KingMidget's Ramblings

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Tag Archives: Poetry

I Am

I am not black, white, yellow or brown

I belong in this place

I am a member of the human race

 

My politics are not blue, red or green

Equality for all is my case

I am a member of the human race

 

I am not disabled, stupid, a geek, or “normal”

Look at my face

I am a member of the human race

 

My beliefs are not Christian, Muslim or Jew

I am full of grace

I am a member of the human race

 

I am not gay, straight, transgender or a freak

But because love is my base

I am a member of the human race

 

 

This poem is written in response to the victims of discrimination, sexism, racism, and all of the other horrors targeted at people for what makes them unique.  Please stop identifying yourself as entitled to rights, entitled to protection, entitled to something because of your skin color, your sexual orientation, your gender, or your faith.  Instead, remove the label and demand those things because you are nothing other than a member of the human race.  It is not your color that matters.  It is not your politics that define you.  It is not your faith that identifies you.  You are a human.  Beginning, middle and end.

The outpouring about the Santa Barbara shooter’s misogynistic views (which, by the way, turns out he pretty much hated everybody, not just women) and how we all — generally meaning men — must stop … oh, hell, I’m not sure what it is we’re supposed to stop doing.  All I know is that there is this outcry about how we must do more to protect women, that men must stop being so … much like men.  All things that I completely agree with.  But…

OK, I’m not doing this very well.  Let me try it this way.  A friend tweeted that she was appreciating the opportunity to talk to her daughter and sons about how they should all take seriously the need to protect women.  I responded to her tweet that I thought it more important to teach our kids to protect all humans.

What’s my point … it’s probably obvious by now, but let’s please just stop focusing on the labels.  It is horrible when any human being is shot and killed in cold blood.  It shouldn’t be more serious if it is a hate-filled young man who “hates” women.  It is horrible when a human being is deprived of a core human right.  It shouldn’t be more serious because of their gender or their race or some other irrelevant characteristic.

So, please, if you are hurt by unfairness, discrimination, hate or intolerance.  Stand up and say “I am a human being and I have rights.”  Leave the labels behind.

 

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Hope and Love

In the cold and dark

We wait for a spark

Hope may be all that remains

No matter the cost

Never to be lost

For it is love, always reigns

 

Symbi:  Is a poetry form where a poem is written within a poem in which there is a symbiotic relationship…hence the name Symbi.  It is a six line (sestet) with syllable counts of 5/5/7/5/5/7.  There is a haiku, senryu, or katauta written in the 1st line, 3rd line, and 5 line.  (It can be written in italics to draw the readers eye)  The rhyming scheme is aabccb.

Seasons

Springtime wind and sun

Warmth spreads, flowers bloom, colors

And nothing changes

Studying Beauty

Inspired by a friend’s FB message today:

Where do you study beauty

Is it in the sight of a child’s smile

Or an old man laughing at the smallest of things

Is it in a single flower about to open in a riot of color

Or a meadow ablaze with multi-colored wildflowers

Is it in those moments when quiet surrounds you

Or the uproar of a celebration filled with happiness

Where do you study beauty

Is it in the touch of another

Or words of love whispered quietly

Is it in one of those looks that make you shudder

Or a hand draped gently on your hip

Is it in your child’s arms around your neck

Or her quiet slumber in dark of night

Where do you study beauty

In you

In me

In words

In art

In nature

In architecture

In the simple

In the complex

Where do you study beauty

 

Those Winter Sundays

A couple of years ago, I took a fiction writing class through the UC Davis Extension program.  It was taught by Greg Glazner.  Eight Wednesdays in a row about fifteen of us writers-to-be met in a room and talked writing.  Every week we had a short story to read before class, except for one week when we had a handful of poems to read.  Ugh.  Poems.

There was one memorable poem in the punch.  One that was so powerful.  I was reminded of it last night as I sat watching a play at the B Street Theatre in Sacramento.  How We Get On by Idris Goodwin, about three teenagers growing up in suburban, middle America in 1988, trying to get in on the new hip-hop/rap scene.  It’s a great play.

At one point, one of the characters is talking to his father who tells him about a great black poet, Robert Hayden.  The son asks for a sample and his father recites Those Winter Sundays.  It’s still powerful.

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early 
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, 
then with cracked hands that ached 
from labor in the weekday weather made 
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. 

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. 
When the rooms were warm, he'd call, 
and slowly I would rise and dress, 
fearing the chronic angers of that house, 

Speaking indifferently to him, 
who had driven out the cold 
and polished my good shoes as well. 
What did I know, what did I know 
of love's austere and lonely offices?
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