A noble nation
would not distract
from the facts
that hurt.

Fairness,
and justice
would not be words
bandied about
without
a single thought of
those who
suffer out of view
from you.

Our dark history
would not be
whitewashed
for general
complacency.
You would be
forced to face
previous tragedies.

Melanin
in a stranger’s skin
would not
make them
kin or not kin.
We would not judge them
or sit and pretend
to be color blind
when seeing color
is not the problem
we are trying to solve.

It would not absolve
the behaviors
of civil war slavers
elevating hating
to a monumental
status.

A noble nation
would see the struggles
each person is facing
and desire
to help all achieve
the “American dream”
of which they so
highly speak.

I stutter.
I shudder.
I rage;
When I am calmly
trying to explain,
instead of having a
debate
on race and hate.

I cry,
cause I can
hear the pain
when people
try and describe
the horrors
from which they came,
while knowing
no matter if
they are showing
true scars of abuse
the world will still view
them as an other.

It is obvious to me
when I study history.
I can clearly see
said sorry tragedy
of human suffering.

No specifics to share
cause this is just a poem
to say that I care,
and despair
of seeing
indifference
or people not believing
what others are experiencing
after four hundred plus years of proof.

When your answer to
me telling you
what’s going on,
is “but what about
the deep state,
Bill Gates,
five G,
that’s antifa,”
or “that just
fake news”

What is the use
of telling you
the truth
in verse
when you
haven’t heard
a single word
whispered,
yelled,
cried,
or transcribed
about the
horrors committed
in people’s lives.

To weaken him,
He sent the archangel Virus;
To muffle him,
He sent the St. Michael storms.

I was raised
in the place
you set ablaze
with your venomous hate,

sat astute
in my Sunday suit
to salute
a god who rebukes
real wisdom,

forced to worship
a sic sorcerer,
that enforcer
for the acts of
crueler dictators,

but I’d prefer
to speak plain,
to abstain
from the mundane
which chained
my childhood
to no good
creeps and cheats.

I’d like to set sail
and prevail
against those
who would jail
innocents
in favor of
corporate interests;

To beat thieves
who seek to
take these dreams
and make fortunes
in ashes and destruction.

I know some promises
can’t be kept,
and I can’t expect
to make the world better,
but I’d like to be
a man who tried.

To be loved is great,
but to be love
is to elevate
others
before yourself.

It is to write
a world of compassion,
to press kind imprints
of humane intents
on the hearts of
women and men
whom you meet.

It is what I long to be
not a president or a king
but a leader of empathy,

an avatar of love
and peace.

After the plowshares
have been turned
into swords,
and we have been
conquered by
make believe lords,

I will bend a knee,
take a boot to my neck
let you see me
be put in check,

just to prove that we
are brethren,
and we can stand
together again.

I will write
a sharp and
contrasting light
to provide
hope in this
damning night.

Sending sweet
splinters of my
being
for anyone to see,
I will sing
“I love thee”
and be grateful
for this chance
to live.

It's well-known,
The younger you are,
The better your memory.
You refute.
I agree to your exceptions.
You agree they have less to remember.
We laugh, but know it to be true.
Our memory is full.
I unintentionally delete memories.
I don't get to decide how to make room.
The younger you are the more space you have.
The more empty cells, you quip.
Little vacuums, I add.
Wanting to be filled.

I make an exception.
Some cells are memory dedicated;
Protected from the sub-conscious decision-making process that is responsible for deletions...

I saw To Sir With Love
Over five decades ago (perhaps you know it).
I can't tell you which delinquent said,
Blimey, red blood!
When Thackery cut his hand.
I didn't care when I was thirteen
What the difference was between
Empowering teachers,
And overpowering teachers;
No!
But I recall the colour of racism
In the drama
On Thackery's face.

Lonely, I watch
strangers from the dock
stand up in time to fall off
and get lost in the brine.

I watch others
going under
as their vessels
start to sink,
and the floating wood
falls away
under the horizon
I was eying.

I see the seas,
and these
foolish dudes who
get lit and want to
plunder you,
in their sick slick siege
of these shipwrecked cities.

Thick lips
that drip with
ill-intent
from their fist,
swearing
they aren’t wearing
the flags of the elite.

Eyes of defeat,
I can almost hear you think,
“Wouldn’t it be
super sweet
to surrender?”

My fellow
dock dwellers
fall in line
whilst I sneak off
the dock to find
a safer seaport.

I am not sick,
or a sociopath,
but I’ve got years
of watching people
laugh at that
which should bring tears.

So, when I see
a young girl crying
in solidarity
with the suffering
of a stranger,

I think it is beautiful,
and I cry to.

When I know you
can sympathize
with guys
whose lives
are so different,

Then the numbness,
the cold shield
that I built
to block myself
from feeling,
slowly starts melting,
the tears start falling,
and I finally feel
connected.

I am sorry,
but do not
bother comforting me.

I am crying right now
but you will not read
this poem for many weeks
after this sadness
has passed.

These are not tears
of self-pity.
The water works
are because it hurts
to see others get hurt.

This isn’t a woe is me
small set of verses
for people to see.
This is saltwater anguish
as I watch others suffering.
This is outrage
at the outright inhuman displays
that these authoritarians play
as they spray mace
in a little child’s face
while her mother is
looking the other way.

This is a tongue held so often
that my own words
can no longer soften
this brutal reality.

This is my shame,
cause I claim
to be a good person
but I am not out on the street
with other protesters
cutting my teeth
letting cops bludgeoning me
with their nightsticks.

There is no justice today,
when allies say wait.

When they need to get paid
to keep their people saved.
So, the truth coming out
might be a little delayed,
but please just wait.

When fear of violence
keeps white allies silenced,
but they forget
fears where this ****
starts.

When I sit back and write
with a hollow sense of pride
but I’m not a ride or die ally.

I am the good man
who says he understands
social justice demands
in facebook posts,
and when I’ve paid
lip service to those
hurting,
I go back to my
comfortable life.

This time the excuse
that I honestly use
is fear of covid 19,
but the last time
I could’ve helped,
I was writing out my guilt
to help myself.

I haven’t stepped foot in the fray
since 2011
when I was advocating
for the rights of lesbians,
transgenders, and gays.

So, this is my shame,
such a stupid hypocrite
cause better men then me
are on the streets getting hit,
marginalized,
terrorized ,
brutalized,
while I get to wake up
and live a pretty tame life.

I am not noble enough
to sacrifice it all
in the name of love;

To feel each bullet
that was born of hate
fly through my skin,

To stand and march
and see my heart
get broken again,

To feel my pride,
being barely sustained
as I push on
when I know
that I push in vain.

I am not a king
among men,
nor princely in stance,

I am not a knight
made for the battlefield,
not a soldier who cannot yield.

I am more of a mix,
clowning jester,
sagely bard,
lonely lover
who writes with heart
to remind you how
others feel.

Now, I kneel
to your steel,
throat exposed
in fancy prose
cause I am not a hero
but maybe
just a little bit of
a martyr lately.

It’s been said in songs
but you forget,
been written down
but you won’t let
the truth overcome.

We need to breath
collectively,
so won’t you please
get off our necks?

We need to see
stranger’s as family
and keep the violence
in check.

Life is change.
The world is strange,
and danger is
gonna come,

but the only way
we make humans great
is when we come together;
When we celebrate love
and stop letting other’s
elevate their hate.