On Loving a Hater

Why I Celebrate John Brown

Look

into those eyes

into that steely blue

the way the gaze

pierces

through you;

the mirrors reflecting

a clarity of conscience

few possessed

at a time

when seeing truth

wrapped in chatel-bound

reality rotted

the heart of a still new country

calling itself "United" -

but those eyes,

OH THOSE EYES,

focused beyond propoganda

and pseudo patriotic sight

saw clear as day

hypocrisy's fetid blight.

Even as those in elected  power

with supremacists hate

as their political guide

could only blink

through greed scaled

blindness --

the sin,

accepted by too many

as necessary enough to ignore,

to look the other way,

persisted.

Claiming some demonish

divine right

to torture, rape, kill-at-a-whim,

tear families apart as

the auctioneer's hammer fell.

"Sold!

for one hundred fifty dollars to the gentleman from High Cotton Plantation

standing proud in starched collar!

One wet with likely mulatto child

nigger wench fine bed warmer

who will clean & cook, do anything

& everything  you demand (the bastard winks), fill your fields with a dozen pickaninnies ready to work dawn to dusk with not a cent to pay. See here? Look how her teeth sit straight as pines white as rice, Sold to you sir, a fine filly

on this bright sunny day."

This darkness prevailed

but some saw what needed

to be done.

Look Again!

See the squared jaw,

set hard as Italian marble

in stoney Adirondackian

resolve

carved from a kind

of granited mountain man

ride or die love

committed to just cause

of liberty and justice

for all --

or bloodshed if need be.

Abolition was the weapon

he knew best,

to slay the American monster

growing fatter by the day

on whip-scarred Negro flesh.

See that strong fisted

right hand raised?

An oath to God and self

and those so cruelly

oppressed,

sworn to resist at all costs

against sins of white

on Black deplorabe crimes,

slow burn constitutionally ordained

three-fifths  genocide;

capitalism maximizing profit

with nonstop free labor

building an ungrateful nation.

See there,

notice by his left side

a flag stands draped

no stars or stripes

or any allegiance to

a nation wrapped in lies,

but a banner hand made

signaling freedom

to those willing to look,

to join the Holy fight.

He knew

more than most

of his fair-skinnes hue,

the miseries lived

by all those locked

in thw evil human puzzling

the founding fathers

would not resolve.

It fell then

to him,

a farmer cultivating

conscience, spilling

what needed to be emptied

of a vessel

to full of it,

to begin with.

Dear Brother

      John Brown.

A grateful people,

descended of that courage

give eternal thanks.