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Best Race Poems

Below are the all-time best Race poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of race poems written by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Race Poem | |

where braves amid the mists ignite


where braves amid the mists ignite

He knows the dance of lines at night,
 and their expanding, wayward trip
the perils and the clipons' grip.

Convergent margins that unite
 where once per life, lines sternly meet
to be horizons' incomplete.

Past scenes recite and years invite,
 abstruse the ranges, lift and share
with precognitions' blue affair.

His dream abides on beaming light,
  bike's thrust approaches distant knots
and his horizons' linking thoughts.

Where braves their destiny incite
 as lines embellish roads' decor,
and scenes return to years before.

Defiantly his words indite,
 what his third destiny perfects,
trajectories of skyward wrecks.

Where braves amid the mists ignite
 their speeding dreams of years eighteen
and turn to woods of evergreen.

He knows the dance of lines at night,
 convergent margins that unite,
past scenes recite and years invite.
 His dreams abide on beaming light
where braves their destiny incite,
 defiantly his words indite
where braves amid the mists ignite.

© 12-23-2013, G. Venetopoulos
(Iambic tetrameter)

"Third Destiny" = Please read the "About the poem" details.

Details | Race Poem | |

Divine Flowers

Divine Flowers 

In a flower’s velvet petals
There dwells a divine scent and hue
Soon a tiny creature settles
That will help pollinate a few.

We are blossoms of our dear God
Born each in colors of our kin.
It matters not our birth of sod
Neither the colors of our skin.



For Andrea Dietrich's "Tell Me Your Number Contest" I am 8  
8 line form  Heroic Rispetto (Month and Day) Path May 3rd. 5+3=8

Details | Race Poem | |

RWANDA'S BURIED CALVARY

A hundred days of tomb-like silence; a hundred days of blind eyes and deaf ears; a hundred days of wooden hearts and cruel minds. This was long ago, but still its stigma is there. Years may pass but MY LIFE will never be the same again.

I was barely a woman then, carefree and with smiles touching my lips. I was enjoying the view of the sun shining over the tranquil green  hills  of Rwanda. But, in a blink of an eye, the beautiful calm scenery I enjoyed was tinged by some shouts I heard from a river nearby. Curious, I went to see. Meters away, I saw a happy huge man wielding a machete butchering another man on the ground. Before he could see me, I turned round and ran.

Ran as fast as I could!When I reached our home, immediately, I was told by my father to keep on running. To run to a Hutu Minister miles away from our home. To run and be safe. To run and beg for my life's safety. Paper white and shuddering I ran and ran until I arrived at the Minister’s house. Scared but kind enough, the minister kept me together with seven other girls. 

We were placed then in a remote bathroom in the house. 

A bathroom three feet by four feet in size.  A bathroom where the other girls and I hid. A bathroom where in the next days, we alternately sat, stood and stretched. A bathroom that served as our refuge in times when the killers {Hutus} stormed inside the house. A bathroom where we ate beans and insects just to stay alive.

On the radio, we, Tutsis, heard our names  being announced as needed to be killed, too. There was a window where we could peek  and see people running and running. Clubs and spears a terrifying rain brutally killing men and women alike. Screams and cries a regular ringing requiem outside. Intense. Intense. Intense were the surroundings, I remember. In the bathroom, we maintained silence as if no one there. For at any time, we could be caught… Raped… Killed. And we knew back then that, the green hilly Rwanda was turned into a garden of bloody wails and tortured tales.

Then one day some troops came, stopping the genocide and finally we planned our liberation day! 

It was through courage. Cunning. Prayers that we are alive. Rwanda, may seem peaceful now, but for us victims and survivors, our life will never be the same again. I can't seek revenge for our loss: families, property and the trauma I experienced for it would only prolong my Calvary. I would rather forgive and hope that such genocide will never happen again.

