I get really tired of judgemental people. And I get REALLY tried of judgemental people who call themselves Christian. If you are judging people because of the color of their skins or their religions or sexual orientations, you are not being Christian. You're being a hypocrite. Jesus didn't preach blame and condemnation and hatred the last time I checked the Gospels.
In light of the current President of the United States' decision to disqualify transgender people from serving in the military, I've decided to feature poems from some great poets who also happen to be members of the LGBTQ community.
Given the choice between hate and love, Saint Marty will choose love every time.
At Home in the Country
by: James Allen Hall
Down on Comegys Road, two miles
from the Rifle Club that meets Wednesdays,
summer to fall, firing into a blackness
they call night but I know is a body,
in unpaved Kennedyville, not far
from the Bight, on five acres of green
organic farm, next to the algaed pond
that yields the best fishing in all of Kent County
(my neighbor says it is a lingering death I deal
the trout when he sees me throw the small
bodies back), down where the commonest
cars are tractors and hayfetchers, and men
wave as they pass, briefly bowing a gentleman’s
straw hat, you can find the wood cabin
where I live, infested with stink bugs.
Every day, my boyfriend asks the murder count,
making light of my hatred. Even reading I sit,
swatter poised on the couch’s arm,
all the windows closed, fans off, the whole house
listening for the thwat of stink alighting
smartly on sun-warmed glass, their soft-backed
geometric carapaces calling to be stopped.
I did not grow up like this, here
on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, but I am most
at home now I live with something inside to kill.
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