John, Your Blood Runs Red, Too
Life feels surreal: the slow erosion of ideals, institutions, and systems that gave hope — albeit in their uneven, often unequal, and certainly biased way; giving hope, if you could but dream while gritting your teeth as you climbed to the top of that mountain. As these foundations crack, the reality is that what once was will no longer be. We are experiencing change: the culmination of centuries of hate and anger; the refusal to make room for everyone. An infected, sick collection of individuals who will stop at nothing for their freedom to hate— freedom society had once required be kept in the confines of the home now comes for anyone— everyone. It comes in a wave of violence: first, verbal: second, physical. Unrelenting until it runs out of energy or is removed like cancer from a cell. And in it’s place—we will have to rebuild.
This is not a happy poem; this is not a beautiful poem: this is a depressing, sad, and disturbing poem. It was meant to be so, because this is how I feel inside while I watch the long black train of hate slowly roll through my town.
John, Your Blood Runs Red, Too
A warm house upon hilltop.
Defiant blue eyes watch from behind blue windowpane—
As a tempest brews,
Violent drops of rain wet dry ground.
Safe inside,
The storm will not enter his home--
With stoop dry-
John comforts himself:
My ancestors taught me well:
look the same;
speak the same;
be ambitious the same.
They protected me from their harm:
Insured my future with their blood.
When sun rises:
The tempest will abate.
The aftermath seen:
Blood drips from the stoops of Their homes.
Reminding John of this twisted truth: conformity is greater than individuality.
Frozen in time, John watches:
To go outside; my blood will run like Theirs:
To honor an angry god, one I do not worship:
A lamb on an altar built by hands like mine.
John watches, his blue eyes ever more defiant.
A cold house upon hilltop.
Sun warming the last of green grass—
Leaves traveling gently upon winds wings.
None inside,
This day, enjoyed by nature’s stewards: alone.
Their ancestors taught them well:
look to the safety of each other;
protect all from those who prey;
be safe from the hunters— fight together.
They protect each other from harm,
Insure the future of their children with their blood.
The altar of their sacrifice a blessing from the past.
Because; John,
There is no safety behind windowpane blue.
When the sun rises upon your stoop—
John, your blood runs red, too.
—EJB