© 
Oct. 11, 2014
*Rwandian

Details | Race Poem | |

Slouching Toward Ferguson

His life was gentle, and the elements
so mixed in him that Nature might stand up and
smolder

bodies in unregistered cars idling softly toward oblivion

some quick to anger
some quick to profit
some quick for justice
some tigers lapping blood
some mothers still at 3AM

hands on shoulders with coos commanding
that in a tear and turned cheek there be 'integration'

parody: an orphan annie reboot
parody: 'little black sambo 'round the tiger pit he go!'

we have rioted the last of our colors
bleated them with flexed toes to the wall at the edge of the universe to reverberate starless between
eternity
nothing
and madness

we have bleated the last of our colors
with centuries gone by without tongue, sockets or lobes

we will bleed the last of our colors
some quick to die
some quick to steal
some quick to burn
some quick to 

lend me your car keys

in a night of full of Alarics
I will bury you

in a night full of piccaninnies
I will melt you to butter

in a night where flames are fishhooks
Sir I need you to step back please

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
that
we have cried Havoc
let slip
and with purple'd prose stamped this hollowed earth

We who have lived so long
Sir?
shall with our breath turned mist
I need you to
stain only under stones
step
that pave with slippery breath
back
a headline for last weeks massacre
step
and tomorrow's graves
I need you to
I drew a line in the sand and you crossed it They are not breathing
Look! Look there!
No. I will not.
He dies

Details | Race Poem | |

Race Against Time

A race against time.

I can not enjoy my days.
They are not long enough, for the things I want to do.
I simply come and go.
Stay long, I can not. 
Like a relationship that comes and goes.
My life has no stop.
Ending up in places no one knows.
Over the edge, over the top.

I look at the time .
It flies by fast.
Where has my day gone?
In the morning I am sipping on coffee.
Now I am in bed, my day is done.

Minutes pass me by quickly.
Not giving me time to breath.
One day I was 23 years old.
The next day I turned 35,  asking where did all the time go?
I am not getting young.
When is this going to stop?
It all started when my life begun.
Will it end the day I drop.
Like the milk that spills from a cup.
A race against time
Should I just give up?
         I.T.
S.K.A.T. POETRY
3-31-10

Details | Race Poem | |

Trapped

My spirit and soul are trapped in this vessel of flesh. They scream to escape and to be liberated and soar on the breezes of life. To frolic freely among the trees, among the clouds and to run without weight and care.

My spirit and soul are trapped and they want to get out. Out from under all the stress and demand in life out from all the evil and hate of the world.

My spirit and soul are trapped in demand to perform, to keep a smile when I am down, to keep a stiff upper lip.

My spirit and soul are trapped to work for things and objects, to keep up with Jones and Kardashians. 

My spirit and soul are trapped into believing that all men are made equal when the reality of this world says different, that only green currency is the great equalizer. 

My spirit and soul are trapped into believing that single is not wholeness that it is necessary to be joined with another body to be view without stigma.

My spirit and soul are trapped in a body not acceptable because it's fat, it's woman and it's black and aging.

My spirit and soul are trapped and they are screaming to be free... screaming to reveal all the possibilities of how good life could be if I just didn't give a damn about who thinks what about me.

Details | Race Poem | |

The Leader Bunny

All the little bunnies were lined up for a race. Why, you may ask?
Because the dear old Leader Bunny was stepping down with grace.
He had led the others for years without disgrace, in all pursuits.
He was their advisor, friend, and confidant... solver of disputes.
Such a lofty position was dearly sought by all…from all around.
But he could pick only one to wear that lofty, wonderful crown.
So a race was determined to quickly resolve, the question therein.
And a lovely little laurel crown was offered, to the one who did win.

Now many strategies to win emerged from within the race.
The most common was the notion to set the fastest pace…
A few would use tricks that might hurt, in order to slow others down.
A few were mean, for they wanted the power that comes with the crown.
Two were clever and would catapult each other at the very end.
A few just practiced running to gain the added stamina needed to win.
Only one little rabbit found shoes for the poor, for it was a rocky trail.
And when the race began he helped those hurt in the prevail.

Now the dear old leader had never actually worn a laurel crown.
His had been symbolic; his works had brought him his renown.
When the Leader Bunny gave the laurel crown to he who won the race…
Only a few were surprised, when the little helper won the Leader’s grace…
Though some would go on to complain because he had come in last…
It truly takes someone who knows how to serve, to lead and guide the rest.
But my moral to this story is that…. Regardless what some may think…
It takes compassion to correctly lead…and sometimes the last can be the best…



Details | Race Poem | |

Woods of Evergreen


Woods of Evergreen

He knows the dance of lines at night, 
 and their expanding, wayward trip, 
convergent margins that unite
 the perils and the clip-ons' grip.

