Towards Better Democracy

Good words, well written, better the world. Good literature betters the world immeasurably.

English in America


I am stranger here
Been here for years
Yet it does not feel
Like home.

The people are different
Yet the same. The have funny
Accents, especially here in
Texas.

They, Americans
Treat you well
Don’t mistake me
But they are …
Not the same.

They are enthusiasts
For strange games
American football
Incomprehensible
All beefy types.

Colliding with each other
Where’s the ball
And they seem to stop
A lot. Why? Then baseball
This is not cricket, that game
That only gentlemen played
But is professional now.

When racing cars they
Have race tracks of oval
Shape. Round and round
And round and round
At dizzying speeds
What’s the skill in
That?

And they say funny things
Like, “Have a nice day,”
“Have a wonderful day.”
“Thenk yooo,” “Talk to you
Soon,” whom you never see
Again.
Are they never downhearted
Grumpy, sleepy.

They go to bed early and
Rise early, ready to get going
The locomotion driven
In perpetual motion
Energy to build mountains.

And the women, the women
Running, jogging, while on the
Cell phone, of course
The men, no they don’t
Run outside in the sweltering
Wet air, but run on machines
In gyms with personal trainers
Flaying them, flogging.

Do they ever relax, these human
Dynamos? One feels fatigued just
Watching them. They eat health food
And junk food all in the same breath
Restaurants close a ten and are empty
At nine. Is this civilization?

They talk loud as if to have people in
Chicago hear them, stood two feet
From each other apart. And parents run
Their children to school in the morning
And again at the end of school
And queue in lines, to drop off
Voluble children, all on their cell phones
At the doorstep one car at a time
Do these parents not have lives?

Yes, it is strange here, the same
In some ways and yet foreign in
Others. I tell Jordanians, Albanians,
French, Italians, ‘n all,” I am a foreigner
Too. That I too have a funny accent.”

To be English in America; here
Yet not at home.

Malcolm D B Munro
Friday 29 April, 2016

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Filed under: poetry

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