Winds

Color me white like the color of the wall Color me white to be seen by all Color me white to stand tall The patches of black all over me The dark spots that all can see Are my prison cells, I want to flee Blow me away winds of change Blow me away winds full of rage Take me away so am no longer strange Sponsor Catie Lindsey Contest Name No More Masks! Helene Johnson Poem: Bottled Upstairs on the third floor Of the 135th Street Library In Harlem, I saw a little Bottle of sand, brown sand, Just like the kids make pies Out of down on the beach. But the label said: “This Sand was taken from the Sahara desert.” Imagine that! The Sahara desert! Some bozo’s been all the way to Africa to get some sand. And yesterday on Seventh Avenue I saw a darky dressed to kill In yellow gloves and swallowtail coat And swirling at him. Me too, At first, till I saw his face When he stopped to hear a Organ grinder grind out some jazz. Boy! You should a seen that darky’s face! It just shone. Gee, he was happy! And he began to dance. No Charleston or Black Bottom for him. No sir. He danced just as dignified And slow. No, not slow either. Dignified and proud! You couldn’t Call it slow, not with all the Cuttin’ up he did. You would a died to see him. The crowd kept yellin’ but he didn’t hear, Just kept on dancin’ and twirlin’ that cane And yellin’ out loud every once in a while. I know the crowd thought he was coo-coo. But say, I was where I could see his face, And somehow, I could see him dancin’ in a jungle, A real honest-to cripe jungle, and he wouldn’t leave on them Trick clothes-those yaller shoes and yaller gloves And swallowtail coat. He wouldn’t have on nothing. And he wouldn’t be carrying no cane. He’d be carrying a spear with a sharp fine point Like the bayonets we had “over there.” And the end of it would be dipped in some kind of Hoo-doo poison. And he’d be dancin’ black and naked and      Gleaming. And He’d have rings in his ears and on his nose And bracelets and necklaces of elephants teeth. Gee, I bet he’d be beautiful then all right. No one would laugh at him then, I bet. Say! That man that took that sand from the Sahara desert And put it in a little bottle on a shelf in the library, That’s what they done to this shine, ain’t it? Bottled him. Trick shoes, trick coat, trick cane, trick everything-all glass- But inside- Gee, that poor shine!