Millard Lowe Poet Prose Poetry

Of Charcoal Hued Memories

Black as the night
my sable soul sings songs
of Nubian ancestors
sleeping behind closed eyes
in the depths of the inner sanctum
of the womb of mind—silhouettes of beings
peeking through dark skies across ebony horizons.

Granny said, “The blacker the berry;
the sweeter the juice—that I was created
in the image…God don’t like ugly…
never made none but crème de la crème…
That like the ivory clouds of the sapphire sky,
I too, am the apple of His eye.”

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