TRUMP'S AMERICA: CERTAIN CHILDREN ARE NOT WELCOME HERE...

UNWANTED

I found an old book in the
gutter today: A battered blue
hardcover unwanted by the
world. It had been kicked
about by a brutal foot - more
than a few pages were wrinkled
and torn. So I plucked it up
and carried it home. After I
wiped off some of the dirt
I saw a cover as blue as
the sea. I wiped some more
until a familiar face appeared -
the Belle Of Amherst - my breath
stood still - Emily Dickinson in
the gutter? Imagine that! Her
good poems once fed my hungry
heart, when the busy world
wouldn't throw me a bone. Now
I'd plucked her from the gutter,
and given her a better home -
so who really saved whom?

Poem © 2018 by Dylan Mitchell

WHAT THE MINISTER DID NOT SAY

(for Elizabeth)

she left home at thirteen she lived with a man old
enough to be her father she was a mother at four-
teen she washed clothes in a tub she liked Elvis
she smoked she worried about her thin hair she
ate a lot of macaroni and cheese she had trouble
sleeping she set traps for the mice she played
cards she was fond of people and animals she
owned a used typewriter she had few friends she
dreamed of a better life she died young

Poem © 2013 by Dylan Mitchell

A MAD POET'S LOVE LETTER TO AMERICA

America, none of the little tricks I use to give
depression the finger would work for me today
(just do one small thing, damn it, and don't
worry about the rest). So I just stayed in bed all
day, and tried to read somebody else's famous
poems - till the hot sun was finally gone, and I
could find no bright moon or burning stars
anywhere in the dark sky, when I was able
to drag my tired body out of bed at last, pull
back the curtains, open the blinds, and stand
by the high window looking down on the
deserted Park Blocks: No people, no pigeons, no
buses, no cars - only good old Abe Lincoln
meekly staring at his feet. And another block
down, cocky Teddy Roosevelt topping some
great dark horse - bear hunting, I believe.
(Could I interest you folks in a Teddy Bear,
circa 1923?) It was midnight in The City Of
Roses, you see (aka Portland, Oregon), and I
needed a shave and a shower very badly, but
didn't have the energy for both. So I only
managed to scrape the eight day beard off
of my face, and put on some smelly clothes
and my only pair of shoes.

And everything seemed much too heavy
for me to lift, much too heavy, even the pure
cotton cap I pulled down low on my
head to cover up my immense guilt and shame.
But I managed to bend over and tie both of my
shoes twice, like a good crazy person should.
And I was so happy, so incredibly happy to find
the elevator empty at last when the doors
squeaked open, and I rode it nine floors down,
all the way down to the basement. And opened
my mailbox to find the forty dollar check I'd
earned by taking the #8 bus to the big hospital
on The Hill last month, and answering a lot of
degrading questions about what it's like to be
insane in America.  And the smug blue-eyed
doctor made me feel ugly and ashamed, so very
ugly and ashamed, but I needed the money. So
I smiled and told him all my deep dark secrets
about madness - how it hurts, and how it helps -
and now three weeks later I'm being paid for
my services, I'm finally being paid: like some
kind of cheap, half-cracked whore the good
doctor really didn't want to pay.

Copyright © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

FALLING DOWN

In their memory...

New York City is falling down
as I rise from my bed
like a stubborn corpse
While people are burned
and buried alive
here I make stiff fingers move
shuffle my numb feet
toward life

Mad planes seek easy targets
in the sky Here I put on my
hat, let the elevator
drop me down
to the basement
below Maybe a miracle
will come in the mail
one day soon
The Disability checks

won't stop
I won't lose the subsidized
roof over my head
untold loaves of
bread will appear in the
empty cupboard like magic
And good blood will
flow through my sick
veins once again
Thank you
America

The Twin Towers fall
and some 3,000
souls are gone
Here I abandon my bed
sip weak coffee
and squint at the
12 inch screen

In New York City
a homeless man has
hung an American flag
across the side of his
cart But I only see
hunger and early
coffins here Red is the
color of blood, ashes
are white, bruises are
blue Now a barefoot girl

has wrapped a flag
around herself like a
shroud Her face is a
mask of ash, her dark
eyes are ringed with
blood, blue bruises
disfigure her feet
She is an American
saint on display

A letter in the mailbox
is a dangerous
thing now, but
I am already falling, falling
Since bombs or germs
won't make my world
worse: I open my mail
never think to wash my
hands, check the empty
cupboard one more time,
and wait for my world
to explode

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell 

DOUBT

(for Roy)

I knew the shoes were old at
the start. But I was still
happy to find them

on the "Free Table" in the
basement of my expensive
high rise

apartment building. I loved
the classic black and white
colors

of the fabric. But failed
to pay much attention to
the much abused soles.

