I wrote this poem after the US election result came in. He’s in office now and the old white men of this particular type are everywhere, but the women are marching. We’re getting stronger. They won’t be here for long.


This is a country of old white men


This is a country of old white men

Rich, sly and scheming old men

Screaming and shouting their big lies in your face,

so loudly they swallowed them whole.

Wrong! they say. Sad!

When everything clearly is upside down and inside out,

and wrong means right and sad means strong.


This is a country of old white men

with little boy words.

I am big and strong, I will be your hero,

they say,

and they believe their own war cry.

Me me me me me me me!

Trust me, they say,

but when did ever anyone who could be trusted

say that?


The old men have shrunken little hearts

buried deep, deep inside their inflated pocketbooks.

They have big, dark blinkers on,

and heavy, ironclad boots.

Their spines are crooked and shrunken and brittle,

and deep down they know that time is running out.

They just want so badly to be seen.

So they know they have to scream

and burn

and fly the flag of accusation.

These deflector men, with caps of steel

standing in shallow pools of mud.


But the old men don’t know how

you

know more about beauty,

more about the world,

more about the words inside the words and

what truth really means.

There is so much they don’t know.

They won’t be here for long.