Why This Poem, Why Now?
A monument, a house, a foundation—none of these crumble all at once. They erode, piece by piece, as time, wind, and silence wear them down. The same is true of history—of voices, of truth. Not erased in a single moment, but rewritten, reframed, and eventually forgotten.
We are living in a time when words are being outlawed by other words. When histories are being rewritten, books are being banned, and voices are being silenced. We have seen this before, and we will see it again—unless we refuse to forget.
This poem is a reckoning. A reminder. A warning. It is about what is lost, what is taken, and what still burns.
Embers and Flame
Monuments and reason,
watch them crumble, hush—
quiet goes quiet, falling as dust
Words outlaw laws—
twisted, bent, whitened, distorted.
There are no sirens now
only shifting papers,
names in black ink,
collapsing as they fade.
We have seen this before—
slow, unfurling banners,
prayers ground into sentences,
laws wound tight around our wrists.
Who will remember my fire?
Who will remember your name?
sneering mouths, steady pens,
sending willing rotors into the night
where do the embers burn—
in the band book,
a lilting forbidden name,
murmured promises between lovers
scared, afraid to stay sane?
All lights fade quietly.
All voices lose their names.
Wires whisper and our earth still waits
And so we wait, too—
not meek, not weary,
we who have seen this before,
we who hold this ember
Passing gently this dream of the people’s flame.
poem & photo by J.D. Johnson
What My Heart Feels.
Monuments crumble, not just in stone but in memory. This poem is about the slow erosion of truth, the way silence is imposed, and the quiet ways resistance survives. Laws spoken in freedom’s name become shackles. Prayers that once guided the lost, become weapons of control. The ink that wrote histories is turned against them.
We have seen this before. We are watching it happen now. Books are banned, history rewritten, dissent silenced. Names disappear, voices grow dim, but the ember remains.
The question, then, is who will hold it? Who will carry that ember forward, refusing to let it be extinguished?
The Call.
This is not about despair. It is about remembering that resistance is not always loud. Revolution is not always bloody. That fire does not always rage—it smolders, waiting, surviving, persistent.
If you’re reading this, you hold the ember. What you do with it is up to you. Do you let it fade? Do you pass it forward? Do you use it to light another fire?
History is rewritten by those who wish to forget—and by those who refuse to. Hold the ember. Pass the flame.
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