When is enough

How much of this
Do we have to take
Before the gloves come off
The game-face slips
And we rip away the last veneer
Of careful self-restraint;

When can I
Roar out, full-throated
That I am done;
Gone so far beyond
Sick and tired
Of the endless, senseless madness;
That I am good and ready
To set the streets aflame;

When will we
Cease watching, waiting;
See, finally, there is no hope
Outside ourselves
And rise, break down
The gates they hold against us –
Or have we now allowed too much
And left it far too late?


Not belonging

Here, there
Or anywhere;
An exile in my own land
Squatter in my own skin.

Looked for myself
In all the right and usual places;
No recognition
No settling of the stirred-up water
Only walls to bounce off.

So I wander.
The road and hills
Forests, fields, sky
Draw me
Wrap me in themselves.

Unlabelled, unidentified.
Free of numbers, name or country.
At home when I am nowhere
Defined by what I’m not.


Remembering Peter Fonda, 1940-2019