Letters to My Son by Stephen A. Dantes


Give me two mics;
one for the poem
and one for the poet
And as the poet becomes obscurity
against silhouetted night silence,
the poem will echo in eardrums
like tribalism screaming repatriation,
Like love longing nostalgic bondage
and loneliness that inspires stages of wanton


To want some of poem on a poet platter;
Battered words drenched in sweat scattered
left to right wing liberalism,
Drummers kick with heels to BOOM sounds
that reach no farther than cordless microphones
in cramped mega domes of emotions
as they seek to shelter.
The creative create holes they dig with nails
clawing their way to origin,
filled with awe within,
like headless tyrants still walking
as promises die with wills.


Give me just two microphones
and let your ears filter what you must
or lust with me,
Crave the utopia that we all want,
Channel your inner peace and piece with me
this letter,
These words
This request to be more than just the
melody of fanatics
Scream with me like your life depended;
Your life depends as lives are ended
but dreams live on and float-flutter-flies
as each snare that hits and
each crash that makes
you awake to my reality,
Forsaken by a promise of bliss and
betrayed by eyes that see greed as morality
where opportunity is pluralized in pockets of he who rules in the name of government
and govern men like fools to cover dents,
Cracks in humanity where what applies to one does not to another
Endorsed from the highest offices and diffuses from echelon to echelon
until the residue is sprinkle on the grassroots man
like dry dust that fog glasses.


I want two microphones
and I will keep asking;
One so that I can speak into
And the other
as input to words already formed in irritated bowels
aggravated to repulsion yet silent,
Immune to time but bold in moments
My audacity does not expire as yours does
I will speak what I must because I must
even if you remain mute,
I am no prisoner
and neither is my son…
neither is that son, still unborn
I do not have one
Not yet
But soon, maybe, and some.
This microphone beside me aches for a poem not yet vocalized
I stand a man, poem-less,
with eyes wide shut,
Then I make tune to the music of your unknown
with words you didn’t think existed in your knowing
then poem becomes you in denial
and I become orator
Just another man standing in front of a microphone
And another mic, there, alone
Still wanting
Still waiting
Still asking to be a coward’s toy
Still needing to be caressed and kissed at the grille
But the voice to grace it
is unborn, still.

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