Defiantly the speed directs
 where once, per life, lines sternly meet, 
this trip's third destiny elects
 to make the skylines incomplete.

The scenes return to years before
 abstruse, night's ambit takes to where
the lines embellish this decor
 with his cognition's blue affair.

But who transforms converging states
 beyond the compass' distant knots, 
becomes a smile that far abates, 
 and his horizons' linking thoughts.

And those who dare to pass beyond
 their speeding dreams of years eighteen, 
their margins' arbiters, self-spawned
 become and woods of evergreen.

© 12-23-2013, G. Venetopoulos
(Iambic tetrameter)

Details | Race Poem | |

This Poem Wants 2 B A Revolutionary

This poem wants to make a change . . .

To be a strong yet silent raised fist in Mexico, 1968.

To stand at a window w/a shotgun writing the words
“By any means necessary”

To sit in at a lunch counter in Birmingham, Alabama
Until it is read

To start a breakfast program in Compton, California
In order to feed hungry minds

To stand up for its rights in Akron, Ohio and shout,
“Aint I a poem?”

To integrate an all white book store under protection of the National Guard
And when George Wallace says to it,
“You will not enter unless it’s over my cold, dead, body. . .”
This poem will gladly take him up on his offer

But now this poem feels that perhaps it is too militant,
Maybe it and Spike should just “Do the Right Thing” . . .

Take the hand of other poems deep in the South Georgia woods and lead them to freedom
Under cover of night-light

Take its brothers and sisters out of the man’s world and
Into Aaron’s “Boondocks”

Play its own music, live in Jamaica and
Grow Nappy Locs

Start a union with A. Phillip down at the docks

Be read by Martin while being pelted with rocks

Find out what would happen
“If Beale Street Could Talk”. . .

This poem will get accused of “Ego Trippin” but 
will not take it personally, declaring,
“And Still I Rise” 

It will invite other poems to a free concert headlined by
Marvin, Stevie, Chuck D, and Black Thought

It will do what it should, not what others think it ought

This poem will be munificent . . .
Will give because so much has been given to it

Will do because so much has been done for it

Will be able to sit down because so many others have
Stood up

But this poem can not sit still for long
Because this poem has been disenfranchised . . .

This poem was told there is no longer a need
For affirmative action
only to have it replaced with definitive inaction

This poem cast a vote in Florida, 
only to be told that it did not count

This poem observed its commander in thief, fly over rising waters in the Lower Ninth Ward 
just to keep his feet from getting wet

This poem watched its country expand our “melting pot” to include all types of ingredients, 
Then scrape the black off the bottom of the pan . . . 

and send it back to Haiti on a raft

This poem has been pulled over for being DWI
(drafted with intelligence)

This poem was profiled at Hartsfield Airport,
And made to take off it’s . . . blues.

This poem never planted any genus of Bush, 
It’s not concerned with whom you marry,
Nor does it desire to trade the blood of young soldiers for oil, but look what it got

No wonder,
This poem wants 2 b a revolutionary . . .

Details | Race Poem | |

A Stranger After Dark

I was sitting on the back porch ‘bout an hour after dark When I couldn’t help but notice a tiny pulsing spark. I thought it was a firefly – It had that kind of glow But I’d never seen the likes of it – what it was I didn’t know It flittered to and fro just like a firefly does I went into the backyard to determine what it was. Just as I approached the place I thought that it might be It flew right up and landed very close to me. Soon I realized it was no ordinary find. What happened next you won’t believe – it nearly blew my mind. A Lilliputian creature stepped from this tiny craft Right then and there I was aware of questions I should ask. He must have been aware of the fear he’d caused in me. I could see my hands were shakin’ -- never thought I’d be set free. His tiny voice became quite clear and in a most convincing tone He said, “My friend, be not afraid – I‘m here all alone.” He appeared to be confused a bit and why, I’ll never know But the fear that he had fostered was about to let me go. He began to tell his story; I let out a sigh I knew I’d better listen to this little guy. Now, he was small in stature; ‘bout a half inch, nothin’ more – Why, I believe that he could pass through the space beneath the door. . He then began to tell me – It must sound like a dream. He was here because of some wayward sunbeam. “I race Haley’s comet to the far side of the sun.” He said, “The race is always over before it has begun. There is a reason for these victories, you see My good ship Omnipresence, right here in front of me.” “Time and space,” He said. “Are always at my command. I can do more things with them than man can understand.” He said, “I spin the rings of Saturn, create firmament at will I flew a mission of atonement to a very special hill.” I asked, “Do you know Jesus? He died upon that hill.” He said, “When all things are settled, everybody will. I led three wise men to him that cold and wintry night The shepherds were there to witness a miraculous sight So you ask do I know Jesus? -- it fills me with such mirth -- This very craft was hidden there at the moment of His birth. I was there to hear the angels when they sang out on high. Yes, I’d say I know Jesus, That’s why I’ll never die.” Written By John Posey 12/18/12

