The Rise of Valerie Macon
Of the poet named laureate by McCrory,
Folks said O Brother. No one had heard of her,
Not a song, a poem, or story.
Of the governor and crew, none of them knew
Anyone reads this weird stuff they called poetry.
The post it was said was every bit as good as dead,
And he appointed a woman named Valerie.
For whom the work of the words is of value.
The craft of the verse seems obsessive at first
But like love it serves to enthrall you.
And from Valerie’s pen flowed the truth of men
In lines that felt as they fell like renewal.
This was the gift of the poetic shift,
A storm in the soul that will call you.
That questioned the governor’s decision.
There was protocol in place and credentials to name
He’d completely ignored for some reason.
From Hendersonville high to Okracoke low
The poets posted on Facebook their questions.
Then the Monitor and then NPR
Gave North Carolina poetry their full attention.
Valerie Macon, deleted her website.
Erased any clue of any image she once drew
With words that had given her delight.
The poems she loved, felt had come from above
Now trapped her in the harshest of spotlights.
For overnight fame was never good when it came
On the wings of a politician’s oversight.
And since school it'd been easy to avoid it.
But now passions flared and the Governor was scared.
He thought it would be easier than this to destroy it
Within a matter of hours, he came down from his tower
And said Everyone can be a poet.
Like this he'd deregulate the Arts of the state.
By taking them into his pocket.
Of the governor’s unceasing hubris.
Valerie’s pen beckoned Please use me again,
It wasn’t your idea to do this.
But Poetry’s shy when it’s been crushed by the sky.
It’s not something on the ego’s to-do list.
It’s a soul-given task, a beloved craft,
And McCrory’s great stunt abused it.
Instead of peaceful folk who like language.
Professor and King are for him kinda the same thing
And they needed to go out with the garbage.
Yet under it all, there’s yet this constant, wild call
Like a prayer that's as old as the ages.
The storm now has passed, and the poets all ask
Valerie, won’t you please come and write with us.