been a long time walkin’
my long tongues been a-talkin’
blistering my feet
slipping and slidin’ down church street
lookin’ for a job
with decent pay
and here’s what all the signs say
ain’t no jobs round here today
so keep on a-walkin’
and a-talkin’
braggin’ and a-baggin’
yappin’ and a-waggin’
knowing there ain’t no place
that’ll bear my kinda face
cos’ i know there’ll never be
home for a-hobblin’ one like me …
bleeding feet
bare,
alien,
calloused feet,
that bleed,
trudging,
scraping souls,
seeking paths that lead,
somewhere,
anywhere from here,
from the horror of the now,
wiping bloody sweaty tears,
of grandmothers’ brow,
seeking refuge, sanctuary,
from bullets,
from epithets that wound,
that slay,
from men, always men,
puffed-up, inflated,
stuffed with raw venomous hate,
to be flotsam and jetsam,
adrift on the seas,
crammed into boxes,
clutching onto every choked breath,
seeking another fate,
not an asphyxiated blueish death,
tossed, seasick,
wracked and pained,
inside,
cattle-cars, slave-ships,
modernised mechanised terror,
the horror of self-righteous zeal,
nations, cultures,
tribes, traditions,
creed,
stoking the flames,
sectarian, communal,
the fuel on which bigotry must feed …
tiny feet, old and cracked,
all kinds of blistered twisted feet,
a death march along the treelined street,
seeking only alleyways of peace,
and,
perhaps,
perhaps, a bite to eat,
as gleaming chariots roll on by,
and if you’re thinking you’re safe,
if you’re thinking it isn’t us, its them,
him, her, they, those people,
for now,
think again,
and think how,
“… first they came for the communists … ” *
_____________
* Pastor Martin Niemoller
Scribbled Verse 