Poetry

You are not perfect, surprise, surprise. But, when I was a child, you were boundless, mostly because my imagination knew no bounds. Boundaries come with age. You were field after field and an occasional strand of barbed wire to climb over but, truly, my range was primarily limited by how far I was from dinner.

In Selma, Montgomery, Nashville, Birmingham, Jackson, Tuscaloosa, Hattiesburg, Memphis, across the South, and beyond, the battle for equality raged just out of sight on Grandma’s TV, conveniently covered with a blanket. I knew nothing of the Civil Rights movement growing up, though it touched me on several occasions.

confused sea—
the island’s lighthouse
obscured by fog

On one such occasion, I was riding through downtown Brunswick, Maine, the place where Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote much of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Grandpa had the radio on when the announcement came over the airwaves, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. has been assassinated. I didn’t know that name, what it stood for, or even what assassination meant. Grandpa muttered, Damn, and then went silent.

drinking
from a polluted stream . . .
dying fox

Later in life, one of my best friends in the army, James, a six-foot black man, built like a boxer, but as gentle as a kitten, surprised me one day when I found myself in a predicament. I was surrounded by four GIs who were pushing me back and forth among them until I stepped on someone’s foot. That earned me a blow to the face. Just then, James came around the corner, saw what was happening, and turned into a roaring lion. Leave him the fuck alone you pansies! If you want to fight, let’s go! The group made a hasty retreat.

I don’t like referring to my friends as black, Mexican, Jewish, gay, or any other label. To me they are, and have always been, just friends. I didn’t grow up labeling people and I’ve resisted the tendency ever since. But I celebrate the diversity of my friends; their integrity, experience, wisdom, interests, skills, creativity, and companionship.

bird sanctuary . . .
a symphony of color
in flight

For me, America is a melting pot. As I ponder the promise of this “land of the free,” I wonder if there will ever be freedom from divisiveness and maliciousness. “We the People” are the ingredients of a grand experiment. The past is set in stone; now is in our hands; the future is the shape of our imagination. I chose to dream of a better tomorrow, born of a steadfast conviction that today is my day to change the world; to change it with a smile, with my protestations in the face of bigotry, with my support for justice and equality.

Here and now, I take up this pen and set my sights on my better self, seeking a community of fearless voices committed to the best this country can be. This land is not your land; this land is not my land; this land is our land! We are the potential energy for a nation built on harmony. It will take many small steps, and we may not reach the destination in our lifetime. What is important is that we stay the course so we can hand the baton to the next generation to carry forward, ever closer to Dr. King’s dream.

the crier
breaks this morning’s silence—
neighbors rising

Darkness. The brush of rough canvas against my cheeks. Hemp tightening around my neck. Do I have any last words?

Ladies and Gentlemen, leering close. Thank you for your attendance on this auspicious occasion. So many friends could not be here today. I am the only one left; you see. Lend your ear; let your minds absorb this song of the dying. 

The scaffolding creaks as the hangman’s weight shifts from foot to foot.

I have lied to myself, cheated myself, stolen time from myself. As I came to believe the lies, I spread the word to others. When it came time to give, I was a well-practiced hoarder. With no time for myself, there was nothing left for you—until now. 

Today, we have this moment. Here in the warm afternoon sun, you have all the honesty I never had to give, the generosity I kept to myself, these precious breaths I choose to breathe with you now.

Creak.

Gentle folks, the sun will surely set on my dreams today, so let me share a recent one with you now. 

In this dream, I am lying on a bed of fresh moss—the canopy above rustling and chirping as a doe and fawn approach. The doe stands above me, her eyes soft as mother’s hands tucking me in at night. She begins to hum a lullaby. They kneel beside me and say a prayer; she tells me that one day I will remember her, and when that day comes, I will forgive myself and say a prayer for the one standing beside me—

tonight the town
lit with pale moonlight
amen

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online