Here are my POEMS
“Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found its words.” - Robert Frost
People Have Gathered On These Steps
For over three years,
since May of 2020 to be precise,
people have gathered on these steps
to raise their voices
in a variety of strong emotions,
to sing, to play instruments,
to pray, to hold up signs
expressing heartfelt longing,
to advocate on behalf of justice,
to urge this country to live up
to the ideals it has always espoused
in principle, but not always in practice.
In January’s biting cold, in July’s blistering heat,
in pelting snow, in pouring rain,
in brilliant sun and blustery wind,
people have gathered on these steps,
perhaps inspired to be here
by a great cloud of witnesses
composed of men and women such as
Frederick Douglass, Rosa Parks, John Lewis,
Coretta Scott King, Bayard Rustin, Susan B. Anthony,
Medgar Evers, James Meredith, Shirley Chisholm,
Chief Joseph, Fannie Lou Hamer, Cesar Chavez.
People have gathered on these steps
as others once did at the Lincoln Memorial
on August 28, 1963 in Washington D.C.,
a much larger gathering then and there,
but the purpose here and now is the same,
for those who meet today also seek
to bring ever closer that day when,
in the words of the prophet Amos,
“justice will roll down like water
and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream,”
that day Martin Luther King, Jr. told us
must come before we will be satisfied,
that day when all God’s children
will at last hear freedom ring.
Written for the Westerly Anti-Racism Coalition
Read on the steps of the Westerly Post office, Westerly RI, October, 2023
To a White Kid Growing Up In the 60’s
In school you learned all about Paul Revere
and Washington crossing the Delaware,
found out about conquering the frontier,
how Davy Crockett once killed him a bear.
You were taught about pilgrims and poets,
soldiers and statesmen shining with glory,
but all the while, little did you know it,
you were learning just part of the story.
You, though, were lucky, you kept on learning,
you went to the library, brought home books,
not because you were concerned with earning
a grade on a test, but for second looks,
and, one day, in a moment, you could see
how everyone you read about in school,
every last one, was white. How could it be
our teachers never told us that? What fools
we’d been taken for! But no, those who taught
us were never taught themselves to perceive
what had been left out, so when truth was sought
only deceit remained for us to believe.
But truth has a way of refusing to die.
Now, in this month, comes the sound of voices
replying at last to that ancient lie
and, hearing their words, your heart rejoices.
A poem for Black History Month 2024
Read at the Michael DePaola Literary Salon and Open Mic
United Theater, Westerly, RI
April, 2024