Racism Poetry

I’m Not My Skin
 


I’m not my skin
I’m not your expectations
I’m the soul that lives in me,
I’m that which the blind can see
And all that you can’t see.

I’m the little boy confused
By the world’s segregation,
I’m the laugh of their talk,
I’m not trying to be you,
Look at my stiff black hair?
It stands tall like trees in the forest:
Its feels so pure and sets me free.
Look at my thoughts, they are diverse
And full of colors.

I’m not my skin
I’m not who you think Iam,
I’m the river that flows and blesses
Every oasis with a touch of water.
I’m the man who sees no color.

Touch my tan skin
And you’ll see that I’m human too.
I’m not trying to gain approval from you,
I just want you to know that I’m not my skin.
My culture is scarred by the human traitors,
I owe no forgiveness to any man alive…
Does the way I walk, smile or wear my afro
Make me any less human?
Should I be ashamed of my own skin?

I’m not my skin,
I’m not my hair,
I’m the soul that lives within,
Poverty, disease, loss of human dignity
Are my arch enemies besides man.

Your broken kisses heal my human body,
You spite for a person of a person my kind
Cannot break or shake to take me away into any
Sort of mortal shame for the skin that covers my
Bones and muscles.
My hearts beats rhythmically like a Zambian drum,
My broad nose inhales the air my ancestors left,
My eyes see the moon, sun and the stars
That Bantu forefathers
Worshiped and sacrificed lives for…
And this is who I’ll always be.

I’m not my skin,
I’m the simple person you’ll never know,
I’m the culture will never touch,
I’m the proud onyx soul you’ll never kiss.

I’m that little girl on mother’s back
Who she carried whenever
She went begging on the street,
I’m that lost lone needle in the hay.
You can only see my russet skin..
In me you can only see a slave,
A second class human!
I’ll continue to walk tall like the beautiful
African queen my mother told me I’m.

I’m not my skin,
Like you I’m not perfect, I react when I don’t mean to.
To kill me, take away my skin
And throw it beyond my children’s reach.
My black skin rages your emotions…
Your lust for another killing of my kind
Fuels every breath you take.

Here’s a knife tear my skin apart?
You’ll see that the blood I hold is scarlet…
Like a human’s or any other animal’s.
When my heart is broken I cry just like you do,
To you good skin means bright and not black.
The sun can’t hurt me I tamed her,
The night’s creatures can’t see me
Because my skin camouflages my soul.
Your bitter words can’t hurt me, I hate them not you.

Nuchi Laccini - Zambia 

My Hair Does Not Define Who I Am

I am more than the 4C type
It does not get me where I’m going in life
The kinkiness does not exemplify what I am capable of
Just how I present myself out of love

I am more than the twist outs, braid outs, and wash and go’s
Even more classy than the glamorous afro
I am deeply enriched in intelligence
To support all of my investments

I am more than the olive oil and coconut oil
I’m just in love with my future to which I am loyal
I am concentrated to make it through
Just like the conditioner and shampoo

I am more than the natural hair product
Even though it not working would just be my luck
I am on a bright path towards my future
In which my dreams only need to mature

I am more than the deep conditioning and protein treatments
For my success does not have limits
I am going to be somebody
But I don’t know if the world is ready

I am more than the bad hair days
Because I conquer them in many ways
I am often misunderstood
In fact I knew that I would

I am more than my hair
Including its texture and style that makes people stare
I am only focused on the characteristics and traits that make up my personality
Therefore, my hair does not define who I am most importantly

Chekayah

Black Girl, Black Girl

 

When I was in middle school, I went through a phase.
I wore distressed skinny jeans and alternative rock band tees and studded belts and belt chains and low canvas converse of nearly every color in the rainbow.
I listened to what to some, would be called "white people music."
I didn't know how to control my hair back then, so a ponytail with more of a mane than a tail was the backdrop to the abstract work of art that was my pre-teen face.
Amtrak braces going across jaggedy mountain teeth and two bushels of eyebrows protecting the fortress of chunky black glasses.
I was different.
There were a group of girls at my school that were more popular than the rest.
They all wore Hollister, Abercrombie, carried Coach wristlets and pranced around in this season's new Ugg boots. And only those.
They were acquaintances, but not friends.
I thought they didn't like me because I was different.
And then I remember my sixth grade self thinking about all the differences between me and these girls.
And I remember my sixth grade self zeroing in on one specific difference that I had to question more than the rest.
And I remember my sixth grade self asking my mom on the car ride to school,
"Mommy? Do you think they would like me more if I was white?"

