Hereafter Next

What is Heaven?
The eternal quest, the search for bliss
In the Preacher’s sermons, or a dying kiss
Will the blind suddenly! Obtain the gift of sight
The beauty of a sunrise, a star clustered velvet night?
Will the mute, at last, be allowed the right to speak?
The gesturing resigned, now a voice for what they seek
What of the man whose legs exist no more?
Is he to now have “shoes” and dance across the floor?
And what of the deaf who’ve lost the joy of sound
Will violins and nightingales regale when they’re around?
If heaven-bound souls passed where the sun does smolder
Are sweat inducing days to be replaced by air that’s colder?
Is it to be expected that the old will stay that way
Or will the flower of youth replace the aged, wobbly sway?
And what of adolescent, the infant and the child
At what age will their existence be so forever dialed?
Might we expect lions and tigers to roar in afterlife?
Or what about the roar of a pious, nagging wife?
What of the fellow whose Nirvana is to drink?
Does a corner barstool wait, in a room where glasses clink?
Can we expect the hungry will get enough to eat?
Will starved, protruding bellies get a dinner table seat?
What about a slave who expired at the cotton gin?
Have his dreams of glory been “rewarded” with a new white skin?
Will the KKK racist who at long last embraced Christ
Now join his hands with Black man in afterworld splice?
Will spiders be in heaven, with webs of every size?
Some folks don’t like spiders, but some folks don’t like flies
On a cool and blustery morning in the happy hunting ground
Will native tribes be hard at work and the white man not yet found?
It’s Valhalla to the Nordic and Zion to the Jew
And countless visions from countless souls who stretch from them to you
But most of all is justice hereby practiced in this place
Equality for tortured souls and broken backs no matter creed or race?
And will the perpetrators of suffering connive to pass the gate?
Or does the tally and intent of one’s deeds decide their final fate?
What is heaven, we pondered, at the beginning of the poem
For some it’s escape, for others, illusion, and for some it’s just called…
Home