(I released this poem on Veteran's Day in November 2025. I decided to share here because it is worth reading it while drinking your coffee. )
Two Hundred and Ninety-six
We are on day 296.
The clocks don’t tick anymore — they grind,
metal teeth chewing through mercy.
The pendulum swings, slow and heavy.
Time gnaws at a country
that forgot the torchbearer,
guardian of the stars and stripes.
ICE discords in the dark —
steel lullabies, crashing communities,
cold and efficient.
Doors slam on trembling backs.
Boots flash under harsh lights.
Walls wailing, families blood-torn,
grinding the nation on to bended knee.
Children dream in cages,
their contraband clattering like coins
in a circular cup of defiance.
America whispers through fluorescent light:
shhh… don’t look, don’t ask, don’t feel.
Compassion outlawed,
silence tasted on salty tears.
Portland answers back.
The Frog croaks from the riverbank —
resist, ribbit, rise!
Graffiti eyes blink awake through tear gas haze.
Protesters drum on trash can lids,
banging rhythm into rebellion.
Streets shimmer with chalk and courage.
Through the haze, it's very clear,
We are still here.
Down in L.A.,
music festivals became sermons,
beating like war drums on neon signs.
Bodies move — loud, defiant, free —
every dance step, a declaration of survival.
Red sirens try to drown their war cries,
smoke-stenciled streets slow their rise.
The rhythmic beat proves true,
We are still here.
Midway Blitz — smoke, color, fury,
a new Chicago fire, not from desire.
Banners snapping like thunderclaps.
They shouted until language cracked open.
Black Hawk helicopters invaded the skies,
as the cries of babes dragged from their beds
bounced off the moonlit, war-ravished skyline.
Echoes screeched and screamed:
WE ARE STILL HERE!
College towns once lined with hopes and dreams,
now echo grief beneath a glutton king.
Harvard strong and proud takes a stance —
education is not up for grabs, JD Vance!
Professors whisper history’s warnings,
students link arms in silent defiance.
Books raised like shields,
they shout without sound:
We are here.
He sits in his golden room,
belly swollen, small hands slick with coin.
Laughing as walls gleam with stolen wealth,
he whips away the people’s liberties, one by one.
Cries curl around his throne,
ignored, swallowed by gilded air.
He counts his generous tariffs —
no crown can hide the rot behind his feast.
Whispers of dissent bounce off colonnades,
boots rattling through hollow marble halls.
Shadows stretch over the National Mall,
flickering like lost hope around the Capitol.
The President of Puerto Rico mumbles to himself,
rambling on about stealing free speech.
From the Washington Monument, whispers form:
We are still here.
In the heart of this fractured union,
a mother, quieted and meek,
still counts her child’s name like a prayer.
Somewhere, the lights buzz
over folded foil blankets.
Somewhere, mercy waits at the border
with a backpack full of names.
We count — because silence counts for them.
We sing — because they can’t.
We remember — because forgetting is the oldest sin.
Ironically, it’s Veterans Day,
a day we remember the defenders.
The wind carries whispers of resistance —
will the oaths be upheld?
This is day 296 of 1461.
Tick... tick... tick...
by Billie Raucci, aka BBSweets
© Written on Oct 14, 2025
Released on Nov 11, 2025