And my mom didn't know exactly how to respond.
Part consideration and part hesitation. She didn't know how quite to respond.
Because being one of the few black beings growing up in white suburbia did not exactly provide the best answers to these types of questions.
But you know what she told me? 
The truth.
"Maybe sweetie. Maybe."
I remembered thinking that that was just so unfair, so rude, so ignorant of them.
And then I said, "Oh well. Their loss."

But now I'm 17. And social media is desensitizing my generation and granting people cyber courage to say things they would never say in the world outside their front door and attaining opinions that would never be claimed as their own if it weren't for this twisted society we let inside our homes.
Boys, NOT MEN, have become more picky, or excuse me, vocal about their preferences and choices in women lately on social media. And I quote:
"I only like snow bunnies and Latinas."
"I never once said black girls don't look good, I just said white and Spanish girls look better."
"I don't date black girls."
"Brazilian girls are the best then white girls then Spanish girls then dirt and then black girls."
End quote.

I am a black girl and I live in a world where the men who look just like my father with the same brown skin as me that I wear proudly tell me that they do not prefer my race of women, that we are at the bottom of the food chain, of the romantic hierarchy, of motherfucking society.
Black girls in a media picture get painted and depicted as bitter and loud and unattractive and uncivilized and uneducated and bestial and inhuman.
And that is not fair.
To me, my sister or my entire culture.

Just because my hair doesn't morph into perfect circular ringlets when wet or my complexion isn't fair enough to get off scotch free from the cops or I'm not mixed with enough nationalities to represent an entire melting pot, you're telling me you can't love me? Or you don't want to, because that's what society is telling you?

A surprising number of black males have been the culprits of this bullshit and buffoonery.
"I don't like black girls at all."
Look up from your insensitive tweet on your insensitive  phone in your insensitive hands and tell me what you see in front of you, feeding you, clothing you, loving you?
Your mother. A black girl.
When black men get murdered without justice across America, who is there, behind you, supporting you, standing up for you, fighting for you?
The black woman.

"Everybody has preferences, you have to respect them!"
Oh I'm all for respecting people's preferences but once their preferences lead them to disrespect me, fuck that, I don't know who told you respect was a one way street.
Stop feeding into society and basing the image of your ideal soul mate off of fetishes and novelties.
Stop throwing us into a corner and then turning us against each other with statements such as:
"Lightskin girls are winning"
"Brown skin girls are winning"
"Dark skin girls are winning"
Light, brown, dark, yellow, chocolate, caramel, copper - it does not matter.
We are all black girls and we all win together.

I do not want this racially infused hatred to be injected into my blood stream so that when I have a baby black girl she is born with insecurities.
I don't want her to come home to me and tell me that she likes a boy but she has to see, because she doesn't know if he likes black females.
I don't want her to come home to me and beg me to try and make her hair curlier or straighter or lighter or softer or longer because she doesn't think people will like her.
I don't want her to come home to me and tell me that she liked Devon but Devon liked Brittany more, and ask me, "Mommy? Do you think he would like me more if I was white?"
I do not want to give her the same answer my mom gave me.
I want to tell her, "No, sweetie, Devon doesn't like you because he's a fuck face who is blind to all the fantastic things that make you phenomenal."
I want to tell her that she can be loved no matter what her race is.
I want to tell her that love is based on the details of her heart and the contents of her mind, not the color of her hands that she will use to flip you bastards off.
I want to tell her, that just because the movies and tv portrays her as loud and uncontrollable, she doesn't have to be the opposite or just like it.
I want to tell her that if a man lumps her in and generalizes her by saying "He dates only black girls," she should dump his ass, because she is not a novelty.
I want to tell her that she doesn't need someone to love her, for her to love herself.
I want to tell her to empower herself and prove them all wrong.
I want to tell her to carry herself like royalty, no matter what she is told otherwise. 

