Sister Letetra's Plea for Change

 At the age 29, Jacob Blake was shot by Kenosha police who were arresting him in connection with a domestic dispute.

Now he is paralyzed.

Of the seven shots fired at Jacob, four struck his back, as he was opening the driver’s door of his vehicle.

The shots ripped into his flesh as three of Jacob’s sons were sitting in the back seat.

In the aftermath, in the after-wrath, two days later, among the many words spoken surrounding this incident, were these, spoken at a news conference . . . the message of Letetra Widman, Jacob’s sister:

 

“I am my brother’s keeper, 

and when you say the name . . . Jacob Blake,

make sure you say father

make sure you say cousin

make sure you say son

make sure you say uncle,

but most importantly, make sure you say:

human.

Human life—let it marinate in your mouth, in your minds

a human life just like just like every single one of y’all . . .

and everywhere.

We’re human, and his life matters!

So many people have reached out to me,

telling me that they’re sorry that this happened to my family.

Well, don’t be sorry, ‘cause this has been happening

to my family for a long time . . . longer than I can account for.

It happened to Emmitt Till; Emmett Till is my family . . .

for Orlando, Mike Brown, Sandra . . .

this has been happening to my family,

and I’ve shed tears for every single one of these people that it’s happened to.

I’m not sad. I don’t want your pity. I want change.”

 

Letetra’s call for change is now added to the mounting groundswell of demand for justice in the treatment of minorities in this country, especially in matters of law enforcement.

In these United States, 

we have Constitutionally- mandated principles that prescribe how justice is to be administered by courts of law, and by officers of the law. 

We have legislated laws and judicial precedents that prescribe legal procedures for arrest of suspected criminals and offenders.

For too long . . . since the days of their emancipation from slavery, black citizens have endured constant neglect of our lawful procedures of arrest.

In recent months, especially since the slaying of George Floyd, our national attention has been directed by active citizens on systemic neglect of legal procedures.

As everybody knows, the passion and frequency of organized protest has intensified steadily. Now we have another national incident in this continuing string of bungled, shot-up, seriously injurious, improperly violent arrests.

And it is true in this case and in many recent law enforcement mishaps. . . that violent, law-defying, depraved extremists of both antifa and bugaloo ilks have taken it upon themselves to jump on board the protest bandwagon and divert it, by their own violence and destruction, toward their own anarchic purposes.

There are extremists on both sides whose intention is to ignite a civil war between Left and Right in this nation.

We, the law-abiding citizens of these United States, must not let them.

Republicans—God bless ‘em, I am one of them—are too damn focused on their own comfort and privilege to allow their own eyes to see the weightier matters of the law. 

Neglect not, brothers and sisters, the weightier matters of the Law: 

Justice, and Mercy and Faithfulness.

We need to work together toward the “change” of which Jacob’s sister, Letetra, speaks.

But even more potent than her well-chosen words are those words found in the counsel of Jesus. They go way back . . .

“. . . for I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited me in; naked, and you clothed me. I was in prison, and you came to me.”

And those who heard these words said . . . say what? when did we do all that stuff ?

“. . . whenever you did it to them, you did it to me!”

So all ye comfortable goody-two-shoes g.o.p. types out there, don’t forget to heed all the words of the ancient Book.

Quit obsessing about peace and safety. If you get too bent out of shape about peace and safety, sudden destruction will come upon you.

Don’t allow the fringified crazies that you’re so obsessed with blow this whole democratic-republican experiment all to hell!

Listen to the voice of one crying in the flyover wilderness, concerning yet another illegally-shot-up arrest:

“I don’t want your pity. I want change.” 

King of Soul

Big Crab Little Crab

 I was feeling quite crabby about the state of our Union, when I came across this recent jpeg that captures in imagery our present conniption.

Here we see the party of the Left as it closes in on what is left of that minuscule grand ole party of the Right, of which I once was a member.  In its present state, the formerly principled party of Lincoln, Eisenhower and Reagan is hemmed into a dead end. 

Alas, in the intense confrontation currently enacted, our cowering conservative is shell-shocked, shell-locked and clueless.

The little guy appears to be surrounded on three sides by the walls that trump built.

