In these waning days of summer, when the clouds hang low in crooked shades of blue, heavy with promise, it seems the Dixie storms of Augur’s boyhood home have joined the dark migration from the South to here.
Unlike his brown sister, Augur was not forced to leave by men in white robes, whose cries of hate in the dead of night while her family hid inside remind him of the grinding thunder outside his window, the flashes of guns and fire crisscrossing that landscape long ago like the lightning inside the billowing sky.
Augur makes it inside before the clouds open up, but his mouth is thick with the bitter taste of sulfur, his eyes blinded by the strikes, his ears ringing with the booming of ugly words, his heart filled with fear.
Augur is still not a friend to his brokenness.
Too often he has been a spectator to his life.
He continues to be uncomfortable with his silence.
He spends too much time trying to dodge raindrops.
The First Reading
November 17, 1987
like a porous sore in the face
oozing white in this place
hoarse cries of hate are swallowed up
by the soft strands of
we shall overcome
tension
a taunt wire
anger stretches somewhere deep within
all of us
waiting for the snap
when our brother’s neck will be squished
pulp in our grasp
struggle to understand
this hate robed in white
with eyes of glittering coal
to burn
the hand of fellowship is slapped away
while spit runs down the face
turning away to rage in peace
old woman
white frozen mind
you’d better look out for your own,
she rasps
within i reply,
old woman, i am
i am
(Reflection after a protest against a KKK march in Staunton VA 1987)
The Second Reading
April 29, 2016
Some days are days of broken things.
Like this glass I tumble, more fragile than I thought,
and I must spend some of my precious time
cleaning up the shards so that my loved ones are not pricked.
Though I carry the scars from a thousand other cuts
and my efforts cannot keep those close to me from being nicked by life.
Even the rain feels like tiny needles against my face.
I can dodge the pain.
And yet, there is no way to avoid the wet.
The Third Reading
dawn of a day unexpected
filled with clouds of rain
gone are the grays rejected
and the cries of men in pain
who move like wraiths in battle lines against other ghosts in blue
all with faith in their minds that their cause is true
hiding discord’s cost in blows missed and countless bullets spent
still fighting a war lost long ago in the mist of the present
The Third Reading
blue and white
are the colors of the
umbrella
under which I
stand
waiting in the
wet parking lot
for children
to be
released from
school
white and blue
are the colors of the
icon
between my sodden feet
wheelchair
square of the
handicapped
space
on days like
today
i am reminded
of the colors
of my existence;
the places
where I am
crippled,
the arch of
grace
that covers me
nonetheless,
and the
child
who without
question
runs to
and
accepts
shelter from
the
storm
Epilogue
Augur has yet to find someone who can walk between the raindrops, who can step out into this tempest and not get wet. He must succumb to the baptism, confess his capitulation, and admit that he too has contributed to the din of divisiveness, to the howling hurricane of hate.
He cannot control the weather. Yet he can control his response to the storm.
He can wall myself off from the tempest or he can offer shelter to another who seeks refuge from the deluge.
He can let the thunder drown out his voice or he can let his silent prayers reseed the clouds.
He can cower in fear from the strike or step boldly outside, turn his face to the sky, and scream his resistance into the pelting rain.
He can listen with joyful ears as the ugly water disappears with a roar into the gutter, running blindly underground, until it dissipates with a whimper in the bright brine of the cleansing sea.
The Book of Augur 