Because she is a black girl. And that makes her a flawless queen.

kaitlynmcnab

Beautiful Black Woman

Beautiful woman this poem is for you
Full of beauty and grace
Rare black Queen sitting high on your throne
No one can take your place
Your heart is full of pure gold
Never to be played with
Bought or sold
Your Love is Patient Your Love is kind
Always trying to bring joy to others even when you can’t do it for yourself
And keeping them close in mind
A good woman is what you are
A woman to whom is proud of who she is and what she stands for
Never seeking definition from whom she is with
A strong woman is what I see when I look at you
One who can pick up the small pieces of her broken heart
And carry on as if she was never hurt in the first place.
When talking about this woman I can’t help but smile
Knowing the woman that I can speak so highly of is ME.

cwoods2119


India Arie:"I am not my Hair" Lyrics
 
[Talking:]
Is that India.Arie? What happened to her hair? Ha ha ha ha ha
Dat dad a dat da [4x] Dad a ooh

[Verse 1]
Little girl with the press and curl
Age eight I got a Jheri curl
Thirteen I got a relaxer
I was a source of so much laughter
At fifteen when it all broke off
Eighteen and went all natural
February two thousand and two
I went and did
What I had to do
Because it was time to change my life
To become the women that I am inside
Ninety-seven dreadlock all gone
I looked in the mirror
For the first time and saw that HEY....

[Chorus]
I am not my hair
I am not this skin
I am not your expectations no no
I am not my hair
I ma not this skin
I am a soul that lives within

[Talking:]
What'd she do to her hair? I don't know it look crazy
I like it. I might do that.
Umm I wouldn't go that far. I know .. ha ha ha ha

[Verse 2]
Good hair means curls and waves
Bad hair means you look like a slave
At the turn of the century
Its time for us to redefine who we be
You can shave it off
Like a South African beauty
Or get in on lock
Like Bob Marley
You can rock it straight
Like Oprah Winfrey
If its not what's on your head
Its what's underneath and say HEY....

[Chorus]

[Bridge]
(Whoa, whoa, whoa)
Does the way I wear my hair make me a better person?
(Whoa, whoa, whoa)
Does the way I wear my hair make me a better friend? Oooh
(Whoa, whoa, whoa)
Does the way I wear my hair determine my integrity?
(Whoa, whoa, whoa)
I am expressing my creativity..
(Whoa, whoa, whoa)

[Verse 3]
Breast Cancer and Chemotherapy
Took away her crown and glory
She promised God if she was to survive
She would enjoy everyday of her life ooh
On national television
Her diamond eyes are sparkling
Bald headed like a full moon shining
Singing out to the whole wide world like HEY...

[Chorus 2x]

[Ad lib]
If I wanna shave it close
Or if I wanna rock locks
That don't take a bit away
From the soul that I got
Dat da da dat da [4x]
If I wanna where it braided
All down my back
I don't see what wrong with that
Dat da da dat da [4x]

[Talking:]
Is that India.Arie?
Ooh look she cut her hair!
I like that, its kinda PHAT
I don't know if I could do it.
But it looks sharp, it looks nice on her
She got a nice shaped head
She got an apple head
I know right?
It's perfect.
 

Follow me on Facebook & Twitter 









 

MAYA ANGELOU - Celebrating A Phenomenal Woman

Maya Angelou is a poet and award-winning author known for her acclaimed   memoir I Know Why the

Caged Bird Sings and her numerous poetry and essay collections.

Synopsis

Born on April 4, 1928, in St. Louis, Missouri, writer and civil rights activist Maya Angelou is known for her 1969 memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, which made literary history as the first nonfiction best-seller by an African-American woman. In 1971, Angelou published the Pulitzer Prize-nominated poetry collection Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'Fore I Die. She later wrote the poem "On the Pulse of Morning"—one of her most famous works—which she recited at President Bill Clinton's inauguration in 1993. Angelou received several honors throughout her career, including two NAACP Image Awards in the outstanding literary work (nonfiction) category, in 2005 and 2009. She died on May 28, 2014.

Early Years

Multi-talented barely seems to cover the depth and breadth of Maya Angelou's accomplishments. She was an author, actress, screenwriter, dancer and poet. Born Marguerite Annie Johnson, Angelou had a difficult childhood. Her parents split up when she was very young, and she and her older brother, Bailey, were sent to live with their father's mother, Anne Henderson, in Stamps, Arkansas.
As an African American, Angelou experienced firsthand racial prejudices and discrimination in Arkansas. She also suffered at the hands of a family associate around the age of 7: During a visit with her mother, Angelou was raped by her mother's boyfriend. Then, as vengeance for the sexual assault, Angelou's uncles killed the boyfriend. So traumatized by the experience, Angelou stopped talking. She returned to Arkansas and spent years as a virtual mute.
During World War II, Angelou moved to San Francisco, California, where she won a scholarship to study dance and acting at the California Labor School. Also during this time, Angelou became the first black female cable car conductor—a job she held only briefly, in San Francisco.
In 1944, a 16-year-old Angelou gave birth to a son, Guy (a short-lived high school relationship had led to the pregnancy), thereafter working a number of jobs to support herself and her child. In 1952, the future literary icon wed Anastasios Angelopulos, a Greek sailor from whom she took her professional name—a blend of her childhood nickname, "Maya," and a shortened version of his surname.

Career Beginnings

In the mid-1950s, Angelou's career as a performer began to take off. She landed a role in a touring production of Porgy and Bess, later appearing in the off-Broadway production Calypso Heat Wave (1957) and releasing her first album, Miss Calypso (1957). A member of the Harlem Writers Guild and a civil rights activist, Angelou organized and starred in the musical revue Cabaret for Freedom as a benefit for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, also serving as the SCLC's northern coordinator.
In 1961, Angelou appeared in an off-Broadway production of Jean Genet's The Blacks with James Earl Jones, Lou Gossett Jr. and Cicely Tyson. While the play earned strong reviews, Angelou moved on to other pursuits, spending much of the 1960s abroad; she first lived in Egypt and then in Ghana, working as an editor and a freelance writer. Angelou also held a position at the University of Ghana for a time.
After returning to the United States, Angelou was urged by friend and fellow writer James Baldwin to write about her life experiences. Her efforts resulted in the enormously successful 1969 memoir about her childhood and young adult years, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, which made literary history as the first nonfiction best-seller by an African-American woman. The poignant work also made Angelou an international star.
Since publishing Caged Bird, Angelou continued to break new ground—not just artistically, but educationally and socially. She wrote the drama Georgia, Georgia in 1972—becoming the first African-American woman to have her screenplay produced—and went on to earn a Tony Award nomination for her role in the play Look Away (1973) and an Emmy Award nomination for her work on the television miniseries Roots (1977), among other honors.

 

Later Successes

Angelou wrote several autobiographies throughout her career, including All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes (1986) and A Song Flung Up to Heaven (2002), but 1969's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings continues to be regarded as her most popular autobiographical work. She also published several collections of poetry, including Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'Fore I Die (1971), which was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.
One of Angelou's most famous works is the poem "On the Pulse of Morning," which she wrote especially for and recited at President Bill Clinton's inaugural ceremony in January 1993—marking the first inaugural recitation since 1961, when Robert Frost delivered his poem "The Gift Outright" at President John F. Kennedy's inauguration. Angelou went on to win a Grammy Award (best spoken word album) for the audio version of the poem.
In 1995, Angelou was lauded for remaining on The New York Times' paperback nonfiction best-seller list for two years—the longest-running record in the chart's history.
Seeking new creative challenges, Angelou made her directorial debut in 1998 with Down in the Delta, starring Alfre Woodard. She also wrote a number of inspirational works, from the essay collection Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now (1994) to her advice for young women in Letter to My Daughter (2008). Interested in health, Angelou has even published cookbooks, including Hallelujah! The Welcome Table: A Lifetime of Memories With Recipes (2005) and Great Food, All Day Long (2010).
Angelou's career has seen numerous accolades, including the Chicago International Film Festival's 1998 Audience Choice Award and a nod from the Acapulco Black Film Festival in 1999 for Down in the Delta; and two NAACP Image Awards in the outstanding literary work (nonfiction) category, for her 2005 cookbook and 2008's Letter to My Daughter.

Personal Life

Martin Luther King Jr., a close friend of Angelou's, was assassinated on her birthday (April 4) in 1968. Angelou stopped celebrating her birthday for years afterward, and sent flowers to King's widow, Coretta Scott King, for more than 30 years, until Coretta's death in 2006.

Angelou was good friends with TV personality Oprah Winfrey, who organized several birthday celebrations for the award-winning author, including a week-long cruise for her 70th birthday in 1998.
After experiencing health issues for a number of years, Maya Angelou died on May 28, 2014, at her home in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. The news of her passing spread quickly with many people taking to social media to mourn and remember Angelou. Singer Mary J. Blige and politician Cory Booker were among those who tweeted their favorite quotes by her in tribute. President Barack Obama also issued a statement about Angelou, calling her "a brilliant writer, a fierce friend, and a truly phenomenal woman." Angelou "had the ability to remind us that we are all God's children; that we all have something to offer," he wrote.

HERE ARE SOME OF HER WORKS.

A Plagued Journey

By Maya Angelou

 

There is no warning rattle at the door   

nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer boards.   

Safe in the dark prison, I know that   

light slides over

the fingered work of a toothless   

woman in Pakistan.

Happy prints of

an invisible time are illumined.   

My mouth agape

rejects the solid air and

lungs hold. The invader takes   

direction and

seeps through the plaster walls.   

It is at my chamber, entering   

the keyhole, pushing

through the padding of the door.   

I cannot scream. A bone

of fear clogs my throat.

It is upon me. It is

sunrise, with Hope

its arrogant rider.

My mind, formerly quiescent

in its snug encasement, is strained

to look upon their rapturous visages,   

to let them enter even into me.   

I am forced

outside myself to

mount the light and ride joined with Hope.

Through all the bright hours   

I cling to expectation, until   

darkness comes to reclaim me

as its own. Hope fades, day is gone   

into its irredeemable place

and I am thrown back into the familiar   

bonds of disconsolation.

Gloom crawls around

lapping lasciviously

between my toes, at my ankles,   

and it sucks the strands of my   

hair. It forgives my heady   

fling with Hope. I am

joined again into its

greedy arms.

 

 

 

Caged Bird

By Maya Angelou

A free bird leaps

on the back of the wind   

and floats downstream   

till the current ends

and dips his wing

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and   

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn

and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

 

 

 

Kin

By Maya Angelou

FOR BAILEY

We were entwined in red rings   

Of blood and loneliness before   

The first snows fell

Before muddy rivers seeded clouds   

Above a virgin forest, and   

Men ran naked, blue and black   

Skinned into the warm embraces   

Of Sheba, Eve and Lilith.

I was your sister.

You left me to force strangers   

Into brother molds, exacting   

Taxations they never

Owed or could ever pay.

You fought to die, thinking   

In destruction lies the seed   

Of birth. You may be right.

I will remember silent walks in   

Southern woods and long talks   

In low voices

Shielding meaning from the big ears   

Of overcurious adults.

You may be right.   

Your slow return from

Regions of terror and bloody

Screams, races my heart.

I hear again the laughter   

Of children and see fireflies   

Bursting tiny explosions in   

An Arkansas twilight.

 

 

 

 

California Prodigal

By Maya Angelou

FOR DAVID P—B

The eye follows, the land

Slips upward, creases down, forms   

The gentle buttocks of a young   

Giant. In the nestle,

Old adobe bricks, washed of   

Whiteness, paled to umber,

Await another century.

Star Jasmine and old vines

Lay claim upon the ghosted land,   

Then quiet pools whisper   

Private childhood secrets.

Flush on inner cottage walls   

Antiquitous faces,

Used to the gelid breath

Of old manors, glare disdainfully   

Over breached time.

Around and through these   

Cold phantasmatalities,   

He walks, insisting

To the languid air,

Activity, music,

A generosity of graces.

His lupin fields spurn old

Deceit and agile poppies dance

In golden riot.   Each day is

Fulminant, exploding brightly   

Under the gaze of his exquisite   

Sires, frozen in the famed paint   

Of dead masters. Audacious   

Sunlight casts defiance

At their feet.

 

 

Phenomenal Woman

By Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,   

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.   

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.   

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,   

And the flash of my teeth,   

The swing in my waist,   

And the joy in my feet.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,   

They say they still can’t see.   

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,   

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

 

 

 

Human Family

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.

Some declare their lives are lived
as true profundity,
and others claim they really live
the real reality.

The variety of our skin tones
can confuse, bemuse, delight,
brown and pink and beige and purple,
tan and blue and white.

I've sailed upon the seven seas
and stopped in every land,
I've seen the wonders of the world
not yet one common man.

I know ten thousand women
called Jane and Mary Jane,
but I've not seen any two
who really were the same.

Mirror twins are different
although their features jibe,
and lovers think quite different thoughts
while lying side by side.

We love and lose in China,
we weep on England's moors,
and laugh and moan in Guinea,
and thrive on Spanish shores.

We seek success in Finland,
are born and die in Maine.
In minor ways we differ,
in major we're the same.

I note the obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/Human-Family#sthash.aYQkyNOJ.dpuf

 

 

Touched By An Angel

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love’s light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

The Rock Cries Out To Us Today

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers–
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot…
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours–your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes,
Into your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

The Lesson

I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,
Rotting flesh and worms do
Not convince me against
The challenge. The years
And cold defeat live deep in
Lines along my face.
They dull my eyes, yet
I keep on dying,
Because I love to live.

Savior

Petulant priests, greedy
centurions, and one million
incensed gestures stand
between your love and me.
Your agape sacrifice
is reduced to colored glass,
vapid penance, and the
tedium of ritual.
Your footprints yet
mark the crest of
billowing seas but
your joy
fades upon the tablets
of ordained prophets.
Visit us again, Savior.
Your children, burdened with
disbelief, blinded by a patina
of wisdom,
carom down this vale of
fear. We cry for you
although we have lost
your name. 

Passing Time

Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk
One paints the beginning
of a certain end.
The other, the end of a
sure beginning.

Million Man March Poem

The night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.
Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach,
I was dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.
Your hands were tied, your mouth was bound,
You couldn’t even call out my name.
You were helpless and so was I,
But unfortunately throughout history
You’ve worn a badge of shame.
I say, the night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark
And the walls have been steep.
But today, voices of old spirit sound
Speak to us in words profound,
Across the years, across the centuries,
Across the oceans, and across the seas.
They say, draw near to one another,
Save your race.
You have been paid for in a distant place,
The old ones remind us that slavery’s chains
Have paid for our freedom again and again.
The night has been long,
The pit has been deep,
The night has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.
The hells we have lived through and live through still,
Have sharpened our senses and toughened our will.
The night has been long.
This morning I look through your anguish
Right down to your soul.
I know that with each other we can make ourselves whole.
I look through the posture and past your disguise,
And see your love for family in your big brown eyes.
I say, clap hands and let’s come together in this meeting ground,
I say, clap hands and let’s deal with each other with love,
I say, clap hands and let us get from the low road of indifference,
Clap hands, let us come together and reveal our hearts,
Let us come together and revise our spirits,
Let us come together and cleanse our souls,
Clap hands, let’s leave the preening
And stop impostering our own history.
Clap hands, call the spirits back from the ledge,
Clap hands, let us invite joy into our conversation,
Courtesy into our bedrooms,
Gentleness into our kitchen,
Care into our nursery.
The ancestors remind us, despite the history of pain
We are a going-on people who will rise again.

And still we rise.

Human Family

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.
Some declare their lives are lived
as true profundity,
and others claim they really live
the real reality.
The variety of our skin tones
can confuse, bemuse, delight,
brown and pink and beige and purple,
tan and blue and white.
I’ve sailed upon the seven seas
and stopped in every land,
I’ve seen the wonders of the world
not yet one common man.
I know ten thousand women
called Jane and Mary Jane,
but I’ve not seen any two
who really were the same.
Mirror twins are different
although their features jibe,
and lovers think quite different thoughts
while lying side by side.
We love and lose in China,
we weep on England’s moors,
and laugh and moan in Guinea,
and thrive on Spanish shores.
We seek success in Finland,
are born and die in Maine.
In minor ways we differ,
in major we’re the same.
I note the obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

Glory Falls

Glory falls around us
as we sob
a dirge of
desolation on the Cross
and hatred is the ballast of
the rock
which his upon our necks
and underfoot.
We have woven
robes of silk
and clothed our nakedness
with tapestry.
From crawling on this
murky planet’s floor
we soar beyond the
birds and
through the clouds
and edge our waays from hate
and blind despair and
bring horror
to our brothers, and to our sisters cheer.
We grow despite the
horror that we feed
upon our own
tomorrow.
We grow.

Equality

You declare you see me dimly
through a glass which will not shine,
though I stand before you boldly,
trim in rank and marking time.
You do own to hear me faintly
as a whisper out of range,
while my drums beat out the message
and the rhythms never change.
Equality, and I will be free.
Equality, and I will be free.
You announce my ways are wanton,
that I fly from man to man,
but if I’m just a shadow to you,
could you ever understand ?
We have lived a painful history,
we know the shameful past,
but I keep on marching forward,
and you keep on coming last.
Equality, and I will be free.
Equality, and I will be free.
Take the blinders from your vision,
take the padding from your ears,
and confess you’ve heard me crying,
and admit you’ve seen my tears.
Hear the tempo so compelling,
hear the blood throb in my veins.
Yes, my drums are beating nightly,
and the rhythms never change.
Equality, and I will be free.
Equality, and I will be free.

Alone

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

A Conceit

Give me your hand
Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.
Let others have
the privacy of
touching words
and love of loss
of love.
For me
Give me your hand.

A Brave And Startling Truth

We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we learn
A brave and startling truth
And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms
When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn and scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil
When the rapacious storming of the churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze
When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse
When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Nor the Gardens of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled into delicious color
By Western sunsets
Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the Rising Sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world
When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe
We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines
When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear
When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when 
We come to it.

Follow me on Facebook  & Twitter for more Inspiration.