Details | Race Poem | |

The Human Race called Mankind

The third millennium of what?
Man is lame
clearly lost the will to walk,
he’s blind
no longer able to reason.
His fingers cast hope
upon the keyboard,
his mind creates
trends upon the screen,
he inflicts pain, a global sadomasochist
he sees others in his historical
image!
He plants his seed
most upon stony ground,
he offers peace
a twisted excuse
to deliver his belief,
he’s losing God!
He thinks he’s superior, 
he’s lost the ability of simplicity,
whilst delving in ideology
akin to profit.

Harry Horsman for Michael J Falotico contest
What brought you to poetry.

Details | Race Poem | |

The Non-Marathon

Today the New York Marathon's
Become a non-event.
The runners' opportunities
To race both came and went.

At first the mayor said it's on,
Despite the storm's destruction;
And then, last minute, pulled the plug
And gave a new instruction.

The racers coming to New York
Most likely were confused;
And those who paid for flights and rooms
I'm sure were not amused.

It's sad that all that training
For this race has come to naught,
The miles of pavement pounded
On each sneaker that was bought.

But certainly the mayor
Could have hurrried his decision.
His turnabout last-minute call
Has earned him great derision.

The city wasn't ready yet
To up and celebrate.
The mayor should have known that,
But discovered it too late.

Details | Race Poem | |

Gold-Trochee

If my horse on the race course
a winner for me
then the course for my race horse
makes me debt free.

So the beat of the mare's feet
makes me debt free
gold such a treat for this feat
a winner for me.

Details | Race Poem | |

Ghetto Children

Gunshots be leavin 'em children alone
they gotta find a way all on they own
kids screamin out sets for hope 
then run around with a crew slangin dope
can't forget that they saw they fathers go
witness to earth the bloodiest show
to young to truly understand 
despite what ya heard God won't hold your hand
It seems to me that we've been forlorn
destined death after death to mourn
lookin at the future of us all
death to brothas come at a sudden call
little children begin to see the light 
keep on killin knowin that it ain't right
but desperation sets in hopin for death
because it's to painful to take another breath

How many of my brotha's died last week 
an an answer given not for the weak
life like this shoulda made us sick
creepin in streets tryin not to get licked
time again are numbers start to dwindle
hopein for knew life in this race to be kindled
but all we ever do is disappear
it's funny that are lives are consumed by fear
and are youngstas reproduce fast
more brothas get shot lives endin in head casts
why do we gotta die at such a rate
a brotha feel cold heat as if it's fate
and as my brothas always seem to die
my race got another reason to cry
little niggas is our only men
no more elders in my dearest black kin

Now we got kids runnin da street 
that means, the judge and jury da heat
the boys in blue pilein up da dead
crackas in th oval office shakein da head
the ghettos so lost can we find a way
it seem's that the only hope we got is to pray
and children already learn how god do
give to those who take so we take with a 22
now we gotta cope, sippin' on brew
gettin faded thinkin bout the dirt we do
and that just make a brotha think 
why we be born livin on da brink
seein bodies fallin fast in packs
cause it be like we forced to fire back
so thelast thing is to put bodies in bags
at da funeral drapin our brothas with rags

Details | Race Poem | |

Struggles

STRUGGLES

WE AS A RACE HAVE HAD OUR STURGGLES AND TESTS
WE’VE COME OUT VICTORIOUS BUT NOT BECAUSE WE ARE THE BEST
IT IS THE LORD WHO SAW US THROUGH THE HARD TIMES
IT IS HE WHO GAVE US CONTROL OF OUR DESTINY IN DUE TIME.

