Spit shined to high gloss,
Measured steps, clicking,
At the Tomb of the Unknown,


Black Boots Remembered


Black boot prints;
They were the first thing
I saw on the door,

As the ratcheting of handcuffs,
That sound,
Reached my ears.

The free man,
The democratic man,
Was being led away
To a terrorist's gallows;

A dictators pulpit,
To be bandied as the
Sacrificial Mutt.


But Mutts have teeth,
They have been known
To slip their chains.

Thoroughbreds,
Rearing hind leg,
And pissing on,

The feet,
The foundations of,
Fascist ideal,

Of mustachioed,
Uniform clad
Rats.

Aye I remember,
The black boot prints,
I remember the boots,

We used them to knock down
A German wall;
Russian Built,

I remember,
The ratcheting of those handcuffs;
Slipped over the wrist of a Panamanian,

Binding his drugged dirty hands.
Those black boots,
Yes I remember,

Counting them in flag draped coffins;
U.S.A. stamped on the bottom,
Black and bloodied,

Strong and sturdy still.
Foot prints that any good man would walk in.
Those damn black boots,

Spit shined to high gloss,
Measured steps, clicking,
At the Tomb of the Unknown,

Remembering,
Honoring,

Their footsteps.




Poetry by W. Burkholder
Read 546 times
Written on 2007-02-28 at 22:56

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Inked.
I love the political association of the black boots tying into the footprints, which in turn are associated with memories, and good thing. [Well, at least for me.] So the fact that you could tie these two together cyclically is really kind of amazing.

And there are few political poems I can read. So well done.
2007-03-01