Planting the flag.

Perhaps it does not matter
that I plant the flag here at the end of the world,
here in the silence where so few people are found,
and so many of them so certain they are unimportant,
that they are so ugly or , meaningless;
invisible in the eyes of God and man.

Perhaps it does not matter, but part of you
refuses to be invisible, even here at the end,
despite a world that has worked hard
to make you imperceptible.

Why? You are safer when you cannot be seen.
Safer for their need for control, their fear
that you might be right in your faith
and declaration of color, your insistence
on dancing on the field of battle.

What if you drew one? or another?
What if your pennant urged another to stand,
wherever they are, confident in their colors,
Sure of their stand and willing to make that stand,
wherever they are?

What then? For flags draw fire, but they also draw
the newly brave, the lost, and the searching,
a mighty army, hidden in the fog,
waiting to be strong.

About this poem

In an increasingly secular world, declaring faith is an act of defiance. In an increasingly selfish world, caring for others is an act of defiance. In a world of AI, insisting on being unapologetically creative is an act of defiance. In a world of litmas tests, being authentic is an act of defiance. In a world of transactionalism, giving to the ones you love without expectations is an act of defiance.

And at times, all it takes is one flag. Maybe yours. Maybe mine.

The photograph was taken at Rye, NH.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom