Angry

I’m a pacifist and I’m angry.

Those two terms are not mutually exclusive.

 

If you are a woman of color who has something to say

You have been accused of “being an angry person”

And being called angry is meant to call you out

To point out to a deficiency in your character.

This tactic is as old as the oppression of women

Especially women of color in America, meant to silence,

Mellow out, subdue, and crush our spirit.

And some of us have internalized that for far too long.

That being angry is a sin, when in fact more often than not

It is when we stand by, quietly, that we become accomplices

Of death, fear, and violence.

 

What we do with our anger can be sin;

but what we do not at the sight of injustice

can be more fatal.

 

But Alas!  We serve Jesus, who had no shame in his game,

he expressed his frustration,

And modeled for us what we are to do,

when fueled with holy anger, he

turned the tables of the moneychangers.

Money mongers, manipulators

And cheats…

 

Yea, I am angry

Not because I like to

Want to

Or need to

It is because

If I don’t

Im

Numb

And dumb

Or worst yet

I must have

lost my heart.

 

Yes, I am angry

I am mad at myself

That I let you see me

And the quiver

Of my upper lip

And the tremble of my knees

Shook the earth between us

And I hate

You saw that insolent tear

atrevida

Make its way

Near my lips

While I am Still

attempting to explain

Man-splain

In English plain

Why it is that we cry

Outloud

when we do

what is not right

it is not right

for far too long

we’ve kept it to ourselves.

 

Yes, I am angry

And no,

I do not let my hair down

I let my hair UP

Not as some crest

To intimidate ya’ll

The springs that jump of my head

Are not stinging coils

Meant to scare you away

They are not my defense mechanism.

But they are who I am.

Who I am

That is what seems

To really scare you.

 

We are angry, yes!

Because what we see

We know

It’s killing us.

And you want to call us out

Sitting us at the dugouts

As if something foul

Had been rotting

in our mouths

and our words spill out

from our souls

like self-inflicted curses

that dig deeper

the ditches

where we are supposed

to bury our dreams.

 

We know you see it.

Yes, we are angry

And we wonder why

Is taking you so long

To be angry too.

 

©Teresita Matos-Post, July 2017

Summer Music Institute

#BlackLivesMatter

Drew Theological School

Danced on the Cross

This one screen shot inspired the title of the poem.
The video is a must see.



He danced on the cross
To the rhythm of the morbid
A macabre scene of celebration
We praise and rejoice to the gore
Of blood poured out for others
Human sacrifice
Just and right
Because He is God,
He can take it.

High, on top Incan pinnacles
Of the faithful to death
We called savages
Inhumane
Barbarians defined
By the practice of their hope
An after life.
They understood what it took.
What was necessary?
To appease god, God,
A sacrifice of blood
Over the table.
Pure and clean
As a baby’s heart.
An innocent deity’s heart.

She danced on the cross
Twirling, or was it twitching
Convulsing in the pain of loss
The shouts of hosanna ceasing
But even those who believed him
Quieted down,
Who would celebrate death?
Who in their right mind?
Jerking in excitement
Shaken earth underneath their feet.
Who would smile?
Cries of vic-
                      -to-
                             -ry?
There was no time
There was no place,
Not then, and why now?

I danced on the cross
His body was not there
Just the promise of return in glory
I danced on the cross
For my benefit, not His
I dared to dance on the cross
And feasted,
Patting myself on the back
for my luck.
Lucky Me!
And I dared to dance and define His death
And his dying
I danced and I pranced
And I dared to call myself apostle.
And I danced and I rejoiced
For the brethren who along with me felt as lucky as can be
And I danced I proclaimed to be
“Anointed to preach the good news to the poor”
Though my good news are just words
printed on cheap newsprint paper
Though my good news are accompanied
by raised hands that are empty
while my pocket and my car
and my 3 bedroom kingdom
keeps me enslaved 9 to 5.
Yet I dance!

I danced on the cross
That not only belongs to me
Belongs to me
Not at all
So dared I dance and raise barb wires
So that you don’t dare to dance
In the space I have decreed just for me.
Because I am holy.
Because I am a chosen saint.
Because I dare not to show wide open
What sin I hide from my own face.

I danced on the cross with joy
There where He laid for the world.