Poems by W. Christopher

Poems by W. Christopher

INDIVIDUAL DIFFERENCES

Why is diversity still about groups? Aren’t we all unique, bearing a fingerprint— a singular code and chemistry like none other?

Why can’t we all be a group of one? Looks to me like we’ve got one more hurdle to clear before we break the tape and win the race, by putting the groups to rest. THE TRUTH IS SIMPLE

It wouldn’t be fair if words of truth were able to transcend the smallest mind. It wouldn’t be kind. The truth is simple. So please know, if the words that I speak cause your head to swim, they lie. The truth is simple. And if I have trouble getting my mind around something that you said, I know that a lie is stuck up in there somewhere. The truth is simple.

TEARS FOR LITTLE ME

They came slowly pressed out like oil for the anointing of a prince. I savored each salty drop then lowered my head and froze to feel the tingling band of warmth envelop me. Then with an angel’s help I told the real truth about Little Me:

A good kid— so cute and innocent. Very smart and talented, too. In two words… altogether lovable. In a word… priceless. I suspected it all along but didn’t dare give it voice. And now that the truth is out I can breathe again— even live, again. Never has salt been so sweet. ON THE EVE OF DADDY’S DEATH

I told him, “Good,” when He asked me how I was doing. But something (or Someone) on the inside told me, tell him, “Real good.” “Real good” opened up the way For civil—even loving—talk. “Real good” was first met, however, with “That’s good. That’s all I needed to know.” At the time, “That’s all I needed to know” flew over my head. When the messengers arrived to accuse me— or so I thought—of my sin—yet again, they were both silent. When asked if I would have a seat, my mouth spoke, “No,” though my heart echoed, “Yes.” With every “No” that I spoke, My heart echoed, “Yes.” They never did tell me that Daddy died. Somehow, I knew. I just knew that peace was my only inheritance.