READ HARVER TOMSSON"S poem "KUMBAYA"

Kumbaya

Didn’t march on Selma back in 65,
But I had a colored friend,
Ate at his Mamma’s table
And learnt what’s hot from cool.

Learnt n****r was a word of hate,
And cracker one of anger;
There were things a kid from Minnesota
Simply couldn’t fix.

By standing ‘roun’ arm on arm
As I learnt Kumbaya.
But there we were, arm on arm
Singing Kumbaya.

Read “Black Like Me” and couldn’t sleep,
My land was not their land
Not while we couldn’t share
A resturant table, or town swimming pool.

I’ve walked a mile, at least a city block
In their shoes, hard upon their street
I even jumped when a group of them
Tried to make some honky run.

Sweet, sweet potato pie
I learnt soul, and suckled it
But, I was never profiled
Or suffered false arrest.

How long would I forgive
Past seventy sevens more?
How long would I stand arm on arm
Singing Kumbaya?

I never played the game
Of choosing prison homes
As if bad had just turned good.
And King had reached his dream.

But I’ve prayed with a Texas redneck,
Standing arm on arm
Once his black princess left him
With naught but Kumbaya.

Cafe au Lait, sweet caramel
With perfect set white smile
I could only vaguely picture
What drew her once to him.

He, just a roadside stranger
Left with me her last picture
In hopes my prayers might bring her back.
“Dear Lord, please, Kumbaya.”

But there are things a kid from Minnesota
Simply cannot fix,
Not with song; no, not with prayer,
Not even Kumbaya