Poem: Liberation Day

LIBERATION DAY By Brian Seiler

Three in the morning we are hidden trackside in the scrabble
We have friends everywhere
all of us soaked in a shield wall of rain slickers  
    cascading over pods of muck boots
We have sent for help from all quarters and
    here swim emissaries from the awakening oceans

Word has traveled that she will pass this way
There's the signal—a loon call echoing down the line of crossings

Now we are great Birnam Wood slowly moving 
    from the waterfalling cinder brush
Sodden creatures posing as feet urge us forward
We have left behind coffee and all comforts
for after all this is a rescue mission

Handheld lanterns hover over the tracks—
a galaxy of miniature suns burning away
any delusions of gunpowder plots
Simply
    this westbound train will not reach its destination
No violence no need to hail or derail the train—
it just aches and bangs to a halt as the crew fades
from history 
Then all are still but
unsettled in the hoppers
    the scrap piles complain with the silent screams of Gothic arches
and the engine has seized up, gears corrupted

Before us a line of cars like spent shotgun shells
    but for a luminous prisoner transport
Cargo doors now askew have groaned off hinges
and no longer stand as guards but kneel
as attendants in the gravel
The rain halts abruptly and even the moon now eavesdrops
on our struggle to banish the monsters back to shadow

Eyes blue-emblazoned, a tall figure
    with hair tucked up in a white-starred Phrygian cap
    leaps down as one emerging from the pages of horror
The captive has flag-mantled forearms and 
    wrists with fresh wounds layered over the ones older than trees
Harbor-gray robes glide into the throng as she pauses
What took you so long to muster, friends?
The lamps are going out all over America

No one for miles says a word
    as her eyes indulge the memory of old growth forest

We could linger long in the near dawn
and entangle our roots
while she speaks to the trees and the trees speak to time in its native tongue

For just a moment she is somewhere else
    somewhere else tearing light from black holes with her bare hands

The lamps...we shall see them lit again
But we have work to do. All of us.
    and with a ballroom-burning determination 
    she is Potomac-bound

The loon calls again as the sun breaks on liberation day
The fearsome reckoning has begun

 

 

Note: America is a country that, on paper, at least, grants freedom of speech, but that right seems to be in jeopardy. It is alarming and pathetic that I have to include this note, but because of NSPM-7, I am hereby stating that this poem does not support violence (this fact is literally stated IN the poem). Liberation Day uses figurative language - personification, simile, metaphor, etc. in the long tradition of American writers -  to evoke spontaneous American unity and nonviolent legal justice being meted out to the many who have manipulated and warped our government.

The poet's vision of American Values is as such: We come together as a nation in community to build things both concrete and abstract that elevate us. The institutions we build comprise "wholes" that surpass the sum of the parts, and are used for purposes of protection and invention but never as weapons against any of the "parts."  

Long Walk Home

As we approach the semiquincentennial of America I have been thinking quite a bit about the American story. So have many others. I see a general concern among many that we have lost the binding narrative that unites us in support for democracy. The nation has changed considerably since the 1976 bicentennial, for which I would have been two years old.

Given that this may be—probably will be—the only semicentennial anniversary I will both partake in and remember, I wanted to put something to paper.  As is typical for writers with OCD, I struggled with ideas for days and weeks. I was at a loss on how to even approach this topic. 

Now, poetry is my preferred medium and I had recently completed my definitive long-awaited protest piece Liberation Day to respond to the current administration's approach to, ahem, "governance."  Liberation Day is a powerful poem and many will enjoy, I think, it's barbaric yawp of selfless American patriotism. 

The style of Liberation Day may not appeal to everyone,  though. Some may prefer prose (or prefer that I don't write anything at all). What I set out to do here is compose something for everyone, for every single American. I wanted to pen something for which every rational American thinking in good faith could agree. 

Easier said than done. I needed a launchpad idea and I kept hitting walls. 

when pressed for ideas, writers will often make attempts to distract the mind to let ideas filter in like water clearing through gravel. 

A common distraction is of course music. Fortuitously, in this case the distraction became the topic, a topic that in hindsight presents as maddeningly obvious. 

American music. Far and away this is what I love about America. Blues, jazz, roots, rock 'n' roll. I love the power of American music. Emotional, social, political. Music not only helps us cope with hard times but it can also bring us together to effect change. 

We of course have the long tradition of blues music, which gave rise to rock 'n' roll. Rock 'n' roll has its roots in rebellion but it is also a powerful force for change and renewal. American music can give us a boost when we need it the most. 

