The Racist

How sad it is to be contrary to one’s nature…


The racist lurks furtively

On the periphery of his own humanity.

He daren’t face his inner core,

Where all people are the same.

Like his prejudice,

He is only skin deep,

And ultimately a sad, heart exile,

Reaping the bitterness

Of his life’s sulk.

He is afraid, really afraid,

And only his fear has any depth,

And because he fears,

He is a bully.

His fear spawns anger,

As he thrashes against his own nature,

And hits out at his brothers.

He narrowly defines his kin,

Worshipping at the altar of exclusivity,

Where each is bonded by mutual fear,

To form a congregation of hate.

What a pathetic figure he cuts,

As he struts about in his ideological nakedness.

He tries to clothe himself

In clever theories and dark isms,

But these are wretched rags

Against the richness of life’s raiment.

He will point to history,

Yet a history which his ilk have carved

As a self fulfilling prophecy of dust.

He longs for a farcical world,

A world that leads… nowhere.

Let him rant on,

And let our shared joy be his rebuff.

For he pickets outside the house of joy,

Protesting with his fellow disgruntles,

Puffing on his drag of toxic creed,

And warming himself

By stomping in childish rage.

Truly he is to be pitied.


Pray for him,

That he may leave his fear,

And come on in to the welcome

And the warmth of human diversity.

Whisper to him:


There is really nothing to fear,

And you may yet find yourself!


Yet my soul,

Is there any stain of the racist in me?

Is it really just so black and white:

The bad guys and the good guys?

Do I have the courage

To discern and pluck out

Any shred of prejudice

Against my fellow sojourners?

Do I too fear to go inwards,

To the place where we are all the same?

To the ground of my being,

And to own the hopes and fears of everyman?

Let my living be love-centric,

And not gravitate to the periphery.

Let not his hypocrisy be mine too,

And thereby a subtler, perhaps greater one.