ManicDDaily

Still thinking of Obama at Dover, and how some on the right have such a hard time accepting the sincerity of his concern for U.S. servicemen at war.

To some degree, the right seems disingenuous here.  However, the disbelief in the patriotism of someone who is generally against war is longstanding in this country;  it seems to  me at least, to stem in part from a  re-hashing of the fight between those for and against the Vietnam War, and the lingering anger over those protests.

I do believe, now, that those protesters went too far, seeming to disown the  U.S. soldiers.    The backlash, in which the flag was taken over by the right (almost as a symbol of war rather than the country) was also a travesty.

At any rate, here’s a poem about it.  Another villanelle.   (Please check other posts in the “poetry” and “villanelle” categories for the exact rules of a villanelle.  You can see that I’ve played with them a bit here.)

Flag

There were rules.  You weren’t allowed to let it
touch the ground.  If it did, it should be burned
or buried.  You couldn’t just forget it,

pretend it hadn’t slipped (if stained, to wet it)–
our trusted God would see and you’d be spurned.
There were rules.  You weren’t allowed to let it

rip or fray.  To be flown at night upset its
regimen, as it were.  The darkness turned
it into something buried.  Don’t forget it,

leave out in the rain; you had to get it
(getting soaked yourself, your last concern).
There were rules. You weren’t allowed to let it

pass—even at the movies, we would fête it—
until the Sixties came, and their war churned
and buried much—you couldn’t just forget it,

pretend we hadn’t slipped.  The fall begat at
least two flags—one paraded, the other mourned—
but just one rule—you weren’t allowed to let it
be buried; we couldn’t just forget it.

All rights reserved.  Karin Gustafson