In the republic of the broken home,
Its the children, who hold fort alone,
For those who sit upon the throne,
Are away fighting battles of their own.
Every morning they arrive at the front lines,
Wearing uniforms and memorizing rhymes,
To be punished for homework or war crimes,
Hoping they won’t step on any toes or landmines.
Here children are the ambassadors of peace,
Who negotiate for the crossfire to cease.
Who sometime secure a hostage’s release,
Who broker a stop in the endless hostilities.
And every day they arrive riding rocking horses,
Counting childhood’s casualties and losses,
Winning little gifts and toys like Victoria’s crosses,
These little martyrs in life’s lost causes.
They are the subjects, who follow the laws of the land,
Who learn to listen to the words of the high command,
Who try to execute things exactly as they were planned,
So they can bring pride to the great homeland.
And thus time froths and ripples and flows,
And behind adolescence’s closed doors,
The citizen’s anger and discontent grows,
Till there is an uprising that screams and overthrows.
Some become refugees and seek out a distant land,
Where they can get away from the dictatorial hand.
They leave with baggage so heavy and plans so grand,
Its inevitable they would soon feel lost and sad.
For they set out seeking and all alone,
To try and plant something of their own,
Only to realize the seeds have already sown,
To sprout a new republic of the broken home.
There are no mothers or fathers in the world,
Just misshapen children who must pretend,
That they are grown up right till the end,
For they have a flock to rule over and tend.
Friend, how many years will you scrape over your bruise?
No matter how many years you scream and refuse,
A day will come when time will step in and call the truce,
No matter how many pairs you change, you’ll wake up in your old man’s shoes.
So now that we have already spoken the hard edged truth,
Now that we have established the contours of the root,
You are free of the wars that when you win you also lose.
There are only reveries where once there were rules.
Walk away into a time of cycles and kites,
Into the most pleasant textures of your playtimes,
Into the dreamless sleep of childhood nights,
Where the untapped seed of your possibility lies.
This poem is part of the Poetry Book “Twenty Poems of Light and Longing: Rabbit HOLE calling“