Typewriter Series #3065 | 11.8.20

America for all its flaws, all its tragedies, all its misguided attempts to be the big brother of the world, is built on an ideal of hope. We are built on the idea that many can come together to be one, that diversity can, and should, thrive. Along the way we’ve gone so many wrong directions, and in truth, we were built on the back of such evil treatment of entire races of people, this cannot be argued, and it is something I hope we as a country spend an eternity trying to make reparations for. Still, there is hope, and I feel it rising once again. This post is not a political one, it’s a one of simple truth…for the last half decade there has been more division, more strife, more animosity raging in this country than ever before in my lifetime, and probably the lifetimes of anyone else living. Perhaps we can turn things around, perhaps we can remember that we are all one tree with one root and so many branches. Perhaps. We can be beautiful, we can celebrate our differences, we can work together to spread kindness and peace like a forest. Perhaps we start here, perhaps we begin, now. This is Typewriter Series #3065, and I hope you enjoy the video. Below is the typed version, and the audio poem too, if you want to see it without the moving images.

Seen now for what we are, what we’ve always been, 

standing behind the curtain pulling the levers for smoke, 

for hologram large as life, seen for what we are.

Divided people in divided land, farmers in fields without water,

dustbowl spinning, waiting for the rainmaker 

and his cart. He came, he’s here, 

snake oil salesman peddling placebo pill

as cure, promising rainfall and salvation,

one hand on a holy book, the other picking our pocket.  

Called this place Oz for a time, shined emerald

beyond the yellow roads that brought many here, 

weren’t we the strength we projected into the clouds

around us?  The paint has faded, the horse has lost

its colors.

A country asunder, split with disunity and hatred

that never quite washed out, the shroud and veil are crumpled

at our feet. Divided, we, half with open arms,

half with closed fists, shouting across a drought starved field.

Seen now for what we are, what we’ve always been,

divided people in divided land, trees from the same forest,

branched but growing from the same soil.  Storm, come

like resurrection, soak this place in a peace long abandoned,

seep to the roots we share and watch as once again

we blossom together, with hope.  

-Tyler Knott Gregson-


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