Not Yet A Casualty

The thing is, you want everything softer,
more Monet than Picasso,
I do not want to be battered into sharp edges
and rough knuckles
and I do not want that for my children.
I want the soft to be valued as much
as the burred and brutal.

But that is not the world I live in.
Subtlety is a lost art.
And kindness feels as if it is losing ground.
but I will have none of it.
I will get up again. And again.
And yet again, knowing

hate and anger never built anything lasting.
It has never healed.
It has never raised hearts from the dead.
It only leaves the carcasses on the battlefield.
Acceptable casualties
until one day the casualty is you.

About this poem

One of the things aging does for us is give us perspective. That can be good and bad.

One of the things I have seen increasing in politics over the past 50 years is that the winner cuts off the loser, declares there is nothing good in the loser. Stomps on them. Demonizes them. And then seems surprised when the tide turns (and it always does) and they are the ones being crushed, ignored and demonized.

“The victors write history.” I know that quote. And I know the price of it.

But as I say, “I get up. I get up again. And yet again.” Not yet a casualty.

Tom