I Dream a World: Poem for Martin Luther King and those that Believe in His Visions of the Human Family

I dream a world, perhaps as Doctor King would long ago,

 

But not that long ago.

 

He lived and worked in New England

 

when my parents lived and worked and dreamed in New England.

 

He was like my parents, in many senses. 

 

He did not always have all the food he wanted, like my parents. 

 

Or love.  

He was loved, but he was persecuted and hated.

He had good parents, I am sure, like my grandparents.

But they struggled, as so many of the generation of the American depression.

Whites and blacks could struggle, certainly blacks, the post Civil War South was repressive and hateful and unfair,

Young Martin went to Connecticut to pick crops in the northern state, and 

worshiped with white people, whom he came to know as his brothers and sisters.

My parents, influenced by visionary people of good like the Doctor, or Medgar Evers, and freedom fighters, standing up or walking miles on blistered feet, or facing dogs and cruel police batons, then the young war hero and soon-to-be martyr John Kennedy,

Took his vision, the first Catholic president, and his dreams to far off West Africa,

Where, my parents communed with their brothers and sisters of that famed continent.

Dark

Light

All the shades of humanity, all the same whether in a hut or village, apartment or skyscraper.

Work, work, work, that is what people do.

My parents, Doctor King.

Preach, preach, preach.

Stand up for good and right.

Famous or unknown, toil for what's right.

Like the Reverend, my parents taught me of Jesus, of pacifism, but not backing down.

My parents were civically minded, no four year college degrees earned, nor experts on the United States Constitution like the great homage of statuesque Doctor King in the middle of the Capital District:

Arms crossed, 

Mien affixed,

Upon the mountains of grandeur, the horizons of freedom,

For his children and my children, and your children and the children of Cesar Chavez,

For children of all lands and climes, not just the Constitutionally guaranteed of our borders.

The Reverend preached Christ and freedom, peace and hope, fairness and forgiveness.

 

Pardon, pardon, pardon.

 

As my parents, proud but humble, strict but permitting.

 

Giving, giving, giving.

 

Generous to a fault.

 

Martin, I hear the stories about you, the heroic and yet humble strength and power.

 

You are what humanity offers.

 

You lived for those principles, that do not die, but grow with time.

 

 Like my mother and father, you lived out your standards and virtues and dreams

Sharing, sharing, sharing.

Loving, loving, loving.

Living, living, living.

Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

At long last, 

 

dying.

But you are not dead to me, for us, for all of us.

 

No, dear Martin, you are far from dead, far from buried!

You are alive in God, preaching from the mountain top,

Modern day Moses, bringing us back to the Promised Land.

You are alive and well, you are present and strong.

You, like my own mother, succumbing to cancer in the body, alive in spirit.

Martin, Martin, Martin.

Mom, mom, mom.

You are alive and well, dreaming together of your children and grandchildren,

Us progeny alive today, dreaming our own dreams.

Living, working, preaching, giving, sharing, daring, daring, daring.

Daring to dream of you and I and us in heaven, 

 

Black and white and all the colors of the rainbow,

 

With the God that gave us the gifts of these thoughts, words, actions...

Living out visions of worlds without number, freedom and power without bounds,

 

Peace, prosperity, and health to us all. 

The Good Doctor prescribed it once, and again,

And thus it will be.

And thus it is.

Our world, and those to come.