A rhyming poem about how too many sons for far too long have drunk from this well.
A father brings to the well his young son.
A sign on the well: ‘Drink not, for it taints
the mind.’ The son takes a drink; it’s begun.
“It tastes awful.” / His father: “No complaints!
“Our family have all drunk from this well
for generations. Soon you’ll like the taste.”
The boy does drink often, his thirst to quell.
With racial hatred his mind becomes laced.
Another father in their line has now
gotten his son this polluted water
to savor. He’s quite satisfied with how
his son’s racism grew deeper and broader.
Will this chain of older generations
passing their racial hatred to the next
never end? Improved hopes for the nation’s
future starts when this well each son rejects.
Well done, Harry! I think most people share the racist concerns in the poem you wrote. However, I think it's obviously getting better and better with each passing generation. Yes, we have NOT found utopia and 100 percent complete racial harmony. Still, my grand kids are more open minded than I am and I am sure their kids will be even more so. The real setback that we see these days is too obvious to ignore. People cutting heads off because of their beliefs! Hey! You have to take a stand and say "NO" to these radicals or we will certainly go backward in History!
The best answer is maintaining integration of society in schools (private schools tend to discriminate and separate) and education. The tendency for rebellion at puberty can go a long way in changing attitudes between father and son.
While my father feared some what for his life and wallet while driving his truck from lily white central Wisconsin to the terminal in South Chicago, I never heard him utter a racist comment or speak badly about people of any race. I believe that was because he went to grade school with black children who were very poor in the little community of blacks where he lived in North Central Wisconsin. He also allowed me to have my own opinions on everything and was proud of my education.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
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While my father feared some what for his life and wallet while driving his truck from lily white central Wisconsin to the terminal in South Chicago, I never heard him utter a racist comment or speak badly about people of any race. I believe that was because he went to grade school with black children who were very poor in the little community of blacks where he lived in North Central Wisconsin. He also allowed me to have my own opinions on everything and was proud of my education.
Ron