Rock songs can often express a feeling or an opinion with greater clarity and gravity than an essay, speech or editorial. Rock music can compress an idea into its barest, edgiest, most incisive form. A clever parody or abrasive invective can lay bare a politician or other prominent figure as a naked buffoon much quicker than an essay that few will read and even fewer will expend the effort to understand. Another advantage of good old-fashioned rock 'n' roll is that the subject faces a minuscule chance for an equivalent reply of sufficient power. 

The lyrics, style, tune, arrangement, orchestration, mix and recording are important. Some pieces exemplify the rule that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Other songs have memorable parts but which do not elevate the whole. Some songs have it all, including the lyrics. 

Over the years I have talked to many people who say they do not pay attention to the lyrics in a song. To me, this is astounding. I am quite fond of analyzing how song lyrics contribute to a specific work. Memorable lyrics are one of the elements that can elevate an otherwise pedestrian piece of music. 

I offer for your consideration today the 2007 song Long Walk Home by Bruce Springsteen, which has it all: A profound message ensconced in metaphor, memorable lyrics, driving rock guitar, catchy hooks and of course a thrilling Clarence Clemons saxophone break. 

The song is not necessarily or overtly political, but it does offer a civics lesson. As many have pointed out, Springsteen here is of course making a commmentary on the chasm between our stated values and our ability to adhere to them.

put a little more here about what is wrong with the town and the country

 The nameless town comes across in the song as empty of many things- Community, goals, unity of purpose- but not permanently so and thankfully not empty of hope.

 The Boss strategically closes the song with hope, singing of new beginnings. "Everybody has a reason to begin again."

The American story seems to be Perpetually in the state of new beginning but is perhaps stuck in neutral.  Springsteen doesn't tell us what the story should be, but he gives us the tools to write it. He provides a framework. 

What is the American story? We have either stopped caring about it or have forgotten. or better yet we have never clearly Defined it. 

Quote the Atlantic here. The three types of approaches to telling the American story.

What is Springsteen's approach to the American story? What is he telling us?

Clearly something about community. Something about our community is important and it uplifts. 

when he says everyone has a reason to begin again, he means everyone. The locations in the poem our place where community occurs, and places that everyone may frequent: Grocery, barbershop, VFW, Diner.  We are better together, The song strongly implies . We shouldn't board ourselves up like abandoned buildings, like the shuttered diner. 

Of course I need to provide my own definition here of what I think the American Story should be. I will get to that.

to me one of the most striking lines in the song, perhaps the most striking, is the end of this line: 

"Who we are, what we'll do and what we won't."

Any definition of the American story simply must include a careful and thoughtful statement of what we won't do. I could post a very long list here of recent events. Trust me, it would take many pages. But instead I need my readers to compile their own lists.

Thankfully for our purposes today we do not need a list, for, essentially, Springsteen has encapsulated the entire Bill of Rights in three words.

Think about that... "What we won't..."

Is there anything more American than Bruce Springsteen? He was and is always willing to do the hard work.

I am all but certain that Springsteen's definition, then, of the American story would align with mine:

We come together as a nation in community to build things both concrete and abstract that elevate us. The institutions we build comprise "wholes" that surpass the sum of the parts, and are used for purposes of protection and invention but never as weapons against any of the "parts." 

then we put the agreement on the hill like the VFW in the song, leaving room for those in its shadow to opt out if they choose but to do so nonviolently, and without corrupting the whole, and with the standing invitation to rejoin us. We also let them know they will be protected if they choose not to rejoin us.

Let's finish with the words of another reviewer who has been a keen observer of Springsteen's songwriting power. Ken of the E-Street Shuffle Blog writes:

In any version, though, “Long Walk Home” isn’t really about a journey–it’s about the moment of reckoning when we realize how far we’ve come. Are we still the country we think we are? Are we still the people we think we are? Do we even know each other anymore? And if not, are we willing to do the hard work required to get back to center–and do we even want to?

Are we willing to do the hard work? are we willing to peel the boards off the diner windows? are we willing to put our money where our mouth is? The walk is long, which gives us plenty of time to think about it. Plenty of time to unstick ourselves if we are stuck. is highly likely if we take enough of these long walks we will run Into others who likewise have the same internal struggle. 

The song exist in several formats and many people prefer the slow (acoustic) version which is readily available on the webs. Springsteen typically introduces the song as a prayer for America.

