Sunday Morning in 21st Century ‘Merica
I wake from a dream
The staccato of automatic weapons
Red blood flowing
Mixing with free verse
Words
Spinning around
Mixing with blood
Screams
Fear
Hate.
Opposites intertwined
Yet repulsing
At the same time
Is it a Dystopian fantasy
Or, reality?
I turn on the kettle
And TV as
The media starts to prognosticate
Politicians start their platforms
And the preachers go to their pulpits…
“I want to make America great again
Back to Christian roots
Make more money
Sell more guns
Kick out those that don’t fit
Fear everyone who is different
Hate the enemies
Back to the Bible”
I sit up as the programming stops…
Automatic weapon heard
Many hurt and killed
Chaos and panic.
“See we need more guns
And more fear and panic
They were a different lifestyle
And have been judgee
Not to make a tragedy political but….
We need more guns
To be safe…”
My mind wanders
As tears come to my eyes.
How can this be happening again?
It must stop it
Is so senseless.
I see rivers of blood flowing
Children screaming
Mothers crying
Loved one lying dead
Bodies all around.
Getting darker and darker.
Another Sunday,
Blood Sunday.
As I pick up a pen
And write I see
Arms stretched with nails
In the hands and
More Crimson blood
Flows from a sword
In a side.
I write the words that
Through the blur
Come to my mind
In an imperfect flood
Of words and verse.
“Put your sword down
Turn the other cheek
Love your enemies
Give your riches to the poor
Blessed are poor, weak, sick
And peacemakers
Of the greatest of these are love
The fruits are peace, patience, kindness..
Do not worry
Do not fear.
I don’t care if you are white
Or black
Or gay
Or straight
Are male
Or female
Or both.
Muslim
Hindu
Buddhist
Even Atheist.
From from Africa
Europe or America.
I love everyone
All created equal
Not one greater than the other
All as one”
I stop, pause
And start to feel better.
Hope can untangle.
The TV is still on and I hear
“I’ll make America great
Wipe out enemies off the earth
We need more guns
Not less
More money for the rich
From those that don’t.
It’s not our fault they are
Sick and poor.
Be fearful.
I’ll make America great
And Christian again”.
In disbelief I turn the TV off
As somewhere another
Staccato of an automatic
Is heard
Followed by screams
And hate
And fear.
I walk away to start
Another Sunday in
Twenty-first Century
‘Merica.
