Best Black African Amerme Poems
I came first but you did not write me in history
You made me mute, invisible, estranged
From my own heredity and great memory
With the slivering tongue arranged
Upon my brain. You brought me back, later
Across the wet desert of the Atlantic
From coffle to cotton, without choice in the matter
So I would believe I was a lunatic.
For only lunatics have no sense of place or name
Make roads they cannot walk, make garments
That cannot cover the stereotypes of shame.
I proved genius in better moral arguments
Did not let me take your life for all your cruelty.
Here is one more for your book, from islands
To continents I made them all the same
You left them blood and gold from your hands
Dripping, I followed you with a different name
Look again, who is the immigrant? Who do you fool?
Let me not deny your stealth, this separation
Of the vine from the root, by dividing you rule
But before you set us at variance, a suggestion
What is the DNA of all your wealth, the legacy
Of pirates and slaves? There is no beggar's hand
Here, just agents to recoup with undue courtesy
The treasures stolen from love and native land
Somehow I feel connected to each lock
They remind me of a time before me when black was not just hip hop
They remind me of a movement towards freedom
When we were gaining the momentumm to no longer be oppressed
To me they represent bold, natural blackness
Symbols of non-conformity and to some
a sign of spiritual royalty
From ancient egyptians
to the movement of the rastafari
The lion of Judah remains represented entirely upon the heads of those
who rebel against enslavement
In modern times and during the times of
John the Baptist, King Tut, Solomon and Samson
Connected deeply to the Rastafarian and the struggle of the block
Guerilla warriors swore not to cut the locks
until the release of their authority
Jah-Rastafari or Haile Selassie I
Big ups to the dreads with conscious minds
The intertwined knots remind me of naturally grown crops of herbs
Each lock a spliff of some FIYA YA
to help calm my nerves
Burning the corruption and the lies told about the words written
While filtering out the bullcrap I found truth in transmission
Giving it to you is my soul mission
Locks. Beautiful like the afro
Symbolizing freedom from strong holds
Still black and proud though
I love locks
They remind me of pure blackness
We have come a long way we have been fighting for centuries and decades to get
where we are.
Jim Crow and the Segregated south couldn't keep us down.
We fought to be equal by marching the streets of the south all the way to D.C.
Slavery may have tried to keep us down and make us give up.
But we held our heads up high and looked to the sky and Prayed to God to help us.
And he did he saw us through he made us stronger it was another's day journey
and we were glad about it.
My heritage enlightens me it inspires me to be a better person and to be my best.
My culture motivates to want more to educate the younger generation.
From the plantation to the white house we have come a long way.
To see the future through and have a brighter day.
The south thought they had us bound but they were wrong.
The Lord knew what he had in store for us all along.
He showed us the light............
And kept us through the night.
People like the Reverend Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson are keeping the legacy
alive .
By making sure that we know our rights and get the respect we deserve.
I am enlightened by what Martin Luther, Malcolm X and Frederick Douglass did.
They were motivated even though they came from different backgrounds.
My ancestors pulled through so I could see something unique and divine.
Segregation turned into intergration Jim Crow evolved into the background paving
the way for Barack Obama to become president.
If only Jim Crow knew he paved the way for civil rights.
For marches upon Washington D.C. and for Lunch Counter Sit-ins.
All those hymns and Justice he paved the way for Rosa Parks to say enough is
enough.
To not give up her seat and to be treated as equal citizens.
My heritage and my culture breathes within me and I must keep the legacy going
strong.
All my days long.
Form:
I am a ghetto boy with no ware to go, so I talk to the lord to keep my flow.
The answer came that would make me a man.
He said the graveyard would be calling my name, but you want fame;
so here i go. Make the wrong move and the door will close.
I said lord I can't help myself, unemployment on the rise and i don't have many
friends; cause i begin to wonder is there spies with in.
All i want to do is to get out of this rut, without hanging with the fellas
selling dope at the cut.
I don't want no mess so i carry a peice in case some fool want some of me.
Hitting the switch in the car so my girl can get in, I keep her with me
to keep me from committing a sin. I am a ghetto boy, but i'm out to win.
