Best Mulatto Poems
FOB Echo Iraq was a forward operation base near the Babylon site in the city of Diwaniya, in fact the US military put security hesco and fencing around the ruins for protection from all of the goons in the region. This was a hot base and the hajis would lob at least 3 salvos of mortar on us each day. February 06 i was walking from my CHU to the DFAC for lunch and i heard a rocket scream over head at low altitude, sounded like a high performance jet, about the most startling sound I've ever heard.. a hot second later the KBR laundry facility went up in an incredibly loud boom, a huge ball of fire, smoke, dust and debris ...... was the first to the entrance, the place was in flames and lying about 20 feet in the inside the door was the body of this cute girl wearing a blue KBR t shirt, she was folded in half.. i don't believe or at least i tell myself she didn't suffer or felt stress. i still see her face, just a cute girl, kind of mulatto, pretty, just trying to make a living and support her family back in the islands. Shortly after the US brought in Strikers and they raged havoc on the area for several weeks. That was and remained a hot base. Never so glad when i was on Cat Fish Air out of that hole... occasionally like last night, she comes to visit me in my dreams
We explore –
earn and exist –
with a language
of old exploitation.
Like a mulatto,
Indian English
is a hybrid.
It’s as our culture –
there’s a unity
in diversity.
We winnow ideas out
of dialectal chaff.
Language
mustn’t be imposed.
Linguistic
extremism is a myopia.
Wherever you grow,
your mom and hue
remain the same,
but your tongue can be
changed from the cradle.
English thrives above
creeds and colors,
connecting continents,
never demanding a passport.
First appeared in The Literary Hatchet
Dear fatherland
the cradle of races
you lie among the many
with great sight of differences
in this mulatto of western languages
Oh great triangle!
you rise and fall
like ocean tides
in landscape and beauty
in patois and culture
Tell me you're not corrupt
deny racial discrimination
country of peace
river of prawns, Africa in miniature
Cameroon.
A BALLAD TO THE ANCESTORS
Like ripened fruits plucked from a flourishing tree,
They were stolen from a lush paradise garden;
A self sustained dwelling having no need of a warden;
A beautiful paradise where all could work and live free;
But the thieves of the sea came, taking them to the shore.
Cabled towed neck to neck; waist shackled like others before.
They were stacked in ship bellies reeking with death, feces and pee.
God please let their souls’ survival spirit always abide within me?
Though many of our ancestors chose the freedom of death
Over the slavery of life, others chose for one reason or another,
To survive the Middle Passage in hope of returning to the home they left;
These arrived as chained exotic human cargo for trade and barter.
From sea ships’ corrals to auction blocks, they were bought and sold.
Skilled craftsmen they were—intelligence secret—skills used later to get free;
Fooling bidders believing the dumb beasts were well worth their weight in gold.
Oh God I pray their souls’ survival spirit will always abide within me.
Four hundred years of bloody slaving labor from can see to can’t see—
Our ancestors—bonded—free fodder fueling a peculiar institution
In which one had to be fully white in order to really be free.
And all blacks—objects of pleasure for all whites’ ravenous satisfaction.
The black woman—fertile young and old—became its chief breeder.
For pleasure or profit—fertile mother of bastards she was branded to be.
For all children, black, mulatto or white, the black breast was the leaking feeder.
God please allow their souls’ survival spirit to always abide within me?
Yes, through skills, blood, sweat and tears, our ancestors learned to prevail;
Leaving us here still able to struggle and fearlessly fight to be totally free.
With the undying spirit of our ancestors’ audacious faith and hope, we will not fail;
For God has decreed their souls’ survival spirit to always abide within you and me.
Her voice was soft on the telephone
She had gentility, like the part of the city she once lived
We talked of tragedy and chicory coffee
My friends had told me the situation was still grim
I asked her of Galatoire's and Brennan's
Of the Ninth Ward, and of her home
While I, pining and homesick, sipped coffee the color
Of the mulatto Mississippi River. . .
So polite and patient she was
For one who had lost everything
Where am I from? A mulatto.
Is there a place to call my home?
“Hey piggy!!” the blacks say to me
"You monkey", words of the white.
If the velvety black skies
give room for stars to bloom,
Why am I not worth your love?
If behind the white expanse
charcoal clouds can loom,
Why do I not deserve a brotherhood?
Unbar your wounds and mine,
do they not spill the same crimson waters?
Oh, Why call me a stranger?
When we just are different lights
from a common spectrum?
Be silent about where I come from,
because I want to live like you.
Look not at my colour,
to attribute me to a nationality
Be me not characterised into a race
Just make me one of your own.
Whether Black or white,
American or Asian,
European or from Africa.
We are one people.
©Stranja_depeot
By Ezar The Last Street Poet
What seeker can see what I have seen prophetic dreams
Shot gun houses torn screens safe houses triple beems
Escorts giving me bags of cream emaculent things
Strip club champaign and hot wings
Five star suites ninth floor west wing
Limo cruise mountain views street cries we never snooze
Make eiligent moves C.E.O watch stock news
Minaj mulatto that love to swallow till Iam hollow
Poetically unstoppable impossible to follow
Every since 96 when I had Mexican chicks model
Mad love to Greenville Seattle and Chicago
Forward full throttle with a dime peace coke bottle
Your comments are shallow
So who the hell cares investment clubs
Master mind affairs
Relaxing on madagascan chairs
Ambition plus persistence through resistance equals evidence
That I own a couple businesses
speak to open the eyes of those who seek understanding bleek
Blind to the shine that I release falling on your face instead of standing on yo feet
PEACE
There's nothing wrong with a little heart,
I am human too
Life's just mixed a melting pot.
