By Iris Linder
I hear the white kids saying that they don't see color
But if you don't see it then why do you point it out
And besides their color is part of them
Just like your religion is part of you
Why do you try to deny what they are
When what they are is beautiful
And why does our nation still say it's free
When the immigrants have started going home
Because a terrible choice is no choice at all
In America you're free
As long as you're white
Straight
Male
And Christian
Can you tell me what the point of freedom is
When the minorities don't get a say
Like the song says
There can be no freedom until we're equal
If freedom even means equality
I sometimes think that being a woman is lucky
But then I hear the stories about
Domestic violence
And hate crimes
And I realize that American women
Are less free than men
To be gay is a sin according to some
But if its a choice then when
Did you choose to be
Straight
Stop acting like you can't see it
Just because it's awkward
And start treating people
Like people
Instead of meat
[See April 1's posting for a brief statement about Iris Linder.]
* * * * * * * * * *
“Central
Standard Time”
By
Ron Parkinson
Time
was not some slick engine
like
the greased machinery at my father’s mill,
but
moved in fits and jerks
and
jammed at 10:02
as
I lay helpless as the sinking Titanic,
slowly
slipping under, but
I
had to last
the
lifeguard’s whistle
to
escape the kiddy pond.
Time
was indifferent, gave me the day
to
bring home bread,
a
pack of Luckies for my mother.
Sideways
past the neighbor’s shepherd,
“Touch
a crack, break your mother’s back”.
Safely
past Crazy Mary’s
who
snared boys that strayed past dark,
boiled
their brains for butter, Scout’s Honor!
Peered
under the tired doors
of
Edna’s Cozy Corner Tap,
seven
button shoes,
five
cent beers.
Time
became sympathetic,
like
the new priest at confession,
stretched
the Friday night movie,
“Tarzan
and the Leopard Woman”,
waited
…for
my moist
……fingers
………to
undo
…………the
top
……………three
buttons
………………of
her blouse.
Then
time began to push and shove,
Like
my gray Studebaker
when
I failed to set the brake,
watched
the front fender
flatten
the neighbor’s mailbox.
Dishes,
diapers,
Tinker
Toys, hate boys
training
wheels, training bra
pegged
pants, Tampax.
Whispers,
whiskers, cordless, strapless
………… gone.
Now
time begins to circle and hum its tune.
But
I’m sure I….Hmmm
But
I never……..Hmmm
and
I remember we had a way
to
split a length of kindling, attach a string,
swirl
it ‘round our head, and as we spun
the
wood began to flutter, like bats at dusk.
Faster,
a
hum, a tune never heard, but familiar,
faces
weeping in a smoky hut,
ash-daubed
in mourning.
Faster,
breath-beat
of digeredoo,
dusty
figures circling the shroud
Faster,
generations
join in, a dirge
glancing
off cold cathedral walls
Faster, Faster,
till
we grew dizzy,
collapsed
and died upon the grass.
I
reach through time,
grasp
the cord,
slowly
begin to spin.
[See April 6's brief statement about Ron Parkinson.]
