perry franklin’s idea of a perfect home

was one that would make the cover story

of better homes and gardens,

a cold place in the real world

that knew nothing of a hug

or a kiss or a bit of encouragement,

and in a place that was so foreign

to failure and forgiveness,

perry franklin’s children

always had to look elsewhere

when it came to seeking change

and challenge and curiosity. . .

their young lives were so full of control,

raised by the good book of

ol’ time Christian conduct which,

unfortunately made them feel guilt

before they ever did anything wrong--

and when they failed your expectations,

you stripp’d them,

whipp’d, them,

justified your austere ways

with a sermon on of self-righteous living

that would start out something like

Shut up that cryin’--criers are weak, and the weak ain’t fit to live under my roof. . . See, what ya problem is--Is that you ain’t got ‘nough Jesus in ya yet, so if I'se to make room for the Lord in your life, then He expect me to beat the devil outta the temple where the Lord’s spirit need to be.

and perry franklin’s children would bleed as he wav’d his bible in one hand, and his divining rod in the other, pretending that he knew how to rightly divide the words of his own truth:

. . .No matter what your problem is, If'n you repent from your weaken’d ways,The Lord above's sho to have some mercy on y'all, and maybe, just maybe will reckon to save yo sorry souls from hell, just-a-like my papa done me to me. . . His mercy endureth forever. . .

so I gots no choice but to use the Lord God's correctin' rod just like Moses beat the rock and drew the cleanin' waters, I gots no choice but beat every last bit-a-hell outta y'all's sin sick souls. . .

well that’s all well and good,

perhaps logical for some other twist'd lives, but see

my problem can never become a thing

of perry franklin's past mistakes, unless of course

i one day come to realize this:

Even though you tried to turn the skin of

your indigo children from beautiful black to

melancholy blue, my problem has always

and forever will be haunting,

'til the day my spirit flies away, and

in your heritage i will be mindful

of my lack of perfection,

and i must starve this portion

of my dominican blacken'd soul

remembering your misplaced affection

staring back at me from your fading picture. . .

contemplating with much conjecture

how anyone, even those who tried to love you

could rise above this story of horror

. . . yet i cannot reject the notion that

i would not be around to even write this

and if your nature somehow refused to rise

and your chromosome miss'd its target

these words would never be set

from mind to mission, so in keeping with the tradition,

none of my own shall ever bear the traces of your name.

for i myself am the result of imperfect children,

i too am a less-than-profound legacy

left to embrace whatever love is left

among the ones progeny of

perry franklin’s children

© 2005 cynth'ya lewis reed

all rights reserved.