By David Holper
one morning, a marionette forced to dance
in a poisonous wind. You see the ones who scowl,
perched in their seats of power: one jerks his hand,
and the cruel strings yank. To the dark square
you stumble forward. Imprisoned in this darkness
you realize this stage has been set
long before you knew there was even a script. So what
if the evil is apparent—you are but one lone soul
powerless to resist. You wail and sob
in despair. For a long while, there are only tears;
then the wind shifts, and you finger the unyielding strings
and tug back: the one in the seat of power jerks his arm.
Seeing what you have done, another tugs with you.
Then another and another— until the great one
tumbles from his great chair. So it is with all
awakenings into the collective power we possess.
David Holper has done a little bit of everything: taxi driver, fisherman, dishwasher, bus driver, soldier, house painter, bike mechanic, bike courier, and teacher. He has published a number of stories and poems, including one collection of poetry, 64 Questions. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, and he has recently won several poetry competitions, in spite of his contention that he never wins anything. He teaches English at College of the Redwoods and lives in Eureka, California, far enough the madness of civilization that he can still see the stars at night and hear the Canada geese calling. Email: Davidfirstname.lastname@example.org