A Poem for Scott Dworkin

Saluting a leading resistance reporter

My Fellow Democracy Defenders,

Scott Dworkin has good news. We are winning against Trump and the MAGAts! I am amazed by his positivity and dogged journalism. There are way more of us and there are of them, owning fascists with facts. Here is a poem that celebrates his work.

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While shadows stretch across the land, like ink spilled from a tyrant’s hand,
And voices of division rise, a poison in the air,
A single figure stands his ground, where truth and courage make their stand—
Scott Dworkin, steadfast sentinel, dispelling doubt and fear.
He does not wield a sword of steel, nor shout from gilded towers,
But with the quieter might of truth, he gathers scattered powers.

Forget the constant drumbeat’s drone, the noise of “losers” and their creed,
That paints a nation fractured, lost, where hope itself must bleed.
For Dworkin, with a scholar’s eye and activist’s unyielding fire,
Seeks out the good news often missed—the victories we inspire.
He scans the field where battles rage, not just the defeats we know,
But finds the seeds of triumph sown where righteous waters flow.

He speaks of courts that stand upright, where justice, slow but sure,
Has struck down voter-suppression laws, unjust and impure.
“In Allen v. Milligan,” he’ll say, “the map was redrawn,
Alabama’s voice, long silenced, now beneath the sun is one.
Each district fairly drawn, a blow against the scheme
That sought to lock the many out for one autocrat’s cruel dream.”

He tells of states where courage blooms, where citizens refused to yield:
In Michigan, where citizens organized, the field
Was cleared of gerrymandered traps, the people claimed their right
To choose their fate, not have it stolen in the dead of night.
“In Arizona,” Dworkin notes, “the young and diverse stood tall,
And sent a record number forth to answer democracy’s call.”

He chronicles the quiet wins that rarely grace the screaming news:
The local school board, freed from hate, where inclusive lessons muse.
The town that passed the clean-energy plan, the clinic that stays open wide,
The union vote that triumphed where the workers would not hide.
“These are the stones,” he’ll gently say, “that build the lasting wall
Against the rising tide of hate that seeks to make us small.”

And when the Loser’s Fascism rears its head—a creed of spite and scorn,
That thrives on fear, on “us versus them,” where truth is left to mourn—
That worships at the altar of one man’s fragile, gilded ego,
And seeks to crush dissent beneath a boot of brutal show,
Dworkin is there, a shield of light, to name it for what it is:
A retreat from reason, a betrayal of the democratic kiss.

He shows us how its strongholds crack, how its foundations start to rot:
The lawsuits fail, the subpoenas land, the truth, it cannot be forgot.
The January 6th Committee’s work, a mirror held to shame,
Reveals the plot, the planning, the attempt to overthrow the name
Of “We the People.” Every text, every call, a thread
That unravels the tapestry of lies that tyranny had spread.

He points to elections where the people spoke, a thunderous, clear rebuttal:
In 2022, the “Red Wave” drowned before it could begin to flood,
Because the voters, diverse and vast, chose hope, not fevered blood.
In state after state, the candidates of hate and conspiracy fell,
While those who pledged to guard the vote rang loud the freedom bell.
“This isn’t luck,” Dworkin insists, “it’s citizens who stood in line,
Who cast their ballots, knowing well the stakes are vast, divine.”

He celebrates the prosecutors bold, who dare to face the storm:
In New York, in Georgia, in federal courts, where justice takes its form.
The indictments stack like stones of law, precise and cold and clear—
A message sent: No one stands above the rule we hold so dear.
“The Loser’s claim of ‘witch hunt’ fades,” he says, “against the weight
Of evidence, of procedure, of the law that holds the state.”

He lifts the voices of the young, the organizers in the street,
The volunteers who knock on doors, where hope and action meet.
He tells of registrations soaring, of communities united,
Of voters, once disheartened, now with purpose re-ignited.
“This is the true offensive,” he declares, “not violence, not despair,
But citizens who know their power rests within the vote they share.”

He stands against the narrative that paints our nation as undone,
That claims democracy is dying beneath a setting sun.
He finds the progressive wins—the bill passed for veterans’ care,
The infrastructure projects breaking ground, the clean air we will share.
The protections for LGBTQ+ youth, the aid for mothers in need,
The student debt relief pursued—each victory, a vital seed.

He knows the fight is long and steep, the threats remain immense,
That fascism, though wounded, still possesses bitter potency.
But Dworkin’s vital message cuts through apathy’s dense fog:
“Good news is not complacency—it’s fuel for the next hard slog.”
To celebrate the win is not to rest, but to gather strength anew,
To see the path forward, lit by what we’ve already seen come true.

So when the noise of losers drowns your spirit in its din,
And “America is lost” becomes the easy, weary spin—
Recall the voice of Dworkin, calm, relentless, and precise:
“Look here, at this victory. See democracy’s rise.”
He gathers every shard of light—court rulings, votes, protests won,
And weaves them into a beacon for the struggle yet to come.

He is no prophet promising an easy, sunlit age,
But a gardener who tends the soil where freedom’s roots engage.
He shows us that the tide can turn, that every action matters,
That in the countless acts of courage, true democracy scatters
The darkness. Every time a vote is cast, a lie is debunked,
A right is secured, a fascist scheme is gently unseated, stunned.

So let the Loser’s banners wave their symbols of decay,
While Dworkin charts the living map of how we find our way.
Through him, we learn the vital truth, both stark and beautiful:
Democracy is not a relic—it’s a living, breathing, dutiful
Force, forged anew each day by hands that choose to stand,
To spread the good news: Hope is won by those who take the land.

Go forth, Scott Dworkin, tireless scribe of what is right and true,
Keep gathering the fragments where the progressive spirit grew.
Your words are bullets in the battle for the soul of this our home,
Reminding us that every dawn brings victories yet to be known.
While fascism may threaten, may rage, may seek to claim the night,
The good news lives—and in that truth, we find our potent fight.
The dawn is never guaranteed, but Dworkin proves it can be won—
By every voice that rises, by every battle bravely done.