Of My Muse

I, at the verdant age of eleven
Sat in a dusty room filled with children
Learning more than simple arithmetic
And how to read and write in textbook tones

Our desks were lined in neat rows and angles
Forming a box about the teacher's desk
Pressed up to one another they became
Long tables stretching along lines of walls

Our neighbors perched in close proximity

And mine,
                    mine was a girl named Kelly Green
This name may bring to mind an Irish face
All red on top and freckles raining down
But Kelly's eyes were brown, just like her skin
Her beautiful carefree smile adorning
Her face, characteristically passed down
From her old ancestors' native home

One day, as we were learning what to think
A strange thought occurred to me as I read
About our past of persecution
And in some distant time so long ago
By accident of birth it would have been
That those who looked like me were privileged
In ways that so many others were not

The thought of this was, to me, so foreign
That I was amused by the fact of its
Utterly absurd origination
In a place so close in time to our own

I made the grave mistake of commenting
On this most farcical discovery
To my neighbor, the smiling Kelly Green

I watched as her face drew down in silence
Retreating joy so quick replaced with pain
Her dimming light turned to scowl
At my innocent remark on days past

To me this time of which we were learning
Was so far removed from anything we knew
I couldn't comprehend her consternation
Nor understand how what I said was wrong

The lesson of that day is one that lasts
Though not in ways so readily discerned
I never learned to think the way they taught
Placing people in neat boxes and rows

I now understand the raw suspicion
As hate is surely living well today
Masked now by political correctness
Lurking only in back rooms and boys' clubs
Where cowards safely spew acidic lies

But still, I find it difficult to play
Along with silly games of liberal schools
Teaching of discernment, yet division
Demarcating men by color still today

I cannot now see any other way
But to take a man only as he is
His face will tell me naught of his intentions
His actions and his words must make them clear

A controversial figure from the past
Who famously replaced his name with X
Said that I must first forget that he is black
And that I must never forget the fact
That he is black,

			But this is my problem

I keep forgetting,

			Even though I know
The purpose in this contradiction
Underlines the suffering endured
By generations gone in pain before

Yet, I cannot escape this inclination

When I see a man, I only see a man

A famous man once famously remarked
That a half-wit president didn't care
About black people,

			I have a secret

Neither do I, care about black people
Nor do I care about white people
Or Arabs or Asians or Latinos

What I care about is people, nothing more

Any man who would break bread with me
Sit at my table, talk and share my wine
And poetry, thoughts and words divine
He, I will call my brother

I will take little notice of the hue
of his skin, but rather the light in his eye

And for women I care not the shade of
Their complexion, their origin of birth
Or the thousand definitions men devise
But instead I watch for a curious look
The pursed lips of a feminine pout
The curve of a breast and hips sublime
I look for her that will eat of the fruit 

Of my mind,
		like the orchards of Eden, 

Reserved for those with daring in their souls

She, I will call my sister

Like the face of my creator, shines
So bright that I must avert my gaze
Before I am able to discern
His countenance, 

			It has no color

And like His unspeakable name is written,
My thoughts of any man will be blank,
Allowing him to be the author
Of my judgement

			I will take him as his thoughts, 

As his deeds - as his words - and nothing more

And though I am told to be aware
Of man's injustice, wrought by smaller minds
And smaller men,
			taking this into my
Own consideration, 

			all that I am told
Is that I must see men as surface color
Granting special dispensation out of guilt
And carefully address them

					Not as men

But representatives of races - yet,

When I see a man, I only see a man

I am told I must tread carefully
I am told I must be deferential
I am told to understand division

I am told to respect boundaries
Allowing a mere characteristic
To divide men from one another

I am told we will never transcend
Because of milligrams of melanin

I will refuse to do as I am told

Over the acres together they blend
An ocean of green stretches in soft waves
The current of wind washing over it
Ripples slowly the newly shorn blades

As is my rite in every new April
I walk out over the soft acres of grass
To the far away oak that rules the field
Standing in solitary dominion
Its strong arms lifting high its leafy crown

As I begin it is only a blemish
A small leafy pock on the horizon
And as I walk, as is always my wont
I watch it slowly grow with every step

Arriving I place my hand on its trunk
The midday shade splayed evenly around
I feel the craggy bark on my fingers
And peer up into the long slow branches

A few paces West of the tree I sit
And ponder the abundance around you
Your monument, the green life of this field

I see the shaded and soft waving blades
Newly sprung from the rest of cold winter
Gripping the slow rolling earth beneath them

As I rise I shift to my knee and think
Of the words you spoke on your final day,
“Let me rest beneath the oak where we met
So I might live in the grass of the field
In love, in life, in happiness and sorrow
In time these days from memory will fade
But our green sea, forever will remain”

I place a lilly gently on the slope
And ponder it’s white petals on the green
I feel you reaching through the resting blades
To breathe it’s fragrant nectar once again
And you smile, as you always smiled, for me