I'm a race of two worlds combined to one,
Not many can say that it's much fun.
My root's run deep a controversy in themselves,
What once was war now he Delves.
Two worlds that once discriminated and hated each other,
Now drawn together to create another.
At first seen wrong, a sin to God,
Or Gods creative mistake?
A force of nature or a freak of nature?
Am I black or white to them neither is right,
We come in so many colors our beautiful Bi-Racial skin.
A new breed of race that has no place.
Seen as something I'm not, or something quickly forgot.
I thought of myself as mulatto when I was young,
But other names would bitterly come.
McNigg, Oreo, and other foods,
They're all just fools.
In school on test's when asked a race,
They'd say check one
White, black or other
I was forced to call my mother
Now everyone's mixed
The single race is a dying breed
Now they say check as many as you need.
Somewhere Sabga
It lights the lamp with the fist of thunder
brightens and glows like magic power
And beyond rise the land of the stretching planes
in a geographical mulatto of landscape
hiding and speaking for Ngoketunja
To call you Borroro is not out of topic
as you rise and fall with cattle and horses
Sanctified with falls
every hill to you is a goddess
falling so well in beauty and slogan
Sabga, somewhere you are.
(alternately titled: ah me go march'n home on derange)
I'll play the devil's advocate, yet
prepare a stance with pitchfork
against misinterpreted faux attempt
to describe, how whet
d'ya column re: immigration officials coe vet
patrol, police, and poison tranquil casa blanca
where killer attack dogs fiendishly pin set
ting sharp fangs at jugular vein of respectful,
dutiful, and blissful (or at least
prior to being sniffed out) innocent
long time laborer on American soil now get
ting Das Boot to their unfamiliar Motherland
(despite living social
as law abiding righteous folks) fret
full, cuz unfairly punished, and
cruelly deported, dispirited, doomed
pained visage non verbally articulates
at un war rented deportation you bet!
with just a flick of the wrist
and alien hated, pigheaded,
and xenophobic ventriloquist
bring back the Alien and Sedition Acts
with a Trumpeting Latina, Hispanic,
and for good measure Mulatto twist,
where original writ (signed into law
by President John Adams in 1798),
historical footnote, aye cannot resist
spooking (like a ghost), those pee pill
born south of the border pooped and pissed
in potties of this proud country, sans free and brave
now frightfully get flushed out
glad to feign dis guise
as one among select Geronimo cadre
we henchman lubricate
wheels of injustice myst
tuff hie hiding dark shadows
(along the edge of night)
thence paddy wagon comes
to screeching halt nabbing
an "illegal alien" name on hit list
code word "bag dad" (biggest quarry)
and score a win
for Barren Trump Tah Mahal Incorporated
impossible mission special ops sentry slithers as trained
fearless to shackle wetback ranked big hest
catch also including booby prize,
as you correctly guessed.
love is silly blind
When it sees and not...
the mulatto is pale
To white says cotton
to Black, coal color
As I read this children's book a few times last night,
I pondered on if it would be a good fit for my little girl-
I wondered if what it was teaching was honest,
does it really make sense what goes on in the world?
I do see some racism but probably not enough to band,
it may show African Americans like to indulge -
The illustrations in the book show big eyes and lips,
which some may see as a stereotypical divulge.
The word "Sambo" really means mulatto,
a racist term often used out of fiery rage-
"Mumbo" and "Jumbo" refer to a Central African
tribal association medicine man during that age.
Even though there are a few negative things,
I see the beauty in Sambo's told tale,
that in greed and lust for material items,
with calmness and negotiation, you can't fail.
He wore a red coat, blue trousers and purple shoes,
along with a green umbrella to shield the rain-
But in this story it clearly demonstrates,
what it's like to live in fear and pain.
To have to give away what is yours,
out of apprehension of what will take place,
and seeing fighting over unsubstantial stuff,
leaving nothing but trepidation on a boy's face.
When the awnry tigers turn to melted butter,
then used for pancakes for a meal,
to me this definitely indicates how it felt
to be stolen from; it was Sambo's time to heal.
I would absolutely read this story to my little girl,
it shows how racism can be overcome in the world.
June 13, 2017
The Gallatin Street Market
The Gallatin Street Market was a secret.
The Gallatin Street bordellos were one too.
Hidden in the shadows of New Orleans,
weathered sign, arrowed finger gave no clue.
SLAVE AUCTION
CHOICE MULATTO MALES AND FEMALES
The market would take place inside an old wharf.
No decent woman should know how or where.
Men truly thought that this was so well hidden.
In irony more wives than men were there.
3/25/18
So your daddy is white
your mother is black
What about you?
Oh, you are just a little light.
Do you want to live like white?
or live like black?
Hey man, I dont't want to fight
Do you believe in civil rights?
or the white hooded men who raid the night
I've heard him sing: The Mulatto:
By fat hotter than Roberto
Like Pepper is to Pimento;
Lost to him, too, one Alberto:
The boy friend of Fine Talatu...
Alto in all shows he goes to,
Even when beats are Staccato
Or long remains The Legato...
Yes, A very Good Contralto,
Overly fond if Sweet Potato
He would eat with Mashed Tomato...
Harsh words for Irish Potato;
Yet harsh Teeth of Alligator:
In anger bites in their ghetto!