YouTube Poem: The Final Sermon by Mark Tulin

My dedication to MLK.

Photo by Gotta Be Worth It at Pexels.

The Last Sermon

I sat in the pew

of an old church

In Atlanta, Georgia.

I prayed with a ghost,

a murdered man’s spirit,

the red flowers that were laid

on his grave and the carriage

that drove him there.

I listened

to the piped-in sermon

in a reflective pool of water.

His presence surrounded me

with brown angels

lifting me high

above the mountaintops

where people joined hands—

all religions, all races.

I saw him at the podium,

short in stature but tall,

strong but gentle.

His sweat poured

down my brow.

His warm caring hands

gripped my shoulders.

He shook me.

He woke me up

from my blindness:

Imploring, crying out

for everyone’s freedom.

His quivering voice

trembled with passion,

his heart pounded with love,

his soul was alive and vibrant.

His words injected me

with a serum of truth.

Like a dancing butterfly,

it gave me hope.

That day in an old Atlanta church,

I heard his last sermon,

and I could feel his dream.