PANDEMIC DIARY

I USED TO BE AN ACTIVIST

July 20, 2020

I Used To Be An Activist

I used to be an activist.
I carried a sword of defiance
armored with burning rage
fueled by overt injustice…
and bodies lying in the fields.

I used to be an activist.
Youthful, vibrant, resolute and
grave, sharing ideals with friends,
we lingered over pizza and beer
claiming communal visions of peace.

I used to be an activist.
My feet were on the ground
marching, slogan slamming,
hoisting placards, locking elbows,
Our hearts inseparable and one.

I used to be an activist.
Penciling newspaper columns,
listening to speakers: congressmen,
gays, hippies, poets and thinkers:
Baldwin, Ginsburg, King, and Malcolm.

I used to be an activist.
Placing my physical essence on the
front line, audacious, warranting the upright
lead, the spiritual inspire, the virtuous
justify, and the guiltless guide and teach me.

I used to be an activist.
My skin bristles still, nerves
discharge still, throat tightens still…
yet, I feel useless. I am older now,
and I belong out there, once again.

I used to be an activist.
My tears are evidence of possibilities.
My sweat mingles with yours in unity.
My sense of purpose, a single log in
a blazing fire for freedom.

I used to be an activist.
No longer will I be passive.
No longer will I armchair advocate.
I owe the streets support, raising hell, spilling
blood with my brothers and sisters.