Blessings # 9 – - “Tabbi”

Tabbi you were so much more to my life
Then a slave to be easily forgot

To lay you under the swallowing Earth
And spurn all who sought to offer comfort

To just hear their wishes that I receive
A new slave, another equally good

When you were so much more my lost brother
A man to share with me each joy and tear

Was to have the skin stripped from my cold chest
As I lie unable to fend off pain

So I brought them around to surround me
That first horrid night with their fair comforts

To offer praises not spoken before
Teaching that the human must be valued

Must be valued for what he does in life
As his station ends when his soul departs.

 

 

 

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Guns, Fear, and Race: Trayvon Martin and Deja Vu All Over Again

            It’s happening again.  An attorney stares at an autopsy photograph of a young black male taken down by gunfire.  On the desk nearby sit FBI 302s, the code name for a written report of an investigator’s interview with a witness.  The phone is ringing off the hook (remember the hooks?) with demands for justice, demands for punishment, demands for patience, demands for information, not necessarily in that order.  Events of the past few weeks bring me back to a case I investigated in 1977 and teach me that, no matter how many similar tragedies we absorb as a nation, sadly nothing changes.           

            It’s dusk in a Houston neighborhood and two white police officers are in a squad car heading down a street, doing their job, and they encounter a sight that causes them concern.  A young black man walks down the center of a busy street.  He is not dressed in a business suit, and his walk is unsteady.  The officers stop their squad car in front of the young man – the man’s name is Larry Milton Glover – in order to see what he’s up to and to get him out of the road, where he’s a danger to himself and to others.  The driver opens his door, his hand reaching to his sidearm, and the strange black man reaches into his back pocket and starts to pull something out of his pocket.  Larry says something like “I’ve got something for you.” The first officer, fearing for his life, pulls his gun and shoots at the dark object.  Startled by the gun fire, the second officer, still in the car, pulls her weapon and shoots at Larry through the windshield of the police car.  Startled by the gun fire, the first officer empties his revolver into Larry, squeezing off another five rounds within a couple of seconds.  Larry is dead, and a bullet hole has been blown in the dark object that had been in his pocket … a Bible.

            Thirty-five years have passed since these events, and I still ask myself whether justice was done.  No federal charges were brought against the police officers after an investigation because federal civil rights laws require, as an element of a crime under 18 United States Code 242, that a defendant be shown to have had a specific intent to deprive a victim of his constitutional rights.  Where does legitimate fear end and a desire to inflict pain, mayhem, and death begin?  The answer is seldom as clear as we would like.  The violent end of Larry Milton Glover’s life started the wheels of justice grinding slowly and inconclusively.  The government prosecuted no one for his death, but that is not to say that the police officers involved were not punished.  The mere fact that a federal grand jury was convened and asked to hear evidence about the shooting undoubtedly took its toll on their well-being, if not their careers.  No one in his right mind wants to be on the trigger end of the gun.

            I cannot comment about the specific case of Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman, except to note that similar events have occurred – seem to keep occurring – in which gunfire takes down a black, unarmed young man and fear for one’s life is cited as the justification or explanation.  The line between justifiable fear and an evil intention can be fine indeed.  With hand guns so prevalent in our society, who is not afraid?   The Larry Milton Glovers of the world, the police officers who protect us, the young people of all races, and the neighborhood watch captains can tell you:  no one.

            From 1976 to 1980, the writer was a Trial Attorney in the Criminal Section of the Civil Rights Division, United States Department of Justice.  His purely fictional story, “Specific Intent,” available on Kindle, relates a similar, tragic incident.  http://www.amazon.com/Specific-Intent-ebook/dp/B006KJ1W1Q/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1333370083&sr=1-1  

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Blessings #8 — “The grave thrusts out our dead”

The grave thrusts out our dead with clamor
Yet we perceive them not today
It is the ‘morrow we never reach
That hears their sound of new life

We hear just the cries of the newborn
Pressed into this world by clenching
Wombs that wage war to free themselves
Of their weighty mysteries

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“Two Witnesses” — a poem

The first

One last question posed/And the shaken drawling man/Cannot answer/Head hanging/Hands cover his face

We lean forward/To hear the breaking voice/That so laden moment/We knew would come

But his sobs remain silent/The Court has ordered every witness/Not to speak of death

He cannot answer truthfully/Whatever question he thinks was asked

The Second

Strides into the courtroom/Head held high/He shakes the lawyer’s hand

Now to face the questions/His buddy fumbled

He can do better/He won’t pass blame/In his mind everything was right/A man finds the way to survive

Published in Rusty Nail Magazine, 2/27/12 http://www.rustynailmag.com/bberger.html

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“Childbirth” — a poem

One cool April night we feel your clamoring to appear/Your angry and tired blazing and intelligent eyes/Staring at those who bring you forth to burst into a world

As a separate/God detached yet bound/Who summon you

From the warm watery kingdom, from the mix and matching/Of endless spirals laced into the lattice of life/The ineffable plan that sucks constant at creation

 

“Childbirth” has been published in Issue 1.1 of the Bellow Literary Journal — www.bellowliteraryjournal.com

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from the “Poems at Trial” — “An Expert, March 27, 2008″

An elderly man, thin and shaky, consults and engineers/His strong but quavering voice from the stand/Lists many accomplishments behind heavy black-framed glasses

He analyzes failures, how the world comes apart under stress/He explains how a ceramic vase breaks when dropped to a hard surface/Based upon his Doctor of Science degree from MIT

He drones on about his storied life of scholarship/His emeritus retirement now showers him with ten times his professor pay/And he rescues former students from embarrassing design mistakes, ever the teacher

He’s figured out how metal holds bone pieces together, except when it does not/When plaintiffs call him to explain the fault/As all problems must be blamed and all life’s disconnections made right at law

He proudly mentions Who’s Who and other wondrous achievements/Until we forget why we are here today/The clock’s hands spin and we still haven’t gotten past his credentials.

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from the “Poems at Trial” — “Side Bar, March 10, 2008″

Opening interruptus
Cloud static blocks the words but not the voices
The judge shakes her head
Back and forth the argument tumbles
While jurors annoy at the first of many pauses
Turning away
Both lawyers smiling
The vanquished as well as the victor
Opening continues
The point reinforced

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