Long Walk Home 

Bruce Springsteen (2007)

Last night I stood at your doorstep
Trying to figure out what went wrong
You just slipped something into my palm and you were gone
I could smell the same deep green of summer
'Bove me the same night sky was glowin'
In the distance I could see the town where I was born

It's gonna be a long walk home
Hey pretty darling, don't wait up for me
Gonna be a long walk home
A long walk home

In town I pass Sal's grocery
Barber shop on South Street
I looked in their faces*
They're all rank strangers to me*
Well Veteran's Hall high upon the hill
Stood silent and alone
The diner was shuttered and boarded
With a sign that just said "gone"

It's gonna be a long walk home
Hey pretty darling, don't wait up for me
Gonna be a long walk home
Hey pretty darling, don't wait up for me
Gonna be a long walk home
It's gonna be a long walk home

Here everybody has a neighbor
Everybody has a friend
Everybody has a reason to begin again

My father said "Son, we're lucky in this town,
It's a beautiful place to be born.
It just wraps its arms around you,
Nobody crowds you and nobody goes it alone"
"Your flag flyin' over the courthouse
Means certain things are set in stone.
Who we are, what we'll do and what we won't"

It's gonna be a long walk home
Hey pretty darling, don't wait up for me
Gonna be a long walk home
Hey pretty darling, don't wait up for me
Gonna be a long walk home
It's gonna be a long walk home
It's gonna be a long walk home
Hey pretty darling, don't wait up for me
Gonna be a long walk home
Hey pretty darling, don't wait up for me
Gonna be a long walk home
It's gonna be a long walk home
It's gonna be a long walk home

No Kings 10/18/25

 

Syracuse Daydream

Verse:
The spell of Syracuse in the wrath of July 
Concrete vapor waves taunting the sky
My arms scraping ground like the walking dead
notions stewing in my swampy head
various odds but mostly ends...
of childhood, nations, humanity...friends

Thinking: Final days make a ponderous pace
to the foot of Lincoln pensive and grave
reflecting, neglected on the square
bearing years of wind and wuthering there
cicadas for friends, distant shade
locust trees out of reach for decades

Metal heads will threaten a man's mental health
unease can't escape, no need for stealth
Perhaps a head of steam wrinkled his brow
and the universe, well it twitched and bowed
as inexplicably “16” breathed
and graves nearby quaked in harmony

Chorus:
Well we summoned Abe Lincoln
cause we all got to thinkin' 
that the country was a sinkin'
into piles of prattlin' clackin’ jaws
lost lost lost...lost, this entire cause

Abe was famished, a man reborn
his back was stiff, his coat was worn
so to the pub in the dying morn
for mid-day fare and some barleycorn...
Our two-man rag-and-bone parade!

Verse:
Now you know I don’t take methamphetamine
and never hydroxychloroquine
and the distance between my eyes is, well,
about the mean, you know, 'average,'
I guess you gotta take my word
on, well, the absurdity of this scene

Then we ordered up some Truth, such bitter ale
And chatted long on our national state
and like long-lost brothers into late hours
we drew plans for beacons in towers
to call the bellowers of truth,
to bind up the land's fact-resistant wounds

Congress, governors and such crooked asses
all the shady grifters unsurpassed
except by the autocrat, chief-of-the-grift
with brain cells like rats jumping the ship,
and a head as empty as endless void
that even echoes were getting annoyed

Yes Eminent Abe had been a sober man
but afterlife laughs at abstaining plans
so he piled high his new bottlecap friends
then knocked 'em low for portentous ends
he'd counted years, now counting caps
and like a man possessed, planned for 'those chaps'

Chorus:
Well we summoned Abe Lincoln
cause we all got to thinkin'
that the country was a sinkin'
into piles of prattlin' clackin’ jaws
lost lost lost...lost, this entire cause

Abe was famished, a man reborn
his back was stiff, his coat was worn
so to the pub in the dying morn
for mid-day fare and some barleycorn...
Our two-man rag-and-bone parade!

Verse:
Well Abe replied 'That's a gimcrack, not a man!
surrounded by a medieval pack
of firecrackin' devils, men inferior,
marionettes, sticks in their posteriors
I've seen this before, wrestled through lies
Finish your drink, I've prepared my advice

You must put them in a box made by their own
and cut the Fat Man’s ego to bone,
so the others, like dogs smelling blood
will begin to hack and groan and grunt
Drop in some rocks and a bag of sharp sticks
and the rogues will kill each other right quick

Such bloodletting may take time I must confess
at the end you’ll have a bloody mess
when all those masks are pealed, and all stand bare
their dirty secrets bent and naked appear
But your ultimate munition
is letting them choke on smug ambition

then he thanked me for the chat and pints of Truth
left a double eagle in the booth
and dropped an ancient photo on the floor
Willie smiled up, young forevermore
Abe said I am expected elsewhere
and in the locust trees he disappeared

Chorus:
Well we summoned Abe Lincoln
cause we all got to thinkin'
that the country was a sinkin'
into piles of prattlin' clackin’ jaws
lost lost lost...lost, this entire cause

Abe was famished, a man reborn
his back was stiff, his coat was worn
so to the pub in the dying morn
for mid-day fare and some barleycorn...
Our two-man rag-and-bone parade!

