Plough SharesA Poem by Ken e BujoldTethered to the real world, my mind idling a million miles away cuts from the kittlish bantery to black matters matter, batter of bewildered eggs being whittled to ill-liquid bomb. Another round of jackboots, whishing sandals taking to the streets to counter argument -- what makes a nation? Whichever sidewalk one chooses to straddle to gape the nightly fireworks redolent ache of privilege seems immaterially connected to reality of history -- how each was seated around the table, shunted to or from the stable. Beyond what’s reliable, the script to our times cannot be read through the tinted spectacles of old men writing for their posthumous positions in the pantheon. More varnish to the leaden walls, rethatch of a leaky roof’s shingle, will not suffice to say the obvious: my own country is not synonymous to owning a country -- the ploughshare that cuts soil loose is no less than the trader’s share being hawked for bounty. A honest man’s sweat milled from the tears of a life’s harvest is as valuable as any banker’s gratuitous tip. Ken e Bujold
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4 Reviews Added on September 14, 2023 Last Updated on September 14, 2023 AuthorKen e BujoldSomewhere in Ontario, CanadaAboutWriters write, it's what we do. Fish swim, woodpeckers peck... writers scribble (inside and outside the lines). more..Writing
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