Glass half-Full

Evidential Shells

 Strolling along the strands of time

we find pieces in the sand,

remnants of creatures’ 

life gone by.

Let us collect a few pieces . . .

Oh, what have we here?

Let’s take look.

We plop down in the sand

and begin arranging shells.

. . .don’t know why, I just . . .

have some notion of Cambrian past

or the Genesis moment

Spirit of God hovering over

the surface of the waters

eons ago.

There’s a pattern somewhere

in these random shards

of sea creatures’ cranked-up

now cracked-up

abandoned huts,

and here’s a man, wanting to find a story

a history, a timeline,

reason or rhyme

some explanation

written into the remains.

some meaning 

in the random remnants?

A closer look reveals

two types.

Now arrange a bunch in

pattern, improvised

maybe random

maybe not 

just to make some

comparison 

maybe discern some

development pattern 

or even divine imprint

now arrange them on sand

to make some unique surfus opus,

a work of beachified shard art!

Hey notice

most of these little clammies

had cast out concentric rings

in their gradual growth . . .

rings that span wider and wider

as the creature’s expanding abode grew 

broader, elliptical . . .  in a widening gyre

further and further flat out

from the  brain

or whatever that  organizing organ

is in a mollusk mind.

Others fling up calcified arcs

like dead rainbows.

See the roundy one at the bottom.

But then,

alas, and pshaw!

as Moody Blues sang

many moody moons ago . . .

“ the tide rushes in

and washes my castles away

and I’m really not so sure

which side of the . . .”

 

Glass half-Full

Down on the Farm

 So it was somewhere in the great flyover mid-section that this farm owner decided it was time to harvest his crops.

The project would be far too big for himself and his family to complete, so he drove over to the nearby town of Lake Wobehoohoo. He parked his old Chrysler in the vast parking lot and walked into the Marketplace Food Court to have some breakfast. 

While consuming there, the farmer was checking out the locals to recruit some help for the upcoming work.

By ’n by, he spotted some guys and gals that he knew to be good workers and waved them over to his table. The farm owner explained to them the project that he needed to get done and asked  if they’d like to get in on the job, for which he would pay each one a hundred bucks for the day’s work.

The wiley crew signed on and headed out to the farm to get started on the work, to be managed by his boss-man.

As it turned out, however, a little while later the farm owner got a text from his manager stating that the his assessment of their progress indicated that the harvest would not be completed that same day unless more labor was brought in to help.

So the farmer went back to the Marketplace to recruit some more help, and sure enough there were some eligible workers hanging out at the Marketplace. So he hooked up with them, made the deal and sent them out to help the other workers complete the project.

But that afternoon, the manager’s text were still calling for more labor. The farmer went back to the Food Court to scope out the scene and recruit yet some more help. Sure enough, there were some young bucks and chicks hanging out and he signed them on.

Long about five o’clock, wanting to make sure the project would be completed, he signed on even more laborers.

It was one helluva long day, but by 6:30 pm. the work was all done.

Thank God. Now the farm owner and his family could relax.

So he paid everybody their agreed-upon compensation, thanked them for their good work and sent them on their way.

By ’n by, as the farmer and his family were settling into their homestead for the evening meal, there came a knock at the door.

A couple of those early guys who had been hired in the early workday hours were standing on the front porch at the front door when the farm owner opened it. 

Long story short . . . these guys were busybodies who were not interested in minding their own business. They started complaining because they had heard through the grapevine online that all the workers got the same compensation, even though the late hires—those good-for-nothin’ doowops—had entered into the project in the waning hours and only toiled for a few hours. Some of them losers even worked for only one hour! and then collected the same equal opportunity-equal outcome-equal this-n-that na na na booboo compensation!

So Jethro, standing at his front door looking disdainfully at these complainers, says to them:

“Friends, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for a hundred bucks? Take what is yours and go, but I wish to give to these latecomers the same payment. I mean . . . isn’t it still legal for me to utilize my own resources and assets as is appropriate for my enterprise? Can you not mind your own dam business and be content while I do what I need to do?”

And so, in the big picture as it turns out . . . in some cases,  the last shall be first, and the first shall be last. No big deal. 

