In this free verse poetry, “This Was No Ordinary Church.”
I want to share an experience with you of a Sunday that was quite strange when I was fifteen years old. I will never forget it either. I won’t say anything more…You must read and form your own opinion.
Free Verse Poetry: This Was No Ordinary Church
Adorned with fifteen years, and a canary yellow dress.
My father finally wants to go to church.
Was it to save his soul or more of the curiosity of the choir two blocks down that rose above the hum of main street traffic.
Blue suits and plaid shirts clothed them, but something felt awful here.
I could feel hate. A neo-nazi sign hung above the pulpit.
But it wasn’t just that; it was the cold steel that hung from leather on hips, that scared me.
I tugged on daddy’s sleeve to show him the sign.
All I heard was chatter. My father had a way of ignoring you when he was interested in other suits.
My mother only stared into the eyes of my father, as nothing else existed. We all lined up in a pew, like cattle for slaughter,
at least that’s what I thought.
The suits still marched along the pews with their steel armor.
The hair on my neck continues to stand along
with goosebumps on mine arm.
This church wasn’t an ordinary church.
Why couldn’t my father see this?
Seeing the cross on the wall and the neo-nazi sign above the cross.
The sign gave me the insight to love and hate.
How can a church proclaim the love for GOD, yet despise a black man, when we are created equal in the eyes of GOD?
Granted, it was the first and last time I came here.
©Linda J. Wolff 2017
| This is No Ordinary Church|
An urban free verse poetry
What is a Free Verse Poetry? Typically patterned by speech rather than meter, this form of poetry is very open to the author’s discretion and usually does not rhyme. Visual and sound effects are often employed. It can have as many lines as the writer wishes.
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He asked for a story about me, about losing something, about loss. In this free verse poetry, I lost a part of innocence, I saw love and hate hang from a wall inside a small chapel. I saw them slap GOD’S name on it to condone their rituals. It was wrong.
So I write this to you, Roderick Bates of Rat’s Ass Review. I’m walking you through this horrific day through these lines.
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