We Get to Choose

 

 

The title does not mean

This is really so

But it appears to me

This is where some people go.

 

But get to choose what?

That’s a pertinent question,

By this I mean

The contents of their religion.

 

Maybe we can call it

The carry-over from the Old,

If it fits our agenda

Then, that is our goal.

 

From the Old Testament

To the New Testament

And some even express,

The Old is no not relevant.

 

That is a sad mistake

For anyone to make,

I once held that position

But it’s no longer my take.

 

 

There are things in the old

That are no longer required,

Jesus fulfilled them

The moment he expired.

 

Thereafter,

When he executed his will,

He told us what was required

And that reading stands still.

 

Most are au fait

With the required fundamentals

But many are also

An opportunistic people.

 

Then they are some

That are steeped in tradition,

They dare not release members

To their own volition.

 

You can call it enslavement

If you so desire

But tradition says do

What the Word doesn’t require.

 

 

The Pharisees enforced

Over six hundred laws

And boasted about keeping them-

Spare me the applause.

 

They pushed the letter

Christ introduced the spirit,

The latter spoke to transformation

The former had little merit.

 

One from a stony heart

That showed no mercy,

The other out of a pure conscience

Displaying liberty.

 

The former, regarding giving,

Is a ritual that is enforced,

The latter, a joyous commitment

As a matter of course.

 

I mean cheerful giving

Knowing we can’t out give God

And not the kind we show off

Hoping someone will applaud.

 

A sabbath rest in Christ

That is truly a rest,

That is continuously observed

Even when working our hardest.

 

Not a specific day

Be it Saturday or Sunday,

For those that we accused

We behave in the same way.

 

But doing good for our friends

And our enemies too,

Once we see the need

And it it’s within our purview.

 

Bearing one another’s burdens

Thus, fulfilling the Law of Christ,

Offering ourselves to him

As a living sacrifice.

 

We get to choose

What is honest and pure,

Not a gamut of rituals that suits us

And the rest ignore.

 

Stewart Russell © June 2020.

 

The Letter

Hi Granny

I am writing this letter slow

Since I know you can’t read fast,

I am here in England; it’s cold

But I am having a blast.

I haven’t gone to school yet

Because I don’t know where to find one,

Everything gets lost up here

That is the English norm.

We saw the sun the other day

Up here it’s a UFO,

They had forgotten what it looked like

Since it doesn’t often show.

I experienced a little mishap

With the washing machine,

Having thrown in my shirt and pants

That’s the last of them I’ve seen.

I put in my shirt

And then I pulled on the chain,

I did the same with my pants

And I never saw them again.

Taking a bath is quite challenging

Because it is much too cold

So back to washing my face and hands

Just like in the days of old.

I boarded a bus just yesterday

And had to sit at the back,

As soon as I entered the driver said

The back is for the blacks.

The front seats apparently

Were all made for the white

And a black doesn’t get to sit in one

Whether it is morning, noon or night.

One would have thought that all that stuff

Had gone out with the flood,

Our complexion might be different

But we have the same colour blood.

I was watching Jessie Owens

When I was writing this poem,

Once you were born black

That was a crime back then.

But one black man by name of Jesse

Stood up against all Germany,

Four gold medals he won

They were dumbfounded at his ability.

Ability knows no colour

Ability knows no creed,

Jessie showed the whole world that

When they saw his superior speed.

But Granny

How did I get here?

I mean writing about all this,

Let me get back to my experiences

Even though I will shorten the list.

Tomorrow I will go out

And look for the school again,

Today I was looking for a black school

But down came the rain.

Everyone knows a bajan disappears

As soon as it begins to rain,

A fire we will run to if there is one

But rain for us is like pain.

I probably won’t find one

Since there are all painted white,

To find a black school around this place

You would have to search at night.

Perhaps I will change my mind

And look for work instead

But right now Granny, I’m feeling tired

And will soon be in my bed.

There’re not many whites around

The dwellings where I am,

Something tells me quite clearly

That this is a deliberate plan.

  

Just before I go off to sleep

I must tell you something more,

Please don’t be mad at me, Granny

Granny, please do not be sore.

I had meant to send to you

A crisp five-pound note

But when I remembered to put it in

I had already sealed the envelope.

I hope you will forgive me, Granny

I will remember the next time,

So until I write to you again

Love from you grandson, Glyne.

Stewart Russell © July 2018