DIVINE BIRTHRIGHT

Updated: Jul 3

America is known as the “Great Experiment.”

More like the Great Excrement, a giant pile

Of White Man’s fecal matter manuring

The sacred ground of its “indigenous peoples”

With the brow sweat of the brow beaten

Brown folk we shipped in from Africa

To toil the field of the Jefferson’s

(Thomas not George), who were busy

Writing high-falutin’ prose as a pose

To exploit others, not to treat them as brothers,

Unless their skin was as white as the driven snow.

If America were truly an experiment

Meaning the “Scientific Method” was applied

To the miserable results of close to 250 years,

Where the sole race that lived in the land

Was reduced to a percentage next to nothing,

Where the soul race from Africa was enslaved

By men brazen enough to call this country

The land of the free and home of the brave,

Both races lost to lives not worth living due to

White Supremacy’s systemic pall that contaminates

The thinking waters of any and all

Whose pigment is not a darker shade of pale

If America were truly an experiment,

We would have fired all the Scientists,

Converted its laboratory into a lavatory,

And flushed.

Think, dear white folk, about your youth,

How, where and why you were raised.

I doubt that this “nation of integration”

Was reflected in your parents’ daily drive

To segregate as much as they could

So you could grow up in a “good neighborhood”

Where the only color you saw was red

Enflagged with some white and blue

Standing for what? For freedom? For who?

What is going on with “Covid-19” pales

With the effects of “Racism-20”and its infection rate

Where all its patients are dying, unable to breathe,

The soul surgeon severely wounded,

Trying to heal the world through invasive means

Without proper personal protective equipment,

Without proper testing for hate’s virus

Without proper prospects of it ever stopping.

Instead we patients should heal ourselves,

Tenderly cultivating what is already there

By ploughing then irrigating

The precious soil of our souls,

God Gardeners. weeding our small plots

From hatred, tearing it up by its roots,

With a diligence bespeaking discrimination,

Not of the kind that afflicts

Those of a different shade of white,

But of those who have come to the realization

That this nation has made into a lie

God’s decree that all men are created equal.

Isn't it befitting that the current (p)resident of the aptly named

White House serves up daily non-truths obscuring the reality

Of his gross incompetence and lack of humanity

That then morphs into our daily dystopia

Wherein what really unites us—division—

Into groups, into political parties, into colors,

Is writ large through his little tweets on the world-wide web?

If we were ever to find a common language

That could make us feel the heal

Rather than the heel of another,

Of experiencing the peace that passseth

Understanding, then maybe we'd start

To understand that we are the same

In our desire to lead meaningful lives,

In our desire to live in peace,

In our desire to provide material security,

In our desire to move beyond desire

And it's usually unfulfilling fulfillment

To a place called many names—-

Asgard, Shambala, Valhalla, Heaven, Home

A place that exists in our heart’s core,

A paradise more lost than found,

A land irredeemable, irretrievable, irreparable, yet irrefutably

As real as the dew on a blade of grass,

Glistening its whisper in the morning sun.

This desire for a land of no desire,

For a land of and for the truly free

From tyranny, from hate, from lies, from exploitation

Drives us madly to the streets,

To the exit polls where there isn't

Any exit from “THE SYSTEM”,

From the puerile ideas that we allow

To defile the pure baptismal waters

That can slake our thirst

For justice, for truth, for reparation

For all our collective individual

Wrongs perpetrated on each other

In the name of God, A.K.A.

The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

We gave up the Father’s Son with Spirit

Centuries ago so now He has to Come Again

Because we botched the job of Job

By cursing the Creator’s’ creation

When it does not yield the fruit

We think is our just dessert

For simply existing.

But since we can only reap what we sow,

The pain and suffering we afflict

And are afflicted by

Is our cross to bear

But we need one another

To lessen the burden.

But the weight of the wait

On the collective individual

To awaken from centuries of stony sleep

Is too much to bear.

Our center no longer holds.

The falcon can not hear the falconer

And the blood dimmed tide

Obscures our vision

Of a land of the truly free.

So what are we to do?

Follow the daily Dalai

And work on our internal worlds

While the external is reduced to smoke and ash?

Keep looting to provoke more shooting

So the chaos engulfs us all?

How do we engage?

How do we stop the sadness

Caused by the madness of hate?

As my favorite philosopher of swing

Preambled prior to ambling

Into his “Wondrful World“:

“Love baby, Love. That’s what I’m talking about.

If lots more of us would love each other,

We'd solve lots more problems

And the world would be a better…”

To love, to put another’s needs

Ahead of our own,

To practice the simple instructions

Of our Spiritual Elders, Prophets and Healers

As religiously as we judge people

Who don’t look, act or think like we do,

To realize that when we harm another,

Intentionally or otherwise,

We harm our self,

Just as when we heal another

We heal our self.

In sum, we are one.

In division we are

just parts.

Since man is inherently selfish,

We need to see the matter

Of matter rightly and realize

That people were created to be loved

And things to be used.

Chaos exists because we inverted

The equation and love things

And use people to get them.

Maybe in this time of disease

We will Will the Self to self

Vaccinate the virus of hate

For our children’s children’s children sake,

To stop Samsura’s spinning wheel

Of endless pain and suffering,

Alter the altar of our worship

Upon which we sacrifice each other

For possessions of the material world

Which enslave us all

Holding us in thrall

Blinding us from the sight

Of our Divine Birth Right:

Being one with each other.

6/9/2020

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©2020 by The Unknown Poet.