All these things mean something to me.
It is not what you would see in a hustlers magazine.
A stash of dope in the trunk and thee dogs at the cut,
dressing in hood gear and waring bullets proof vests.
Is death the promise for doing my best.
I am a ghetto boy with no ware to go, so i talk to the lord to keep my flow.
THE END
Form:
This Body
Those on the bottom can see but can’t act,
Those on the top can act, but can’t see,
O Lord, please free me from this body of Death, America.
Dear Lord, How am I to stay composed, as the very fabric of justice decomposes from
beneath me?
My footsteps are weighted down by the sounds of my ancestors screaming for my freedom, as
they realized that their deliverance was only in the life to come?
Am I to wait until the life to come?
Like some passive animal, always turning by backside to be flogged by the excruciating
hypocrisy of white supremacy,
You ask me to hold to your precepts, you ask me to hold to your law of love,
And yet for me it is like Atlas, bearing the weight of my oppressor’s ignorance, all the
while attempting to free them from their codependency on my subjugation,
Even for those who see, their loss is still their gain, Privilege,
But for me, loss is the sound of riotous rage burning the streets of Chicago,
And yet my Lord,
Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things unseen,
I must believe, even as my circumstances bludgeon me from the inside out,
I must believe that you have a plan.
We need not loans, but a redefinition of what it means to prosper?
Can you grant us at least this my lord?
A vision of repentance in which top and bottom begin to fade away beneath the sound of
righteous equality?
If we can just touch the hem of your garment?
If we can just touch the hem of your garment, then we shall be healed.
And this body will know the sublime language of harmony.
Lord God, do not free me from this body of death, America.
For in my freedom, my brethren will still suffer.
Rather, free this body from its insanity.
So that we all may sleep and dream soundly.
Form:
I'm a special gift from God
He made me long ago
And put in me His spirit
Telling me what I need to know
The eyes that He gave me
Makes me able to see
All His wonderful creation
And the way He wanted it to be
From the ears that I have
I am able to hear
The sound from the things
He made far and near
Oh yes my precious hands
Within them I can touch
And feel those wonderful things
Too me that mean so much
Now the nose He bless me with
I can surely smell
Many, many fragrances
With an aroma that's so well
Finally there's my mouth
With a taste that touches my heart
And sense this Black History Day
I'm a special gift from God.
Sing me a old down-home song;
Sing to me some blues.
Syncopate the drums, sing loud and long.
Sing to me some blues.
Tell of people, from a homeland ripped,
Packed like sardines, cross the ocean shipped,
Remember to me bodies broken, bloodied and whipped.
Sing to me some blues.
Sing to me a cotton-field song;
Sing to me some blues.
Moan the story of a people done wrong.
Sing to me some blues!
Taken to the block, rubbed down with oil,
Sold like a beast to bear burdens and toil,
Tell how our blood watered King Cotton’s soil.
Sing to me some blues.
Sing me one of them old slave-timey songs;
Sing to me some blues.
The field hands’ chant and the pickers’ moan;
Sing to me some blues.
How the children were sold while, mother’s did plead,
Of how we were raped and made to bleed,
When dying was just one way to get freed.
Sing to me some blues.
Sing me a work dawn to dark song.
Sing me a little blues.
Make that bass walk like a sharecropper, steady and strong.
Sing me some hardworking blues-
About how the ledger book replaced the chain;
About how the labor was all in vain;
The more debt paid, the more debt gained.
Sing to me some blues.
Sing to me, a freedom flight song.
Sing to me, some blues.
Tell of a cry for freedom so strong!
Sing to me, some blues.
Sing about no longer moving to the back seat.
Sing about sitting at the counter to eat.
Sing of bombs in the churches and dogs in the street.
Sing to me some blues.
Sing to me, my people’s song!
Sing to me some blues!
Sing of the struggle that still goes on
Sing to me, some blues.
Tell me the story of four hundred years,
Tell of the losses, the pain and the fears,
Sing loud of strength forged from suffering and tears.
Sing to me some blues….
Play yo harmonica, son….
