CONFESSIONS
OF THE NOT GUILITY
(2-6-08
by Carl A. Patton)
The
earth never ceased to
move
as many people came
went,
walked and crawled
upon
the land that was not flat.
The
henchmen the ravishers of
the
land and its people
stood
in a guilty line but
placed
the weak the dispossed
in
their stead,
As
the innocent were cast to
the
gallows ruled and judged
guilty
for being Black, poor,
Brown
and Yellow and Red men
came
first.
The
lies floated as autumn leaves
as
innocence became victimized.
I
am told, I saw the tired, weary
hungry
man, woman and
child.
I
also saw the west coast
of
the land of the Blacks.
They
cried out not guilty
although
in pain as no one
knew
it was for their Blackness
or
money.
Some
that were cock-eyed continued
to
merge guilt with innocence as the
victim’s
still were blamed.
Then
Mr. Jim Crow Era saw Colored
and
White. Black water was colored
water
and White water was also Colored
water.
The
Constitution gave color to the water.
But
at times the water was shut off.
And
some men refused to drink any
water.
The
fight that sought to blame
that
poor, rich victim ended.
It
became outdated as sure as
the
everlasting agrarian south.
But
the Sages dared to tell about
It.
He also became a victim. Meanwhile
they
gathered to blame him. A fool
said
change.
The
thirsty Brown-skinned man
rejoiced
when the claim
jumpers
of the water shared
the
well. No one expected the
Brown-skinned
man to go thirsty.
Meanwhile
the creative artist had one
bucket,
one brush and one can of
paint.
However the landscape loomed
plentiful
as the valleys are lush
and
the beautiful rolling hilltops,
Talk
of His majesty. Who
took
his bucket of colors? Just
who
would render him one brush?
Could
he brush the entire landscape
with
one stroke?
Civilization
no doubt took a downturn
as
knowledge, wisdom and Truth
through
God went kaput. Creative
juices
dried up as a barren, stale and
parched
southwestern creek bed.
The
world stood still. Hungry
black
clouds stared over the earth.
A
stagnant world hastened the
end
as no one knew anything.
The
artists hung from the trees
they
loved so much.
No
one was left to paint the
flowers,
nor see the setting and rising
sun.
I fixed in mind the night
time
of the full bright moon.
The
night birds sung sad songs
as
I could see the lightning bugs
reflect
off the blue night sky.
The
smell of springtime ended
up
on a canvas display as
life
breathed in the colors.
Who
shot that painter?
The
sculptor cast his head
in
stone. The blues men Muddy,
Lightning,
the Wolf that hollered,
Luther,
John Lee and Son House
sung
about this man.
They
said the world would never
forget
as some now wrote about
him.
The
innocent and the guilty
lined
up to be counted. Some
knew
they were guilty but
the
saved knew they were innocent.
They
confessed but the guilty
still
cried out to lie as they
still
had no shame.
carl@freedomjournalpress.comcastbiz.net
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by FreedomJournal Press 2007-2008.