Occasionally I need to repeat something I said to myself. I wrote this the day after the 2016 election in response to Melissa Wiley’s poem, and I need to hear it again. Maybe you do, too.
“the grit that vexed the oyster, formed the pearl,”
my mantra, this, as living shreds my plans;
“and still we rise” and rising, we unfurl
our battle standard, bloody in our hands.
in disillusioned pain; in shock and fear
our doubts, now kindled, conflagration fans,
what, from disaster? how, to persevere
when we’re defeated, running on exhaust?
from deepest pressure precious stones appear,
Hail Marys passed when better plays are lost
A root, determined, granite stone will split
Some harvests sweeten only after frost –
why claim “all is not lost,” like hypocrites?
we tried. we failed. regardless, we don’t quit.