Politics

a poem by Roger B Rueda

is a beast, its size and shape too small to see,
yet it is as colossal as our imagination.
It is calm but when it tousles its wool,
no one can hold sway over it –
politicians have tried out many things:
They lined up loads of rues
to break in the indefinable beast;
all didn’t come up to scratch.
They thought badly of each other,
calling upon that someone mounting
on it alight and leave off.
They came together at Edsa,
dragooning the frontrunner into leaving.
A woman, whose husband was slain on the tarmac,
came from evasion and mounted the beast.
It jolted into motion and ran more wildly,
shaking its head confusedly.
A lot closed their eyes and heaved a sigh.
Some squaddies made a grab for a rope
and tried to usurp control of the beast.
They all bit the dust.
Another frontrunner came.
The beast quietened down a little.
His challenger provoked him into a boxing match,
accusing him of cheating, a cynical ploy.
Then another frontrunner came.
Clinging to the withers,
he was dragged off from the beast’s back
at Edsa again and sent down.
Everyone conspired so that he would turn
a somersault down the feet of the beast
and be trampled underfoot.
Another woman mounted the beast.
Her nemeses flung many expletives at her
as she seemed to have no plan of alighting.
Their swear words are soaking into her fame
now as she is kneading her aching neck,
her pride and honour hemmed in by rigid laws.
Her 25th December is not a red letter day.
The son of a previous frontrunner
has mounted the beast, gnashing his teeth.
He wants to turn round the straight way.
He has chucked the crown of a justice
in the dustbin and dismissed it with ignominy.
He has smashed the pork barrel
into the face of his cohorts, feeding them
another unknown nourishment
like a mysterious fruit in a covert.
Bearers of the cross hardly dare open their mouths.
Will the beast put its feet up and become
visible and  untroublesome and gentle?
A hush has fallen over the crowd, its drift pendent.