Today's poem is called, "Facts," and it was written by Robert Cooperman.
Facts are such painful, inconvenient things
when weighed against what we want to believe;
as if wishing were enough to give us wings
to deny science's theorizing,
when the Bible pronounces, "Adam and Eve."
Facts are such painful, inconvenient things.
Evolution trudges through Time's yawning,
dull compared to the Conjurer's crammed sleeve
of Six Magician Days, that gave us wings
to know the divine wand made everything:
or so creationists would smile and deceive.
Yes, facts are nasty, inconvenient things.
Take climate change, when folks are shivering
on the East Coast in a snowbound deep-freeze:
forget worldwide temperatures have taken wing.
All of science's laws arrive with strings;
it's all shifting, revised hypotheses
to fit the evidence, not the phony thing
of forgetting the facts, for wishful wings.
ROBERT COOPERMAN's fifteenth collection is Just Drive (Brick Road Poetry Press). His manuscript, Draft Board Blues, is seeking a home. Cooperman is a past winner of the Colorado Book Award for Poetry.
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