Black History Month is recognized almost everywhere;
I’d watch shows like Roots but didn’t care.
Slaves sold from one master to another;
Separated from mother, father, sister and brother.
On the plantations picking cotton;
Praying to God they won’t be forgotten.
Black people sitting at the back of the bus;
Wondered why no one would put up a fuss.
What’s wrong with you people, why not fight back?
Mom said they stayed humble to keep families intact.
The dogs, hoses, sticks and stones;
They never retreated to be left alone.
Can’t drink from the fountain, get an education;
Little Rock Nine opened the eyes of the nation.
News bytes of riots and protests and sit-ins;
Still uninterested because where do I fit in?
The 50’s and 60’s were for civil rights;
So I can live in a city that ends with the word “Heights”.
That’s in the past, I’d say, then channel surf;
Something so subtle but powerful was what I saw first.
A black man and white woman dance on the floor;
Why didn’t this program affect me before?
Whoopi and Barbara share a desk on The View;
I had to look twice like it was something new.
Oprah and Dr. Phil share a friendly kiss;
Different races now celebrate wedded bliss.
Jackie Robinson played amongst hisses and boos;
Jordan and James are making sports news.
Those who came before me were hung from a rope;
On my 18th birthday, I will register to vote.
Rosa went to jail because of sore feet;
When I ride the bus I take the front seat.
They marched on Washington years ago;
So I can be a doctor, a lawyer, or CEO.
Carl B. Stokes, Cleveland’s mayor in 68;
Barack Obama in 2008?
I finally realized what the struggles were for;
Now I Get It even more!
Form:
Fellow African-Americans Please Don't Get Offended...This Is Purely Fictional
...Sitting comfortably in the shade, I'm trying to relax
Muscles aching from whipping 20 blacks on their backs
Teach them White Power
For the last 2 hours
Had to get some air because the stench of them is sour
I could offer them a bath, but they don't deserve one
They disobey, get bathed with bullets from a shot-gun
Exactly how the world should be, the Colored are slaves
They won't dare run away, who's that brave
This world ran by Whites
Other races have no rights
No disputes, disagreements, arguments, no fights
We spit on them for slacking on the job
Teasing them with a fishing hook in hand, on the end is a corn on the cob
We should start a revolution, the KKK
Is the force necessary, we have control of the blacks anyway
The Ku Klux Klan, yea, the name sounds good to me
Told mother the Lord put slaves on this Earth for you and me
Hear their screeches in the air
I don't even care
Killing their families because of complexion, is that fair?
Of course it is, because we thrive in segregation
Kill em without hesitation
Raping the pretty black girls so I don't need masturbation
The ones that dare be rebellious, we lynch them, hang them from trees
We are the Masters we love to be pleased
Like bringing the colored on ships from across the waters
The joy and pleasure of seperating mothers, fathers, and daughters
If we have a bad day, we can just line their tails up for slaughter
Give them food, why even bother?
Nickname them raccoons
It gives me giggles to know some will die from starvation soon
Ruthless brutality
Make them feel reality
Cold-hearted and merciless
For these raccons we are love-less
Helter Skelter is what I follow
Which is more than our motto
It's a way of life
So I grab my knife
Cockiness engulfs me as I approach a coon's wife
To me she kinda purty
My wife is gonna hurt me
I touch her left arm, she swung the shovel
I got a scrape
Should I rape her, I have a better idea instead...
(Rip) Off with her head
If I be the future,
where do I leave the past?
All that these old eyes have seen
and weathered ears have screamed;
A mind that has gathered its rage.
A heart that has harbored its hate;
The white man with a black belt
that never kept anything up,
serving only to keep me down.
Of words and hands, too harshly felt;
The shadows of feet--
from oak trees, still swinging.
The fear of sheets that silently shift
on soundless Mississippi nights;
How do I sleep on cotton
and not feel the sting of its sweat?
Will you now give me a silken box
to bury all along with me?
Will I suffocate
under its weight forever?
While you shovel light onto darkness,
looking for absolution--
in the blending.
Will you auction off my memories,
like tiny babies
so they can grow up without any;
How can I be the mother of the future,
when I am already a daughter
of the past?
