Who is Your Neighbor?

My friend Victoria sent me this message: “Would you consider writing a poem on the theme of personal freedom and sacrifice? See this post  http://www.peaceistheparadox.com/

Reading Victoria’s thoughts and collecting my own as I tried to write that poem has helped me redefine my own  beliefs on sacrifice and personal freedom. While it is too big a topic for a single poem I offer this as my response to Victoria.

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere” -Letter from a Birmingham Jail  April 16, 1963  By Martin Luther King, Jr.

“Inclusion in the institutions and the fabric of our society is integral to our sense of substance significance, wellbeing, self worth. To be ignored, cast out, or excommunicated is, in some very real way, to cease to be: I am not acknowledged, therefore I do not exist. No experience (is) more powerful or more immediately destructive than the exclusion and invisibility that accompany homelessness.”  -Homelessness in America: A Forced March to Nowhere,  by Mary Ellen Hombs and Mitch Snyder 

Who is Your Neighbor?

Mothers do it for their children

They clean shit smeared bottoms

Bandage wounds

Dry tears

They sacrifice

Dr. King did it for sanitation workers in Memphis

When a shot rang out at the Lorrain motel

He’d been to the mountaintop

He’d seen the promise land

His life had been defined by his acts of faith

He had sacrificed

Mitch Snyder did it

An imperfect man who committed petty crimes

He abandoned his family but not his neighbor

He admonished us to see the invisible ones

inspired us to look after them as we would a child

to ignore the stench the rags the sores

He sacrificed.

The Samaritan did it when he soothed a stranger’s wounds with olive oil and wine

and bandaged them.  

Who is your neighbor?

What would you sacrifice?

About the Author

I sat at the table in the little house next to the creek that was also just beginning to thaw and wrote. Pye Dives for the Oarlock Getting Baptized What I Left Behind Running Fishing With Mama They made their way from memory to story and then I stopped. I pushed aside Life Story and went kayaking on the creek now completely thawed and filled with spot and sailboats fishing boats and swans and just a few jellyfish. When I started again I wrote in a tiny room I could hardly breathe in that room. But I wasn’t there to breathe I was there to write. Back To Embudo Stephen Moves Into His Studio And I Get Drunk Mama Dies The Festival I added story like a child adding ornaments to an already full tree. Which was my favorite? Where did it belong? “I remember when I collected this one.” “I don’t care for that one any more but I cannot discard it yet.” Some had poetry. Some had pictures. Some even had recipes. Quince Preserves. NC Bar-b-queue. Collards. It was a feast. I fed bits of Life Story to friends then to strangers who swallowed it whole and said “May we have some more, please?” I gave it to them and went back to make more Life Story. When it was finished I sent Life Story on a journey with only a flimsy letter to keep it company. I was disappointed when Life Story came home with an even shorter rejection letter.

Comments (2)

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  1. WOW, this poem reminds me so much of what my next blog is going to be, especially the Mitch Snyder reference. Love it as usualy Brenda!

  2. Dear Brenda,

    I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I needed this connection today. Perhaps you could keep the challenge going, by passing our work to someone else, like a “peace chain.” Each writer could add their own link to the chain. I wonder how far it might travel.

    I love your poetry. I love that it’s not long-winded, that it does everything it needs to, with less.

    Beautiful!

    Victoria

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