Love to the prejudice,
The angry,
The hateful.
Love to cool
The hot tempers,
And the fears of the people.
Love to bind us
And bring us back
To our true mind,
The one mind,
The us
With no them!
Ⓒ Ben Truesdale 2020
Love to the prejudice,
The angry,
The hateful.
Love to cool
The hot tempers,
And the fears of the people.
Love to bind us
And bring us back
To our true mind,
The one mind,
The us
With no them!
Ⓒ Ben Truesdale 2020
I am the black man
And I love my skin
And the life within the body.
And yet I am the white man,
Pale as the purity of snow.
And still I am Asian.
And so too am I mixed,
With all the races blood
In lattices twisted up in the
Ages DNA, conjuring diversity,
Bringing beauty and ugliness
Time and time again.
But I too am a woman
For there is joy in that form,
As there is joy within the masculine.
And the body of a child is mine.
And sometimes I am sexless,
Indefinably between
The boarders of mapmakers
And nationality.
And I am every class and cast
There ever was.
All this I have in me.
And as I am,
So too is other,
Not one
With jurisdiction
Over emotion, attribute or worth.
Not one less than
And not one more than.
All of us
Looking upon the world
From the same different place,
Infinitely capable
And with equal potential
To be all things.
Daubed on skin
And words alike:
All the shades
So coloured.
Hued by burning finger
And anger’s pointed flame:
Projection hurled
As flying wounds inflicted.
The stain: not on pure black skin
Or brown, or pink, or lily white
But on the eye
And on the mind,
On the filter
Through which we look
At the world
In its richness.
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
Worse than hatred;
The blanking hand
Demises those blanked
And withheld acknowledgment
Disappears the subject of a self
As if it were a ghost
Of no magnitude or apparentcy.
A crime to be blanked
And yet also,
Crime in the one who blanks,
For the racist cauterises his own
Wholesome self in the violence
Of his denying
And lies as injured as his victim
In the victimhood of his division:
No longer seeing all the beautiful
Faces who are the whole of him.
Half his heart he disowns and cuts
From his being, settling in to the
Fraction of the self remaining,
So colourless and drained,
And denied of life’s real meaning
In the face of otherness rejected.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015