And how will my sons come to forgive,
when their mother can never ever--
let them forget…
It took me a while to finally let these words ooze from my soul,
I still could not quite express how truly-deeply esteemed I was
To see him walk across that stage,
Take that oath,
Dance that dance,
And smile that smile,
Mr. President Barack Obama...
I replay in my head images of marches, sit-ins, stand-ups,
Beatings, hosings, lynchings, maulings, burnings,
Crosses, lunch counters, bus seats, bathrooms,
My God, my God, my God...
My grandma, and her mother, and her mother's mother,
Their struggles and pains
And finally I can say
President Obama.
I want to cry but the tears are so deep
in my soul,
All I can do is exhale and be moved to total and complete
silence...
Judged not by the color of his skin, buy by the content of his character...
Mr. President Obama.
And now the me I see says there is no reason to not overcome
a struggle,
And the you I see says you can make it through anything,
Life's rough sometimes,
But I'm tough sometimes...
And you proved that Mr. President Obama.
This country is now my country
This land is now my land,
The red, white and blue is for me and you
Mr. President Obama.
Take no pride if you vow to make no change,
Don't raise your fist,
Don't chant the name,
Our people worked so hard,
The time finally came,
Obammmaaaaa! Mr. President.
take me as i am
don't be afraid of my black skin
i am wise i am smart i am sexy
but the best thing is...
i am free
my skin is shaded black
but my heart is the shade of platinum
i can live as other people do
i share your restroom...
i eat at the same places as you...
why cant you take me as i am
GOD is my father....
so who raised you
can you put on my shoes....
and walk with black feet...
as i so proudly do
you need to take me as i am
and don't be afraid of my black skin
Copyright ©2008 Myishia Sacoya Williams
Form:
Aint no way in the world I can sleep without asking the Lord my soul to keep
Keep the soldiers keep the pilots keep the Top Secrets private
Let them live cause for us that’s what they did
They have kids
They are kids
And I complain
Like a dame
In distress
Go to the bank and cash my checks
They get less
But do more
You made me Lyn-ore
Yet and still I am whore
Of my rights
given to me day and night
I take for granted my location on this planet
It could be me not in the land of free
Or the home of the brave
Unless recycled thru reincarnation I was never a slave
Yet and still
I complain at will
This place to hot
This place to cold
I am 24 years old
In a position it takes more than time just to grow
I got clothes in the closet on the floors
For a little safety I have doors
And they Lock
No I never shot a glock
I got food by the pot
And they hope they meal is hot
They be wishin’ a lot
Wish I may
Wish I might
Please grant my wish to see daylight
Form:
it spits out the thinnest of dead creation
paining the one with its deadly stinging kiss
cry out, no not me
for i am but a colored crazy slave
with the letter of P. for poor
and the letter of B. for the unbelieved
but i must bear it
just like so many who have before me
they don't tell
because who would believe
Form:
Why can't I run(Sarina Is Her Name)
by kierra boyd
Why can't I run away from this dream that I am living.
Why can't I cut away the pain?
The blood that spills from the wounds of darkness.
Are the tears that full a fire that forms a ocean of sadness?
A hole that is deep in my soul.
Why can't I wash the dirt away.
Its like my soul can't be washed clean.
My heart have been breaken taken away in the nightmares I live.
It's a hole that has been put into my chest.Where the nights are lonely and cold.
Where sceams grow louder each and every min,of every hour,of every second,of everyday.
A song that has been written I can no longer sing along,my voice has been beaten and sold
to the evil that has taken over my soul.
My mind is wounded and the pain has come to never leave.
As I see the souls that have been losted I have become empty with no one.
Til I saw the light with her smile,her joy,and her words.
A bond has been formed.God as send her to lead me out the darken place I've have called
home.
Her hands shines like gold and I see the light in me once again.
She has made me come alive again.I can no longer see the pain that I once knew.
She's the angel that God has send me from above,and I shall not be mad or depressed.
She has saved me dear god.
I will never ask why can't I run again.Sarina is her name and she saved me from myself and
the darkness.
Form: