below are the words & voices of original poems shared during various speaking down barriers gatherings...share them. words matter.
"The Fact of Blackness" by Chauncey Beaty
I am outside myself looking at myself through bleached pupils They are telling me the sun does not shine for my kind and at this time I am sealed into crushing objecthood I am sea sick from the boat ride These chains have mangled my ankles Now I stumble when I walk and fall when I run too fast I am determined in the womb, other
Explain being African but never seeing Africa to a seven year old He says it doesn’t make sense, but seems to have conceptualized Christianity He believes Jesus died for his sins But does not know about the Black Nadir when men were lynched for his skin And cannot see why they too are his saviors
Black mothers wait for the day their children will discover blackness They have already prepared to rock them to sleep on that night This is the darky rite of passage like scarification under African eyes We hold our babies, tell them “daddy neva comin’ back” Only to see daddy’s face wrapped in the blanket in our arms God, please stop laughing at us
America has Black sympathy fatigue and even we are starting to believe that this is our fault Everyone hates niggers— especially niggers Black folks move into fancy houses with big cars and forget mama lives in a junk yard, because he ain’t no Nigga no mo’
“Look mama a nigger!” Little white Johnny shook in his snakeskin boots as Tyrone entered the grocery store. “Look mama a nigger, I never seen one before!” and Tyrone said, “Why pardon me son, Isa ain’t a nigger no more.” There is danger in forgetting you are nigga, Negro, Akan, Asante, and Ibo.
The mask has melted into the fabric of our reality When and where do I enter asks the Black woman? And Elijah answers “the woman is the man’s field to produce his nation” And she believes him, takes his flower and counts its petals
One, He love me, Shirley Chisholm runs for president Two, He loves me not, Corretta waits for Martin to come home, drunk on white lips and power Three, He loves me, Betty knows Malcolm slept only with pillows and pistols on those lonely nights Four, He loves me not, Myrlie’s heart explodes with Medger’s brains from the gunshot She throws down the flower and turns to a distorted brand of feminism Trying to find something living to love
Billie couldn’t sang her blues away She wears that same pink blossom tucked tightly behind her left ear and daydreams of suicide from chemical seeping into her brain while straightening her hair and she just wants to know who she is
Chocolate cover schoolgirl called me white woman in Ghana because of my toffee colored skin Black professor says, “I’ve seen your kind before, you who thinks your experience trumps you from putting the same amount of work in…. as your white counterparts” Translation: “Tone down your blackness, there is only room enough for one black authority and that’s me.” Black student agrees, because she wants her degree Leaves her blackness hung like Thomas Moss on a coat rack at the front door
We don’t dance no more or do we? Full lips are in style (just not for you darky) Eminem tops the Billboard charts, Nas declares that Hip Hop is dead Little white Johnny starts to listen to rap Johnny Sr. calls him a wigger and kicks him out the house for wearing his pants to low then sits on his hardwood floor weeping to his Miles Davis collection asking the Negro trumpeter where did he go wrong? Never recognizing the connection.
This was not the early 1900’s This was this morning, in the diner where they served me cold eggs never easy with a piece of molded toast called it equality Sipping five-day-old orange juice, the Black man next to me said, “This is the best damn glass of juice that I have ever had. Thank you, Jesus. We have arrived.”
I am outside myself looking at myself through bleached pupils They are telling me the sun does not shine for my kind and at this time I am sealed into crushing objecthood I am sea sick from the boat ride These chains have mangled my ankles Now I stumble when I walk and fall when I run too fast I am determined in the womb, other
Explain being African but never seeing Africa to a seven year old He says it doesn’t make sense, but seems to have conceptualized Christianity He believes Jesus died for his sins But does not know about the Black Nadir when men were lynched for his skin And cannot see why they too are his saviors
Black mothers wait for the day their children will discover blackness They have already prepared to rock them to sleep on that night This is the darky rite of passage like scarification under African eyes We hold our babies, tell them “daddy neva comin’ back” Only to see daddy’s face wrapped in the blanket in our arms God, please stop laughing at us
America has Black sympathy fatigue and even we are starting to believe that this is our fault Everyone hates niggers— especially niggers Black folks move into fancy houses with big cars and forget mama lives in a junk yard, because he ain’t no Nigga no mo’
“Look mama a nigger!” Little white Johnny shook in his snakeskin boots as Tyrone entered the grocery store. “Look mama a nigger, I never seen one before!” and Tyrone said, “Why pardon me son, Isa ain’t a nigger no more.” There is danger in forgetting you are nigga, Negro, Akan, Asante, and Ibo.
The mask has melted into the fabric of our reality When and where do I enter asks the Black woman? And Elijah answers “the woman is the man’s field to produce his nation” And she believes him, takes his flower and counts its petals
One, He love me, Shirley Chisholm runs for president Two, He loves me not, Corretta waits for Martin to come home, drunk on white lips and power Three, He loves me, Betty knows Malcolm slept only with pillows and pistols on those lonely nights Four, He loves me not, Myrlie’s heart explodes with Medger’s brains from the gunshot She throws down the flower and turns to a distorted brand of feminism Trying to find something living to love
Billie couldn’t sang her blues away She wears that same pink blossom tucked tightly behind her left ear and daydreams of suicide from chemical seeping into her brain while straightening her hair and she just wants to know who she is
Chocolate cover schoolgirl called me white woman in Ghana because of my toffee colored skin Black professor says, “I’ve seen your kind before, you who thinks your experience trumps you from putting the same amount of work in…. as your white counterparts” Translation: “Tone down your blackness, there is only room enough for one black authority and that’s me.” Black student agrees, because she wants her degree Leaves her blackness hung like Thomas Moss on a coat rack at the front door
We don’t dance no more or do we? Full lips are in style (just not for you darky) Eminem tops the Billboard charts, Nas declares that Hip Hop is dead Little white Johnny starts to listen to rap Johnny Sr. calls him a wigger and kicks him out the house for wearing his pants to low then sits on his hardwood floor weeping to his Miles Davis collection asking the Negro trumpeter where did he go wrong? Never recognizing the connection.
This was not the early 1900’s This was this morning, in the diner where they served me cold eggs never easy with a piece of molded toast called it equality Sipping five-day-old orange juice, the Black man next to me said, “This is the best damn glass of juice that I have ever had. Thank you, Jesus. We have arrived.”
"Good Negro" by BlaQ Socrates
What do you do when your grandmother curses you out for not letting the Police search your car with no warrant? When you get told that you ain't no god damn Trayvon Martin, and you need to be sure to bring your ass home by doing what you have to for survival |
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What do you say to something that is so servile, and so un-American, but rings more true in her heart than a pace maker with dying battery cells
She told me to let them violate me, let them assault my rights, My elders, told me to be America's bitch so that them dogs would only sniff for evidence and wouldn't bite for leads
that the womb I swam in was just a cell, so my lock up is just an abortion for something that wasn't needed anyway
something i should be used to, death and restriction
my grandmother is the granddaughter of a slave woman
Seen men, whipped, and beaten for sport, was told, now if you be good lil niggers you won't know this pain
nigga if you do what I tell you we won't know the pain of losing one of our sons
Grandma. That doesn't work anymore. And from what I know I can tell you it never did.
That on the day, January 24th, 1992, I came out of your daughter with a ski mask for a face and a cross for a back, seen as a thief and destined to be a martyr before I could speak my first word
my whole presence is Russian roulette with assistance, I never know when that one or six shots takes me away
Ask Michael Brown. 6'4", 292 lbs, power was a birthright he abandoned while he was unarmed, on bended knees, Hands in air, begging for his life
being a good negro does not insure your safety, sometimes, it's just a catalyst to your death bed
No fight, no resistance, just lay there as they trample on top of you like the pavement his lifeless body fell upon after the first two bullets revolving door entered and exited his body
Grandma, as a black son there is no guarantee that I'll make it home tonight. So if I must die, let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, but like the American I was born as, and the man you helped raise me to be
She told me to let them violate me, let them assault my rights, My elders, told me to be America's bitch so that them dogs would only sniff for evidence and wouldn't bite for leads
that the womb I swam in was just a cell, so my lock up is just an abortion for something that wasn't needed anyway
something i should be used to, death and restriction
my grandmother is the granddaughter of a slave woman
Seen men, whipped, and beaten for sport, was told, now if you be good lil niggers you won't know this pain
nigga if you do what I tell you we won't know the pain of losing one of our sons
Grandma. That doesn't work anymore. And from what I know I can tell you it never did.
That on the day, January 24th, 1992, I came out of your daughter with a ski mask for a face and a cross for a back, seen as a thief and destined to be a martyr before I could speak my first word
my whole presence is Russian roulette with assistance, I never know when that one or six shots takes me away
Ask Michael Brown. 6'4", 292 lbs, power was a birthright he abandoned while he was unarmed, on bended knees, Hands in air, begging for his life
being a good negro does not insure your safety, sometimes, it's just a catalyst to your death bed
No fight, no resistance, just lay there as they trample on top of you like the pavement his lifeless body fell upon after the first two bullets revolving door entered and exited his body
Grandma, as a black son there is no guarantee that I'll make it home tonight. So if I must die, let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, but like the American I was born as, and the man you helped raise me to be
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"Skittles" by BlaQ Socrates
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Skittles never argue over color. They never forget that they're the same size or the same shape. They realize that their similarities outweigh their differences and that these differences come together to make something sweet
But it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth to know that George Zimmerman can neglect someone's humanity and remain in the comfort of his own home. Leaves a bitter feeling on my heart to know that an American citizen's death isn't worthy of following proper procedures Kaye's about legislation to bring him justice
Trayvon I can only imagine how you felt.
Yellow with fear as someone approaches you with 9 millimeter in hand
Red with frustration a you put up a fight to save your life
Blue, as your body grows cold from being shot in the chest and dying from an ignorant bastard's insecurity
Green with envy is your mother as she see's your assailant living and breathing
Purple, for be very fist shaped bruise your father wants to put all over Zimmerman's body
Officers donning blue and white uniforms to symbolize unity feel justice is served and to them it had because justice is a black woman mourning the death of her son
She wants to remain blind to the issue but she can't keep her eyes off of Trayvon's corpse
The blindfold that she once wore has become a box of tissues that she uses to wipe her eyes of tears as her forefathers law repeats the cycle of forgetting dark skinned sons
His motive was to come home. Back into the Kingdom his father had built for him. I'm the eyes of his mother and father he's a prince. To Zimmerman he was a threat. And to the Florida police department he's nothing more than another nigger who made their list of statistics. Nothing more than a name and a number, probably assumed to eventually have numbers after his name and to be thrown behind bars like the animal they saw him as tell me when does it stop?
When will we stop hearing names like Trayvon Martin, Jordan Davis, Sean Belle, Rodney King, Emmett Till, Tell me
When will we see ourselves as the candy that this child was holding. Like skittles, when will we see that our similarities outweigh our differences and that we are all someone's parent, someone's child, someone's something. Tell me, when?
But it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth to know that George Zimmerman can neglect someone's humanity and remain in the comfort of his own home. Leaves a bitter feeling on my heart to know that an American citizen's death isn't worthy of following proper procedures Kaye's about legislation to bring him justice
Trayvon I can only imagine how you felt.
Yellow with fear as someone approaches you with 9 millimeter in hand
Red with frustration a you put up a fight to save your life
Blue, as your body grows cold from being shot in the chest and dying from an ignorant bastard's insecurity
Green with envy is your mother as she see's your assailant living and breathing
Purple, for be very fist shaped bruise your father wants to put all over Zimmerman's body
Officers donning blue and white uniforms to symbolize unity feel justice is served and to them it had because justice is a black woman mourning the death of her son
She wants to remain blind to the issue but she can't keep her eyes off of Trayvon's corpse
The blindfold that she once wore has become a box of tissues that she uses to wipe her eyes of tears as her forefathers law repeats the cycle of forgetting dark skinned sons
His motive was to come home. Back into the Kingdom his father had built for him. I'm the eyes of his mother and father he's a prince. To Zimmerman he was a threat. And to the Florida police department he's nothing more than another nigger who made their list of statistics. Nothing more than a name and a number, probably assumed to eventually have numbers after his name and to be thrown behind bars like the animal they saw him as tell me when does it stop?
When will we stop hearing names like Trayvon Martin, Jordan Davis, Sean Belle, Rodney King, Emmett Till, Tell me
When will we see ourselves as the candy that this child was holding. Like skittles, when will we see that our similarities outweigh our differences and that we are all someone's parent, someone's child, someone's something. Tell me, when?
"Sweeter than our Carolina Tea" by KJ Gibbs
My English Grandmother never allowed past her lips
a single bite of Spaghetti Marinara, Lasagna or other “foreign muck”.
While some may call her racist for it, others may point out
the hypocrisy in shunning Italian food, while simultaneously embracing
a far east stew that the English deem “Pub Curry.”
But my Grandmother never forgot her Rosie the Riveter years
in the Sheffield munition factory, or my Grandfather’s post
in Cairo that left him deaf, or the birth of her first child
in a Shell Shocked Hospital Hallway with no doctor or electricity.
She never forgot the sound of the bombs on blacked out streets.
So she manifested her anger, she took her revenge for a ravaged city
in the only useless way she could: a hate for all things German and Italian--
right down to the noodles.
You may have realized that I have a heritage afar,
I’m first generation American, “an anchor baby.”
As my co-worker Yolanda exclaimed after I mentioned my English parents,
“I knew you were eating some strange food.”
And yes, the British are known for their love of weird food.
Yes, I’ll have the pizza with tuna and sweetcorn in it.
Sure I’d love the prawn flavored crisps. And TGIF!
Thank God its Fish on Friday cause I love me some Fish N’ Chips
Yet while not a single bone of my family is buried on American soil,
I am native born, raised in Carolina, learned in the ways of Collard
Greens, Cornbread, Grits, and Biscuits. This food is what ties the cultures
of the South together. Take any group of Southerners, black or Textile Mill white,
they can bond over the commonality of a shared food tradition:
A tradition of fat back and pickled hot peppers flavoring
Share cropper staples of string beans, potatoes, black eyed peas,
And greens. A tradition born from never having enough.
Yet in this New South, while our schools may be integrated,
where as much as we have moved forward — things have also stayed
the same. Some Southerners may have been trained with a more PC vocabulary
but the generational racism has not been erased from their hearts.
Nonetheless, Southern cultures raised in the isolation of slavery then segregation
have developed their own flavor — a quilt sewn of diverse tradition and dyed
with Indigo, Sumac, and Black Walnut. Whether it is the traditional artisan
crafts of the Gullah Geechee, the Appalachian dulcimer twang, the colorful Haitian
dance, or the Tree Tossing Highland Games. Our cultural differences are what makes
the American South Great — not a reason to hate.
Yet today, while more whites may keep racial slurs private, it is not because
their colorblind— it’s because they’ve learned to avoid the backlash.
Opting instead to create a culture of shunning our darker skinner countrymen.
Meanwhile friends of a darker hue are refused service
at a bar on Greenville’s supposedly welcoming Main Street.
How shocking that in this day, an American citizen is treated
as if he was wearing an invisibility cloak.
Meanwhile on that same Main Street, my black business partner
and I are harassed by a 30 something in a tie, for the crime
of walking shoulder to shoulder from Coffee to NOMA square.
If my Grandmother was alive today, I would tell her to forgive
the terrifying 1940’s and the undernourished 1950’s
and take a twirl with a plate of Mussolini Linguini.
Just like today, I say to you, South Carolina — God Damn--
Black churches are still burning and the strange fruit hanging
from bloody trees has been replaced by the echo of a Glock.
But most damaging, we are smothering
our young, gifted, and cultured beneath a hooded history.
Instead of celebrating a rich God-given diversity
that could make our Carolina future sweeter than our tea.
My English Grandmother never allowed past her lips
a single bite of Spaghetti Marinara, Lasagna or other “foreign muck”.
While some may call her racist for it, others may point out
the hypocrisy in shunning Italian food, while simultaneously embracing
a far east stew that the English deem “Pub Curry.”
But my Grandmother never forgot her Rosie the Riveter years
in the Sheffield munition factory, or my Grandfather’s post
in Cairo that left him deaf, or the birth of her first child
in a Shell Shocked Hospital Hallway with no doctor or electricity.
She never forgot the sound of the bombs on blacked out streets.
So she manifested her anger, she took her revenge for a ravaged city
in the only useless way she could: a hate for all things German and Italian--
right down to the noodles.
You may have realized that I have a heritage afar,
I’m first generation American, “an anchor baby.”
As my co-worker Yolanda exclaimed after I mentioned my English parents,
“I knew you were eating some strange food.”
And yes, the British are known for their love of weird food.
Yes, I’ll have the pizza with tuna and sweetcorn in it.
Sure I’d love the prawn flavored crisps. And TGIF!
Thank God its Fish on Friday cause I love me some Fish N’ Chips
Yet while not a single bone of my family is buried on American soil,
I am native born, raised in Carolina, learned in the ways of Collard
Greens, Cornbread, Grits, and Biscuits. This food is what ties the cultures
of the South together. Take any group of Southerners, black or Textile Mill white,
they can bond over the commonality of a shared food tradition:
A tradition of fat back and pickled hot peppers flavoring
Share cropper staples of string beans, potatoes, black eyed peas,
And greens. A tradition born from never having enough.
Yet in this New South, while our schools may be integrated,
where as much as we have moved forward — things have also stayed
the same. Some Southerners may have been trained with a more PC vocabulary
but the generational racism has not been erased from their hearts.
Nonetheless, Southern cultures raised in the isolation of slavery then segregation
have developed their own flavor — a quilt sewn of diverse tradition and dyed
with Indigo, Sumac, and Black Walnut. Whether it is the traditional artisan
crafts of the Gullah Geechee, the Appalachian dulcimer twang, the colorful Haitian
dance, or the Tree Tossing Highland Games. Our cultural differences are what makes
the American South Great — not a reason to hate.
Yet today, while more whites may keep racial slurs private, it is not because
their colorblind— it’s because they’ve learned to avoid the backlash.
Opting instead to create a culture of shunning our darker skinner countrymen.
Meanwhile friends of a darker hue are refused service
at a bar on Greenville’s supposedly welcoming Main Street.
How shocking that in this day, an American citizen is treated
as if he was wearing an invisibility cloak.
Meanwhile on that same Main Street, my black business partner
and I are harassed by a 30 something in a tie, for the crime
of walking shoulder to shoulder from Coffee to NOMA square.
If my Grandmother was alive today, I would tell her to forgive
the terrifying 1940’s and the undernourished 1950’s
and take a twirl with a plate of Mussolini Linguini.
Just like today, I say to you, South Carolina — God Damn--
Black churches are still burning and the strange fruit hanging
from bloody trees has been replaced by the echo of a Glock.
But most damaging, we are smothering
our young, gifted, and cultured beneath a hooded history.
Instead of celebrating a rich God-given diversity
that could make our Carolina future sweeter than our tea.
"A Letter to My Brother" by Lyla Flower
My youngest brother is 11.
A little boy,
As tall as i am,
With sunburst eyes and kisses for my cheeks.
He is growing too fast y'all.
Learning to stitch his fists
Against anyone's jaw who
Promises him a good fight
Or threatens his "manhood"
And he is too young.
Having violence shoved down his throat
And his fingers being taught to
Tickle the trigger of a gun.
His skin
Is as white as the eggshells
I walk on around him.
His adolescent mouth has spit
Hatred and ignorance into the air
Too quickly for his teeth to catch
Like:
All faggots should be sent to one island
And be blown into nonexistence.
Or all blacks are poor
And we should gun down a hand
Moving too quickly.
Breathing out all of the poison
His peers have injected into his brain.
I remember being his age,
Hearing my great grandfather
Call another human being
A porch monkey,
Saying his hands itch to teach
That black right.
Telling me that crows and doves
Should never mix
And we are not living the way
God ever intended.
I am older now.
And I am learning everyday
How lives can be taken
For no reason at all.
That a child as young as 11
Can learn to hate someone based on
Their sexuality or skin color
Like I
Have never taught him how to love.
That a child I rocked to sleep
Can become a part of the problem
Because it's easier than
Finding a solution.
That we sure as hell
Are not living the way
The God i have come to know
Ever intended.
My brother,
Please never mistake your color,
For savior.
Remember that I am your sister
And even though we are different shades
I still hold half of your d.n.a
And we still bleed the same color.
Remember to be a little boy,
One who is blessed enough not to have to worry
About losing his life everyday,
And know
That that,
Does not give you the power to choose,
Who loses theirs.
My youngest brother is 11.
A little boy,
As tall as i am,
With sunburst eyes and kisses for my cheeks.
He is growing too fast y'all.
Learning to stitch his fists
Against anyone's jaw who
Promises him a good fight
Or threatens his "manhood"
And he is too young.
Having violence shoved down his throat
And his fingers being taught to
Tickle the trigger of a gun.
His skin
Is as white as the eggshells
I walk on around him.
His adolescent mouth has spit
Hatred and ignorance into the air
Too quickly for his teeth to catch
Like:
All faggots should be sent to one island
And be blown into nonexistence.
Or all blacks are poor
And we should gun down a hand
Moving too quickly.
Breathing out all of the poison
His peers have injected into his brain.
I remember being his age,
Hearing my great grandfather
Call another human being
A porch monkey,
Saying his hands itch to teach
That black right.
Telling me that crows and doves
Should never mix
And we are not living the way
God ever intended.
I am older now.
And I am learning everyday
How lives can be taken
For no reason at all.
That a child as young as 11
Can learn to hate someone based on
Their sexuality or skin color
Like I
Have never taught him how to love.
That a child I rocked to sleep
Can become a part of the problem
Because it's easier than
Finding a solution.
That we sure as hell
Are not living the way
The God i have come to know
Ever intended.
My brother,
Please never mistake your color,
For savior.
Remember that I am your sister
And even though we are different shades
I still hold half of your d.n.a
And we still bleed the same color.
Remember to be a little boy,
One who is blessed enough not to have to worry
About losing his life everyday,
And know
That that,
Does not give you the power to choose,
Who loses theirs.
"Soapbox" by Lyla Flower
What do you do when you've become a stranger in your own backyard
and get buried at the foot of someone else's soapbox
That they stood too proudly upon,
What do you do when you've given up your fight?
Can you forgive yourself for not dying a fighter
But rather lying down like a bitch?
For snuffing out these sparks of revolution
Because it sounds too much like rebellion to them?
What will you tell your brothers?
How much longer will we allow
Ignorance in the form of government
Harm our children with every supported gunshot
To a Sean Bell?
How will you let yourself be forgotten
In this textbook country that likes
To erase its ugly mistakes.
This nation sings of liberty.
Yet still isms of race, sex, humanity exist,
We all drum to this beat of in God we trust
While another child sees their chapters close
Behind the boards of a wooden box.
While they're voices are being stifled in this pledge of allegiance,
Tell me.
In what God do you trust?
Does his name sound like money..
Does it sound like silence
They castrate our voices so we can't breed hope
So what do you do when you've become silent.
When the chains binding you
Are a Lincoln speech as much as a confederate flag,
Is a Mike Fair shouting abnormality,
When every coupling of church and state
Encourages violence amongst the divided?
And you,
Sell yourself out
For a peace of mind you will never receive.
We have seen,
How courage
Quickly becomes silence.
That strength is in standing,
Even with so many bullets in our Oscar Grant backs,
That corruption is not skin based,
Yet soul amplifying.
What do you do
When you've become the straw
That breaks this movements back?
Because you cannot stop justice,
You cannot stop a people.
You can only anger it.
What do you do when you've become a stranger in your own backyard
and get buried at the foot of someone else's soapbox
That they stood too proudly upon,
What do you do when you've given up your fight?
Can you forgive yourself for not dying a fighter
But rather lying down like a bitch?
For snuffing out these sparks of revolution
Because it sounds too much like rebellion to them?
What will you tell your brothers?
How much longer will we allow
Ignorance in the form of government
Harm our children with every supported gunshot
To a Sean Bell?
How will you let yourself be forgotten
In this textbook country that likes
To erase its ugly mistakes.
This nation sings of liberty.
Yet still isms of race, sex, humanity exist,
We all drum to this beat of in God we trust
While another child sees their chapters close
Behind the boards of a wooden box.
While they're voices are being stifled in this pledge of allegiance,
Tell me.
In what God do you trust?
Does his name sound like money..
Does it sound like silence
They castrate our voices so we can't breed hope
So what do you do when you've become silent.
When the chains binding you
Are a Lincoln speech as much as a confederate flag,
Is a Mike Fair shouting abnormality,
When every coupling of church and state
Encourages violence amongst the divided?
And you,
Sell yourself out
For a peace of mind you will never receive.
We have seen,
How courage
Quickly becomes silence.
That strength is in standing,
Even with so many bullets in our Oscar Grant backs,
That corruption is not skin based,
Yet soul amplifying.
What do you do
When you've become the straw
That breaks this movements back?
Because you cannot stop justice,
You cannot stop a people.
You can only anger it.
"Ebola" by Lyla Flower
God has saved two people from Ebola
In an Atlanta hospital,
A white female missionary,
And a white doctor.
When the doctor spoke
He said God had saved him
And Africa, needed all the prayers it could get.
This man spoke of his savior
As if He were the doctors hands
Separating virus from blood.
Turned prayer into solution as if
Words ever cured a disease,
Like we can speak death out of corpses
Or take color out of a picture.
Like ebola was ever an issue America concerned herself with
Before, her pale children started dying.
Like God doesn't see color,
Only devotion,
And that is why privilege will always
Come before indigenous.
When they look in the mirror
Do they see blood
Staring them back in the face?
Ferguson made headlines months ago.
With riots and Brown's name plastered like evil.
Painted as savagery
Given as evidence
For a white mans idea of a target
Being a young black man's unprotected chest.
Darren wilson,
When you look in the mirror,
Do you see blood staring you back in the face.
Do you try to scrub it out of your reflection?
Like in 2009,
When Henry Davis was charged with
4 counts of property destruction
For bleeding on the uniforms that beat him.
When the judge ruled that his injuries were too
Minor to be labeled "excessive force"
And closed the case.
America,
When you look in that mirror
Do you see blood staring you back in the face?
The blood you see as carrying a virus
For being anything but white,
The blood you've been trying to pray away
Since the day you realized
You couldn't own them anymore.
If God doesn't see color,
Why are you so busy finger painting
Injustice on a guilty yet free mans head,
Instead of looking in the fucking mirror.
God has saved two people from Ebola
In an Atlanta hospital,
A white female missionary,
And a white doctor.
When the doctor spoke
He said God had saved him
And Africa, needed all the prayers it could get.
This man spoke of his savior
As if He were the doctors hands
Separating virus from blood.
Turned prayer into solution as if
Words ever cured a disease,
Like we can speak death out of corpses
Or take color out of a picture.
Like ebola was ever an issue America concerned herself with
Before, her pale children started dying.
Like God doesn't see color,
Only devotion,
And that is why privilege will always
Come before indigenous.
When they look in the mirror
Do they see blood
Staring them back in the face?
Ferguson made headlines months ago.
With riots and Brown's name plastered like evil.
Painted as savagery
Given as evidence
For a white mans idea of a target
Being a young black man's unprotected chest.
Darren wilson,
When you look in the mirror,
Do you see blood staring you back in the face.
Do you try to scrub it out of your reflection?
Like in 2009,
When Henry Davis was charged with
4 counts of property destruction
For bleeding on the uniforms that beat him.
When the judge ruled that his injuries were too
Minor to be labeled "excessive force"
And closed the case.
America,
When you look in that mirror
Do you see blood staring you back in the face?
The blood you see as carrying a virus
For being anything but white,
The blood you've been trying to pray away
Since the day you realized
You couldn't own them anymore.
If God doesn't see color,
Why are you so busy finger painting
Injustice on a guilty yet free mans head,
Instead of looking in the fucking mirror.
"Post-Racial Zombie (The Click)" by Sapient Soul
The last heard I love you was buried with him Somber again becomes hope for séance from his loved ones They nightmare images of the bullets dancing upon his vital Signs of outrage, a riotous escapade consume tubes and screens, lies of mutiny and savagery We are dead before the click I was told that she was afraid for her husband's life Cities of black faces and white allies across the states united in anger Who knew the color of rage Could be so ignorant At least that's the skew of your TV station anchor Who knew the accuracy of those weapons Seems we just get angry for no reason Mike Brown was a demon and a theif Trayvon Martin smoked weed And Tamir Rice is a 12 year old that looked like a grown man... Because you know, we are dead before the click... I don't want my son's rite of passage to be acquisition of shooting range target See, I woke up on November 25th with suicide clouding my mind Overwhelmed is an understatement It must be nice to not have to care To shop till you drop while another black boy loses that option for a reasonable doubt that you don't have to prove I am afraid to have sons Afraid for my father Because there is a war going on and we have too many casualties You know they are dead before the click They say racism is a thing of the past They say this isn't the way to change anything They say look at our people acting a fool I say well please show me what you are doing for change other than running your mouth This is not the time for your commentary This is a time for eyes to be open this is a time for conversation and understanding a time for healing Because you know, nowadays, sons are dead before the click The click of turning on Fox News The click of Rush Limbaugh to NPR The click of degradation on your radio The click of your front door locking in the suburbs The click of left turn signal into Southside The click of sirens turning on The click of police car door The click of my black brother's car window. The click of tones in exchange of license and registration for dignity and no reason necessary. The click... Of a gun or your perspective The click... Wake up. |
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"FRUITS OF THE confederacy" by Sapient Soul
Poem published by Flycatcher Journal Southern trees bear a strange fruit Blood on the leaves And blood at the root Black bodies swinging in the Southern breeze Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees --Billie Holiday, “Strange Fruit” All of my life I have lived a neighborhood over I have sat across from The confederacy I have walked the grounds of a state In which the flag still blows Breathing out spirit of confederacy Flag flown to never forget false legacy I’ve been told many of times that this flag is not to offend me That this flag be a remnant of history But the truth be That the American flag is allowed to be warped by its own For red blood crossed in blue is okay for a lighter skin tone See, I see racism’s attempt At wearing a mask You tell me For how many lost wars have the losers continued to wave their flags PROUD Like suppression and superiority remain deeply embedded within those veins Like memories of being beaten and bruised for being too black Sing songs of STRANGE FRUIT to my brain We live in a world of too many exceptions And I refuse to accept when What was wrong then remains wrong now And I see the now The now where my education doesn’t mean much Without having to prove myself beyond my Different hair My different perspectives My unique walk in this life be constantly disrespected By what should have been buried in 1865 But racism remains alive See I won’t juke or jive to that Dixie song For my souls set to a different drum My ancestral connection will never be done Ba-Ba-Ba-Bee bopping to my own rhythm of freedom and liberation I think Therefore I am While I be a part of what happened before me Don’t confuse this poem as a puzzle As my words spit crystal clear images of frustration With the ignorance that persists in this land of the free Us was freed by WE no lincoln POLITICAL AGENDA attached And for that We have the right And we have the honor To label the confederate’s bearer as IGNORANT So if it’s all ignorance Why don’t you tell me Who’s the nigger now? |
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"When You Are Black and In America" by Sapient Soul
When you are Black and in America, You are not an American. You will be taught to pledge your trust to a flag. You will be boy scouted into fighting for a Country whose laws protect you like a Judas kiss. This flag will have red stripes. It will remind you of blood. You will be taught that red, black, and green are not worthy of being taught. You will learn through infomercial that Africa is broken because of the melanin in your skin. You will be taught of the evil in a Black Panther’s eye And be taught to be thankful that White men are no longer wearing hoods. You will celebrate this— In 28 days And the birthday of MLK. When you are Black and in America, You will be taught that there are more of your men in jail than in college. You will vouch for the statistics that you were allowed to see. You will not research this yourself. You will be conditioned to be thankful that they gave you your degree As if your ancestor wasn’t the one who fought for you to have that seat, And your brain was not the one that performed the task. You will not know your worth. You will learn that your life is only worth prayer rallies, and vigils. The truth will smell like Gunsmoke one day. On those days, we will cry in unison. The tears will form a river. It will flow into a valley of dried tears. When the storm passes, you will forget… That when you are Black and in America, The Declaration of Independence and American Constitution are an unamended lettering in black and white Summed up to mean “This was not written for you”. When you are Black and in America, You will be taught that diversity luncheons and unity circles are great for our community. You will learn that these are often led by those in power. Power maintains power by maintaining status quo. When you are black and in America, Gentrification and statistics are maintaining status quo. You will be spoon fed your history in King James version. You will gather on Sundays and be conditioned to organize for nothing. You will be told that blood was spilled for you to vote. You will not be taught what an electoral vote means. When you are Black and in America, you will be desensitized to the strange fruit Hanging from trees now disguised in courtroom and a jury of your peers. When you are Black and in America, You are just visiting here. |
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