And proudly wore them in
public (after two baptisms
in the costly washer).

But God was not impressed. One
day (while carrying a heavy
load of food and water)

my left sole came completely
undone - and I still had
one more mile to go.

I began to walk with a
conspicuous limp. People
stopped and stared

as if I'd finally revealed
my true damaged soul. But
I held my head high

until I'd made it back home.
Then you arrived with a
pair of much

better shoes: And saved my
feet and soul
quicker than

any prayers I'd prayed to
Jesus and his
diminishing saints.

And I found God in my doubt.

Poem © 2013 by Dylan Mitchell

THE BEWILDERING SECOND COMING OF CHRIST

If Christ came back today
what would He see? People
talking on cell phones

instead of to each other?
As they mindlessly
sidestep the homeless on the

downtown sidewalks: American
Idol is about to begin! Security
guards would kick Him out of

stores for looking too down
and out. And after He started
talking about helping

instead of judging the poor
He'd be carted off to the
nearest psych ward,

and given massive amounts
of shock treatments and drugs
for the psychotic ones.

He'd be considered no different
from those that insanely think
they are Beethoven or Hitler

or Marilyn Monroe. Christ might
return only to be tossed in
jail or the state asylum.

Who will save the Savior?


Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

MOTHER TERESA: A BEAUTIFUL SAINT WITHOUT FAITH

Mother Teresa was as human as the rest of us. I know this to be true, because I read it in TIME magazine. She often doubted the existence of God, and felt that Jesus rarely heard her prayers. In fact, she even wondered if there was any sense in praying to a God that seemed not to care about her. I was initially shocked to learn this, because like many people: I see Mother Teresa as a woman of great spiritual strength and faith. The saint of the gutter, forever helping people that the world has given up on. But she was only human. She said so in a series of letters she'd written (and requested they be destroyed).

But the letters were preserved against her wishes. So now we discover that her loving smile was often a mask, and the beautiful words she often stated in public were not words she honestly felt in her heart. She suggested ways to make the world a more loving place, but often felt her words were insincere. She'd learned how to say all the right things, and smiled for the cameras when she was weeping inside.

Does this make Mother Teresa a hypocrite? No, it makes her human, and all the more remarkable. She was a saint without faith, and there are not very many of those. She continued to love the poorest of the poor (and help them even after her doctors had warned her that she was ruining her own health). She taught us that we all have the potential to become saints: that there really is nothing special about it: Give help where it is needed most; love people the world has given up on; any act of kindness (no matter how seemingly small) is better than doing nothing at all.

In short, she taught us to save the world by saving one person at a time. And that is how she lived her life. And to accomplish such a miracle without faith, makes her even more heroic in my mind. Mother Teresa was a saint, but she was a very human one: She moved mountains without faith. I know this to be true, because I read it in TIME magazine.

Essay © 2007 by Dylan Mitchell

BALLAD BLUE

I'm in a town I did not build,
my room is rather mean.
The fleas are leaping 'round and 'round -
my body's not that clean.

I stopped at Freddy's for the cure,
the cost was not too high.
I cannot scratch another spot -
I'd rather see them die.

I'm not an outcast in this town:
Typhoid Mary who?
I slipped and fell, but who has not -
that's why this poem's not blue.

I'll spray my room, and scrub my face
until my life is new.
I'll stay away from Smoky Hell -
make all my dreams come true.

I'll stay inside and write a book
about the world I knew:
The streetwise boys and moonlight girls -
their eyes were baby-blue.

My room is small, my pockets bare,
yet I write this poem for you.
The grungy loner took a bath -
I'm fit for Powell's - it's true.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell