It will turn your cold sausage blue

run, little boy, run (new poem)

Scared. Sad. Hope and Despair. These were some of the answers nearly 200 people gave me when I asked them this question on social media…

In one-word only, how do you feel about the next 4-years?

See the word cloud at the bottom of this post that visually displays the way people feel right now.

Why did I ask this question?

Because I write interactive poetry inspired by an attempt to connect deeply with people.

To forge deep connections, it’s imperative that we are curious, that we listen, not just with our ears but with our whole person, with our own heart.

We are all works in progress here. I am certainly still a baby in this way.

These were your words, this is my poem. Please share this post, I need your help to grow this movement.

It will turn your cold sausage blue...

eyes wide,
dread and horror,
washed into the blue,
as the little boy runs,
away from the sun,
toward the fire,
back to the old,
fleeing from,
the new.

little boy run, 
little boy run,
little boy run,

turn around,
young son,
you're heading 
straight for the corn,
into the cold arms
of terror and scorn,
to the field
where the monsters live,
and hate is unleashed,
where everyone takes,
and no one
gives.

stop young son,
stop young son,
stop young son,

no hope,
this way,
the corn is jacked,
nothing golden here,
the lying lurk,
the heartsick hide,
and chaos reigns,
with his sister
called fear,
and his
other brother
nick-named 
despair.

shouting now,
shouting now,
shouting now,

stop,
little boy, 
stop,
it's not too late,
your future's not there,
with the rageful few
and the hateful eight,
this won't make,
america great,
stop little boy,
this does not,
have to be,
our fate.

he's stopping now,
he's stopping now,
he's stopping now,

staring into 
the field of corn,
forlorn, he sees 
the scarecrowed hitler
standing, arms wide
in mocked crucifix,
as the powerful monsters
hail
his horrifying reign,
into the face 
of this dark 
stain,
the little boy
fronts a fate 
so fucked,
it would turn,
your cold sausage blue,
an evil hell, 
an ugly hue,
not some small
persnickety 
indifference, 
where we could
agree to 
differ...
about the goodness
of the scarecrow,
and his
wannabee 
grifters...

run little boy, run

Total “Interactive Words” used = 32