Back Then

Back then,

across the days,

across the land,

across those dyed

rivulets

passing

deeply into

the battlefield;

what were we

working out

on the canvas of

our sullen flesh and

humanity –

back then?

What

piece of us

were we

trying to

turn toward the light

and heat of

the heliotropic

sun.

A country

as a sign,

a country as

a symbol

of the division

of

black

and

white.

A people

rent asunder

over freedom,

and among slavery.

We became the apex

of human kind.

We became the fulcrum

of all anthropology.

How 

humanity would

crawl itself

ahead over

times’ wasting

sands

would be

counted

by the drops

of blood

painting the soil

of Gettysburg

and Antietam.

I look at

the flowers

that bloom now

in this country;

the flowers watered

by strife, derision,

schism and civil

disobedience.

What are they?

What beauty do they

lend to all mankind?

What fragrance,

what aroma

do they lend

to this shore – which

interminably receives

wave after wave,

after wave of racism,

silent sneers, and

segregation.

We have moved

worlds ahead

and yet,

we trail behind us

of origin and ash that

need to find themselves

surrendered

before the sweat

and toil of the

decency of

our souls;

the better

angels or our nature

and mystic

chords of his

memory.

It cannot happen if

we sleep.  But,

O the distance we could cover

if each man,

if each woman

were to open their eyes

and live.

Not on yesterday’s borrowed

and opaque rendering of what

it means to be alive,

but

on this very idea,

this moment -

all life

all eternity;

it is here

and it is open

and I will listen.

I have this unfinished

business with

the Civil War

that belongs to a

nation –

to a people.

I have this wrestling

and striving

mass within

that is not mine

but ours.  There

can be no rest

in two.

There is

only stillness

in the one.

And that

still lies

ahead;

somewhere on

the shores of another

day, upon the

sands of a more

perfect union –

consummate in its

relation to its origins

and ash;

firm in its capabilities

to blend. 

Find those

small pools

of ocean water

that have walled

themselves

off from the sea.

Listen for their

cries

to be one

again

with the whole of

the saline oneness.

That is our cry.

They are our

tears. 

Only a groundswell

of grieving can merge the

pools; only a hightide

of  probability can

unite the waters.

“The probability that

we may fail in the struggle

ought not to deter us

from the support

of a cause

we believe

to be just.” *

*quote by, Abraham Lincoln