OUR ANCESTORS WERE SOLD OUT BY MEMBERS OF THEIR RACE
SOUNDS FAMILIAR? EVERYDAY THIS TYPE OF THING TAKES PLACE
WE STRUGGLE ENOUGH TO GET AHEAD IN THE WORLD
BUT UNFORTUANTELY, WE HAVE OTHER AFRICAN-AMERICANS 
BLOCKING OUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS, OUR BOYS AND OUR GIRLS
SOME OF US TEND TO BLOCK OTHERS OF US FORM REACHING THEIR POTENTIAL
BUT MANY OF US HAVE GOD ON OUR SIDE AND OUR SUCCESS IS EXPONENTIAL

OUR FOREFATHERS HAVE BEEN THROUGH SLAVERY, BEING BEATEN AND POORLY CLOTHED, 
HOUSED, AND FED.
SLAVE WOMEN WERE RAPED AND FAMILIES WERE TORN APART
BUT IN THE SOUTH, THERE WAS NOT A LOT SAID 
IN 1863 SLAVERY WAS LEGALLY ABOLISHED, BUT THIS ACT WAS NEVER REALLY PUT TO 
BED

SOME OF US, OUR PARENTS, AND GRANDPARENTS
FELL VICTIM TO THE LAW OF JIM CROW
WHEN THEY NEED HELP FORM EMERGENCY PERSONNEL
THEY HAD NOWHERE THEY COULD GO.

RACISM STILL EXIST AGAINST US, OTHERS OF COLOR, AND AGAINST OUR IVORY SISTERS 
AND BROTHERS
RACISM EXISTS WITHIN THE RACE, WHEN SOME OF US THINK WE ARE SUPERIOR TO 
OTHERS
THE LORD HAS BROUGHT THIS RACE THROUGH A LOT
UNLIKE OTHER RACES, WE NEVER SUBJECTED TO GENOCIDE
MANY OF US HAVE TAKEN ADVANTAGE OF OUR FREEDOMS AND BECOME SUCCESSFUL
WHILE OTHERS HAVE FALLEN BY THE WAYSIDE

IT IS WRONG FOR US TO BLAME WHITES OR ANYONE FOR THE SUFFERING OUR RACE WENT 
THROUGH
WE SHOULD JUST BE THANKFUL THAT NOW WE HAVE A CHANCE TO GET TO
GOD ALMIGHTY, WE CAN PRAY TO HIM FOR ANYTHING AND ANYONE
AND HE CAN SAVE ANYONE REGARDLESS OF WHAT A PERSON HAS DONE.

WE SHOULD PRAY FOR THE WORLD AS WELL AS OUR FAMILIES AND THE COMMUNITY
BECAUSE WE NEVER KNOW WHEN WE NEED HELP FROM AN OUTSIDE ENTITY.

Details | Race Poem | |

Talkin' Bout My Generation

What has happened to our kids?
Why did we become the type of parents we did?
Is there a name for us?  
Slower, easier, then turned into a mess of fuss

Using our imaginations and reading the classics galore
So much lovely literature to explore
Had to look up facts in a Book
Critical thinking came without one second look

Now we have I.T. people at schools
Showing and telling us...
 something I never really wanted to use
Gets me into trouble
What DO YOU mean I can't have that document on the double?

