of the Bank and the
Real Estate building
where can I live?
Put out on the street because
I have nothing to give.
Not able to thrive. Barely alive.
Without what society is looking for.
Yet for hours I am working,
holding this cup.
In all kinds of weather.
One of this kind of
the working poor.
In this city are the blessed
with cups always full.
Can the poor and the stressed
be left so pitiful?
With only an empty
styrofoam cup,
still poor, hungry, homeless
if coins fill it up?
What better solution,
soulful and practical?
For those who have now
empty cups, empty cups.
EPITAPH
by Mary Rudge
I woke to rain and bitter cold.
Hard ground was my bed.
And so soon was my name inscribed
On the wall of homeless dead.
Your Mirror Image, God
by Mary Rudge
The violence of ignoring you
shatters your soul
I see the pieces on the sidewalk
A Classic For All Ages
by Mary Rudge
Seven-year-old Diana and I
cry over Gogol’s The Overcoat
on channel 9 now
cold Russia old poor man
even without subtitles
his face we both know.
It was cold in our house last winter
we had coats from the thrift shop
at night we slept in one bed
we piled on all the coats.
The cold old man is going to die
we saw that face once in our mirror,
and cry.
Little Child in Your Land
by Mary Rudge
Little child in your land
bombs bursting in air.
We watch TVs, check our remote,
to see your crumbling skyline, be sure
that our flag is still there
in your streets, around your home.
In your streets, around your home,
bombs burst in air, we put them there.
We have so many bombs to spare,
and crave your oil, a major share.
Say, are you safe within our care? —
we bomb your land because we can,
kill your neighbors to show we dare,
destroy your home, pollute your air,
though vague on how to grieve
for you, or leave.
Who’s bad or good our power declares.
Vengeance is ours to decide
Let’s have no hidden weapons now,
we get ours out onto your land.
From our pockets to your skies.
In your streets your body lies.
Over carnage our flag flies,
we watch TV to see it’s there,
bombs bursting in air.
Little child, in our land,
on the sidewalks homeless lie
homeless hungry children cry,
schools are crumbling, and the poor
cannot afford health care and die.
Money sends bomb-burst in air,
who has cared for your welfare
little child in our land? We see where
over horror our flag flies.
So many years, so many wars,
so many little children die.
How can peace come to all lands
if we sing bombs burst in air
though our flag is there.
When our flag is there.
If flags fly then children die.