Y’all be content with your lot in life and we’ll all get along.

Everybody ain’t the same, y'know. But there’s diversity and there’s responsibility and there’s . . . well, you know . . . freedom and equality and all that. Some folks who got a raw deal maybe a few centuries ago may be due a new deal now. Don’t worry your pretty little privileged head about it.

 

Glass half-Full 

the Dixie Death

By ’n by, way down South

that sleepy ole antebellum way

of honky life got laid low—

had to kowtow to a new master

whose color was darker

with features more Africana.

A newfound integrity

has ultimately laid low

the ole mint julep on the front porch days

of white

privilege

 cuz the good ole boys

and gals got laid on them

by the sands of time

a rectified blend of African charm

and a revolutionary new testament of grace.

But the racist honkies

took a long damn time to 

figure that part out.

So they were in for a long hard

lesson, but

they didn’t know it yet.

Black folks knew the lesson would be 

hard

‘cuz they’d been livin’ it for over 400

years

though it took them a while to figure out 

just how stubborn and contrary the whites

could be

when they got that deer-in-the-lights look

in their eyes.

Things got serious

after Brother Medgar was assassinated

in his own front yard

after speakin at the New Jerusalem

Church

And then

the ancient soulful cry of Rachel

weeping for her children was heard

all along the magnolia boulevards

and carefully-tended camellia pathways of white

privilege . . .

here, there and yonder

throughout the black community

and beyond.

Brother Medgar had caught a glimpse

of the Promised Land,

but he never got there

like Brother Martin never got there.

Nevertheless

there was a burning bush down south

h’yeah

where they lived and breathed

and had their being

and worked tirelessly among their people.

Sister Anne, during her last week

at Tougaloo College 

accompanied a small group

of intrepid black folk to order luncheon

at a downtown dime-store lunch counter,

following the example of them bruthas

in Greensboro 

a few years earlier.

Brother Medgar’s call,

Brother Martin’s call

for voter registration

and just plain-ole freedom

and dignity and justice

was ringin’ out!

It reverberated

from the red clay hills of Georgia

among the magnolias and

carefully-tended camellias

of the Deep South,

formerly thought to be the Solid

South

before it got fracked with a fresh

delirium tremens of

falling-apart white

privilege

and got run outa town

by the great grandsons and daughter

of former slaves.

 

As the dews of Dixie used to drop on us

so are the pages of  that history long-gone

droppin’ down on us 

as a decadent dust 

cast on us:

Ole mint julep on the front porch white

privilege been sho’nuff proven wrong,

laid down low

in the dust heap of history

 

Yessir, that Ole South system is now long gone;

but for it I wouldn’t give you a damn dime

‘cause the weight of that abuse could not go on 

as it broke the back of American liberty

liberty just tryin’

tryin’ to be free!

 

The weight of our abuse came all tumblin’ down on us

with Rosa’s resolve—her courageous dignity.

She refused  to go to the back of the bus,

and so sparked the long-slow death

of segregation integration

in this nation

land of the free

home of the brave:

Brave Rosa!

Rosa’s refusal changed the course history.

But in some ways

we still be traipsin’ along

on that Edmund Pettis bridge

with Abraham, Martin, and John Lewis

Anybody here

seen the long hard-won legacy of Sister Rosa?

Anybody here

heard the death cry of Brutha George?

 

Glass half-Full and King of Soul 

The Swan Song of Arnold Yates

 The world is mad tonight.

Unresting souls feed-bleed into

the turbid ebb and flow of online ire.

Yearning and burning in the worldweb gyre

the world is radical tonight.

Reason’s been flung apart; the Net cannot be told

what to do.

The sender cannot comprehend

the far-flung manipulation of what he sends.

A data-driven tide is loosed into the swirl

where hackers whack our data-driven world

everywhere

the ceremony of benevolence is drowned

in the turbid ebb and flow

of human usury.

Clueless proles lack all comprehension, while wizards twirl

their trolled-up swirls

into cookie-coded streams

that nullify our naive dreams

and herd us, the cattle-driven teams

in programmed herds of Left and Right

as online armies clash by night.

The world is mad tonight.

 

Glass half-Full