So, this generation I am in...the before and after
Are a special bunch of people going faster and faster
We are a special generation, you see
We grew up without the almighty god of technology

People try to put us down... cuz' we don't know the way around
Can ya dig what I'm tryin' to say?  Computers will never fade away
I'm not tryin' to cause a big sensation...
Google is fine, but not the only means of education

Details | Race Poem | |

When I was a lass

When I was a lass, we didn’t have much
Funny how we liked it though, just as such
We played in the street with a whip and top
In the school playground on a hopscotch we’d hop

Streets were quiet ‘cause there weren’t many cars
Falling off our bikes to leave a few more scars
Dandelion and burdock to drink with Sunday dinner
Yorkshire pudding first, that was always a winner

I remember when I did the hula hoop real good
I can’t do it anymore but really wish I could
Blackjacks, fruit salad, sweets and sherbet dips
Pear drops in our penny mix along with cherry lips

Love hearts, fruit gums and liquorice shoelaces
Sports days at school, the egg and spoon races
The three legged race and the sack race too
There were lots of sports we had to try and do

We had to behave ourselves when we were young
At school in the assemblies hymns were sung
Snowball fights and sledging we had in the snow
Where did all those lovely years really go

Then we grew up and things moved on
All those years as a child had now gone
 I remember it so well but it was long ago
I wish I was a lass again, knowing what I know 

Details | Race Poem | |

Run Run Run

Run run run rapidly readily rigorously
Reaching roads rivers railways
Run run run rough remote rambling routes
Realizing regret remorse remain redundant
Run run run re-evaluating racing rituals
Remaining respectful responsible  relaxed
Run run run repetitively run run run repeatedly
 

Details | Race Poem | |

Tug


The fog reminded him the winter's edge
how faster can the nightly riding be?
he felt the overthrow and painful sledge,
- the asphalt hit the rider departee.

The roar was heard amid the falling snow
the bike capsized - and hard he fell to slug,
across the never reached horizons' glow,
received her bridal kiss and asphalt's tug.

He danced with her beneath the nimbus cloud
- enjoining the magnificence of waltz;
bestowed, denoted valor, fore avowed,
ambrosial her remembrance was, and false.

Beforetime she became his fate in mists,
perceived their airy dance, surpassed treetops
lithe daughter of woods' emptiness, not kissed
on fares unvisited, where searching stops.

Inside the nimbus celebrating Halls
Collegiate was the feast's inviting dance,
trajectory redemptive, death-ride tolls,
- was thoughtful and cognizable her glance.

So standing tall 'mid honors and dusk shades,
recalled the margins that he raced upon,
three hundred for Persephone of Hades
to be his wed on skyline's denouement.

The bullocky V-engine echoes thence
and crowns the basalt rocks atop the brae
when riders pass and fog is hazy-dense
upon his street-bike-fighter see him sway.

© 09-04-2013, George Venetopoulos
(Iambic pentameter)

Details | Race Poem | |

Lost Identity: View point of a slave

Why is my skin color different?
Did God make me this way?
When he made me, did he have
intentions on me being a slave?

And I thought we were all brothers,
including all the ones of different colors.

But why are they beating and hurting the others.
Someone save me, I didn't choose this life.
These scars, they've carved me with the sharpest
knives.

All I have is my faith.
Because if I'd held on to anything else
it'd be theres to take.

What is it that I ask for?
Equality, I preach.
Something small to you, 
but makes a difference
for me.

Whipping, spitting, hitting on me.
Raping our women in your wife's sheets.
Taking our children and turning them into workers.
No sense of empathy, grief or composer.

For the brotha' on my left and my sista' on the right,
with the courage that I hold I will continue to fight.
You have taken away my freedom, and most of my life.
But what you have failed to obtain is my state of mind.

Go ahead work my body, and do all that you please.
This is just a shell anyway, it's not coming with me.
You spit, you laugh, thinking you gained the world.
You think you have power because you've raped a young girl.

Stand tall sir with all of that pride.
And go ahead and hold it until the day that you die.
But your day will come when you'll fall to your knees.
Feeling the burn on your body from the whips you've given me.

"The LORD is my shelter,"
I continue to say.
While my soul goes up as God takes me away.
I wish you peace with smile on my face,
knowing that God teaches the fullness of grace.



Details | Race Poem | |

Those Shackles

Those shackles against him
His legs that do not run
But rather crawl 
To his kingdom's goal
Those shackles; they bind him
To the endless stereotypes
And profiling
Those shackles; you'd never guess
Who put them around his legs
It was the men in their suits
Put yourself in his boots

It's the shackles, the curse
Of the skin our men were born in
They say his demeanor will never change
They seldom let us in the banks
They shoot us for commuting
Then we take to the streets
At times I think we can't be like them
We live life without cheating
If their gun isn't in hand
Then we'd take a beating

Then there's the shackles, the curse
Of the attitudes our men are forced into
They make him chase the money
But not work for the money
They hang drugs in front of our noses
They handle us like jokes
As if we're not human too

Those shackles against me
My legs that do not run
But rather sprint
To our kingdom's goal
Those shackles, they try to bind me
To the endless stereotypes
And profiling
Those shackles; you'd never guess
Who tried to put them on me
It was the men in the suits
Now put yourself in my boots.

Details | Race Poem | |

We are a family of ONE

I don't need to judge I hear there is a higher thrown for that.
I don't feed the sludge because I'm better than to brat about what's not me.
I don't fleet to the flood of the mud because the water I wait to meet
To greet it with such appreciation for all that is and for all of what I can be.
makes me feel free from the debree to degrade of what's made of other things.

 I don't fret on the color of another because they could be my sister or brother
We all bleed the same shade We all breed to the same grade 
all on the same grind to find a greater gallow than to stay blind
and that you will, if you just dont live and let live.
We all have standards but can you can't expect love if it's not what you give

Respectfully,
R.R.

Details | Race Poem | |

.~69~. /Zodiac.Race/

~69~ /zodiac sign/

There once was a hermit crab named Nate
Who enjoyed the solitude of his hate
   Meeting a lovely lady
   A sexy Texan, name P.D.
Finding true hate, trying to online date 

(Zodiac Sign Contest)

Details | Race Poem | |

Our Skin

This is a poem of skin,
for my boyfriend who is not my exact shade but equally brilliant and equally enlightened.
He extracts my darkness, 
takes from me my undeniable fears,
placing my tortures,
wearing them on his sleeve,
for his color bears the weight of agony,
of wretched past blankets of ignorant fools
who shadowed themselves from ever doing a damn thing about the separation.

This is for him.
He wears his skin better then I wear mine.
He conquers my struggles before they can even reach my heart.
Brave and beaming with un-moon lit skies,
for pores like portals,
opening himself for the world to look into history of wartimes-
Through skin-
Through skin-
Through skin-
For humans-
For humans-
For humans.

This is for my boyfriend.
My skin. Your skin. 
All this history,
Hung from ropes-
that tear weathered men into corpses
and survivors into broad shouldered, level headed, fighters of equality.

Puppeteers play with our teeth.
Wording our mannerisms into stereotypical allegories,
and fables we have all heard before.
We all have installed into our chests rages of racism-
miles of superiority,
of bare backed proposed authority.
Reality is here.
History is here,
But often not taught well enough to understand the difference
Between moving forward and standing still.

This is for you.
You, the one with skin.
For you with history.
Why do we call dark skin people of color.
We all have color.
We all burn bright.
We all bring light
To the universe with the energy of our presence.

You, over there,
with tears of deep lakes
and uncharted survival skills-
put me on your map.

This is for you.
For skin.
For color.
For shade.
For agony.
For rage.
For freedom.
My skin.
Your skin.
Our skin.
Our skin.

Details | Race Poem | |

Besought of honors durst


Besought of honors durst on edge to live
what cometh through insights and traction's hold
the wrought not to deny or to misgive
hence thither's naught to doubt in mountain's cold.

Above the limits race where speed defines
what pre-existed on the drives and pikes 
betrothal wraith among all deaths consigns
and sacrificial power chords she strikes.

Therefore the strenuous of engine's wrath
unfolds trajectories of epic drive
tangential dance upon demanding path
his hands on peau volant, race-concert thrive.

How tall a man should be on sovereign roads 
that challenge souls impertinent to rave
on sacrificial offering that goads
third fate's lithe dancing steps atop his grave?

Untamed the turbocharged propulsion roars,
the engine hollers its titanic torque,
celestial ticket bought in skies to soar
Dom Pérignon is his champagne's last cork.

Intruder of the mountain's nightly gale
the peak performing turbocharger breathes
combustion thrusts the engine to travail
how glory turns mechanical and wreathes!

It's after midnight and the slope's romance  
redeems red droplets on his uniforme
his slight of smile exceeds the ambulance
since ten to one besought, killed in the storm.

© 08-02-2013, G. Venetopoulos All rights reserved
(Iambic pentameter, Epic)