American Dream Redux

American Dream Redux

by Bill Britton

My country ‘tis of thee,
I sing of your spacious skies and plains
and purple mountains ambered by sulfurous smoke,
of your Congress whose grim beat grinds down the downtrodden
longing for release from a wilderness of otherness.
I sing of stern-visaged laws
that shroud liberty with words spoken
by caretakers of public morality—airwave preachers
who diddle the faithful as if they were young boys
babbling catechism in a cloakroom.
America, your patriot dreams suffer years of tears in cities,
whose alabaster blocks swarm with bastards of fatherless sons
captured by the myth of God’s grace.
Sweet land of liberty,
your Wall Street altars
are attended by worshippers
who trample out a vintage of capital
on the backs of working men and women
bent by the terrible swift sword of necessity.
America, you stare at red-glaring rockets
and bursting bombs,
insane recreations of Dresden
sanitized into episodes of Star Wars.
America, a government of, by, and for the greediest
leaves the neediest reaching for the bottom rung
of a ladder broken by lobbyists
who slither through hallowed halls
in pursuit of silver-haired senators
with Bahamian junkets on their minds
while wondering what else their country
can do for them.
I once had a dream of freedom,
of oppression defeated by justice in men’s souls,
of crooked places made straight,
of freedom from every mole hill to every mountain,
of freedom from sea to shining sea,
of freedom at last.

Goin’ Back to Ocracoke

Goin’ Back to Ocracoke

By Bill Britton

Each spring I heed the sand dunes’ call and pack the campin’ gear:
the best Dead discs, the fishin’ poles, a case or two of beer.
The risin’ sun draws me north to sandy isles they named
the Outer Banks where Teach’s wealth lies buried and unclaimed.
I cross the bridge at Currituck with Kitty Hawk in view
and one eye out for state police who thirst for revenue.

Goin’ back to Ocracoke, the land of goodsome folks
who look on summer lads like me as migratory jokes.
Dingbatters all, we try our best to mummock them the least,
but quamished looks reveal the fact we’ve driven too far east.

Pea Island’s sign reminds me soon of liquids drunk en route.
I stop to ease my achin’ gut midst poison ivy shoots.
The itch won’t start to drive me mad until a night has passed,
then calamine and sea-salt soaks will lend relief at last.
I wave at Avon, Buxton too, and Frisco’s scalawags,
then charter boats at Hatteras wave back at me with flags.

I rumble ‘cross the ferry ramp onto the steel-plate decks
and weave between the channel gates and shoals designed for wrecks.
I dash down 12, the first car off, “Hello, Molasses Creek,”
mosquito hoardes a-lyin’ low, a-honin’ bloody beaks.
The campground sign spurs me on, the village is close by,
my cubes of ice a mem’ry now, my beer as hot as pie.

The V’riety Store glows in mist, I slow to twenty per
and nudge my sleepy soulmate who is growlin’ like a cur.
Her carpin’ fails to faze me as I walk in through the door
with visions of a peaceful sea, Bikinied babes galore.
“Two bags of ice, if you please, and what’s the current price?”
“Sorry sir, but I’ve bad news. We’ve just run out of ice.”

I’m back again in Ocracoke, the land of goodsome folks
who look on summer lads like me as migratory jokes.
Dingbatters all, we try our best to mommock them the least,
but quamished looks reveal the fact, we’ve driven too far east.

Goin’ Back to Ocracoke

Goin’ Back to Ocracoke

By Bill Britton

Each spring I heed the sand dunes’ call and pack the campin’ gear:
the best Dead discs, the fishin’ poles, a case or two of beer.
The risin’ sun draws me south to sandy isles they named
the Outer Banks where Teach’s wealth lies buried and unclaimed.
I cross the bridge at Currituck with Kitty Hawk in view
and one eye out for state police who thirst for revenue.

Goin’ back to Ocracoke, the land of goodsome folks
who look on summer lads like me as migratory jokes.
Dingbatters all, we try our best to mummock them the least,
but quamished looks reveal the fact we’ve driven too far east.

Pea Island’s sign reminds me soon of liquids drunk en route.
I stop to ease my achin’ gut midst poison ivy shoots.
The itch won’t start to drive me mad until a night has passed,
then calamine and sea-salt soaks will lend relief at last.
I wave at Avon, Buxton too, and Frisco’s scalawags,
then charter boats at Hatteras wave back at me with flags.
I rumble ‘cross the ferry ramp onto the steel-plate decks
and weave between the channel gates and shoals designed for wrecks.
I dash down 12, the first car off, “Hello, Molasses Creek,”
mosquito hoardes a-lyin’ low, a-honin’ bloody beaks.
The campground sign spurs me on, the village is close by,
my cubes of ice a mem’ry now, my beer as hot as pie.
The V’riety Store glows in mist, I slow to twenty per
and nudge my sleepy soulmate who is growlin’ like a cur.
Her carpin’ fails to faze me as I walk in through the door
with visions of a peaceful sea, Bikinied babes galore.
“Two bags of ice, if you please, and what’s the current price?”
“Sorry sir, but I’ve bad news. We’ve just run out of ice.”

I’m back again in Ocracoke, the land of goodsome folks
who look on summer lads like me as migratory jokes.
Dingbatters all, we try our best to mummock them the least,
but quamished looks reveal the fact, we’ve driven too far east.

Shunning Salvation

Shunning Salvation

by Bill Britton

In Abram's streets and alleyways
his sons preach conflagration,
as mothers of these selfsame sons
shout cheers of adoration.

Flocks of faithful line a square
in rabid admiration,
drawn by the lure of papal love
and papal accusation.

Radios in Southern towns
eruct their allocation
of Bible lore and cures for souls
through cash remuneration.

Mosque, synagogue, and church demand
unwavering affirmation
of tales and lessons clerics mold
to suit a congregation.

Their ills of mind and mortal flesh
are rendered adulation
apropos of God's mysteries
and willful approbation.

Suffer the little children, He says,
and suffer the humiliation
of original sin's ancient decrees
and eternal castigation.

Believers shun those who sense
the twisted conjuration
of gods who martyr innocents
while granting dispensation.

Still, the Godhead myth persists unchecked
by thoughtful contemplation,
and like a virus lingers on
in every generation.