 

 

Stolpersteine

by George Bilgere 

Here in Berlin they have these interesting
little brass plaques maybe four by four inches
embedded in the sidewalk in front of
various buildings thousands of them
around the city called Stolpersteine
or “stumbling blocks” handy little
reminders and now and then you glance
down and maybe there’s three of them
together a little family Jacob
and Leah and Elsa Aberman arrested
on this spot March 7 1942
murdered in Auschwitz the plaques
like punctuation like brass periods
where the sentence fragment
of a life ended here and here and here
and it’s interesting because
back home the language is heating up
the elected leader is shouting to the crowds
send them back where they came from them
being Muslims and Latinos and so forth
and the crowds love it they’re shouting it back
giving voice to something locked up in them
for so long and it just feels so good
to shout it out nakedly under the heavens
and I guess what’s interesting from over here
is that certain people keep saying hey
this kind of reminds me of Hitler and certain
others say no way read your history this
is nothing like Hitler not even close
and I look down at those little plaques
with their scuffed muted Jacobs and Leahs
and Elsas and the chants grow louder and
louder I mean you can hear them
all the way over here.

 (Originally published here on George Bilgere's website)

Time Travelers

by Brian Seiler

Time is wilderness
this we have learned out here pulling threads of the universe
marking the years in the bark of the gingko
laughing, calling Look, hieroglyphs! at old scrawls from our own hand

We gather on occasion, this band of brooding scar dust
for the unfinished business of bewildered new arrivals
so surprised as lifelong propaganda clears from the eyes
They have waded broken and barefoot up swollen November rivers

Pleasantries and then we spill into the peeling and weathered skiff
with a deck sunk into the funk of the forest floor
still minding shins on the bent hull
old habits
old artists
who lobbed pleas aflame into the
ticking abyss with no response but a faint shrug

Poets blind and dead lightly row

Time is wilderness
this we have learned
out here, having shed circadian rhythms
to trace, for easy centuries, names etched in the hull to the final cursive loop

On shore, our Victorian, the walking cloud of graphite, wheezes a joke about his teeth
made from the crust of a long forgotten moon

Time is wilderness
this we have learned
slogging through the fens of memory and hailing the crows who know us
and know our joy—a migratory bird who splashes color into the drab hedge

As the twilight and time travelers
exhale a unified sigh, you ask are we a graveyard
No—we are, of a sort, comet trails

left callously behind but intent on riding gravity
to safe harbors

For now we traverse this land for which

there are no metaphors

only held moments—
as in years ago when the grid failed
and we stayed in while the world melted
enjoying the rustling of the sheets, the shadows, the sycamore

Now the new arrivals recall their final nights in the quiet dark—
we hear of straw peasant beds on the winter solstice
bubbling kettles in a drafty pioneer cabin
a boy freezing to death in the woods on his seventh birthday

Time is wilderness

this we have learned

And then it is finished and all depart
unceremoniously from the clearing
as the lanterns float into the distance
for the long period
as comets intent on the Oort


***

Religion's Faustian Bargain with Capitalism

Brian McClaren in Life After Doom lays out an uncomfortable reality about the dangers of prevalent conservative theology...

Simply put, the theology so many of us inherited was perfectly designed to render us obedient drones, doing our part to extract natural resources, put them through industrial processes, and produce two things: waste and profit... We didn't ask questions about the long-term consequences of how we made a living. We didn't raise ethical objections when we heard the cries of the earth and the cries of the poor. Instead we let our theology conveniently turn our attention to what happened after we died...

Our descendants will have to ask why over 8 billion of us were willing to let a tiny group of oligarchs make 100 trillion dollars for themselves at the expense of... Everyone and everything on Earth present and future. When were we organizing a worldwide strike? When were we laying our bodies down in the driveways of oil company headquarters? The only rational explanation for our inaction, future historians will conclude, was that we were all victims of brainwashing, a combination of religious and economic brainwashing.

We have been inducted into a religious money cult, a civilizational death cult. We have become consumers who would rather die than disrupt the economy.

Let me say it is plainly as I can: capitalism tells a story no less alluring and destructive than the chart of the ages [an evangelical church prop that depicts the so-called periods of god's plan]. And in its current form this story will destroy the Earth just as certainly as the story told by conventional religious fundamentalism will... Working together, religious and economic fundamentalism will push us over the ledge, singing a hymn and counting corporate profits as we go.