Best Uncle Tom Poems
Mommy deemed the three-year-old me as an honour
Said that I should become a doctor
Stethoscope and thermometer are in her gift bag
To spark the zeal in me, she set to wave a green flag.
Daddy came all running to put a hard-hat on my head
Said that I should become a builder like his dad
I'll be a great architect, he believed, he already knew
He said it's inherited to me and is nothing new.
Aunt wanted me to follow her baking love
Her skills, no doubt, deserve a bow.
Cakes, cookies and all that she bakes
will now be taught to me, with no breaks.
Uncle Tom said I should inspire the world with my words
He weens that they're powerful than the swords.
An Orator or a writer, a counsellor or a life coach
Be it whatever, he says, I should be there for those who approach.
Everyone has their plans for my future
Looks like I don't need school or a teacher.
I'll be home-schooled and trained every day
But should it start right from the 3rd birthday?
I'm afraid they'ld stop talking to each other
As their dreams for me greatly differ.
Keeping their dreams aside for a minute
I thought of what I wanted, for a moment.
I want to smell the soil when it rains
I want to swill down all the snow flakes
I want to ride a horse and tame rabbits
I want to make friends and take new hobbies.
I want to build castles with clay
And play Peekaboo with Jill and Jay
I want to string the stars and crack the clouds to rain
Eat lots of cake and fake a belly pain.
I love dirty feet and dusty hair
Clay and Crayons is what I care
Play, play, play the whole day
I plead you all not to block my way.
A little grey mouse
snuck into the house
to get himself out of the cold.
Then the house cat
Who saw where he sat
pursued him I am told.
The lazy old dog
who sleeps like log
was startled by the chase,
So she woke up
her own small pup
and they joined in the race.
My sister the baby
decided that maybe
she would give it a try,
She started a spat
And was scratched by the cat
and then she started to cry.
That’s when mom
called to Uncle Tom
to come and lend a hand,
With a straw broom
mom circled the room
knocking plants from off a stand.
In came my dad
and he was quite mad
because the house was in disarray
He was vexed
with what happened next
But it happened just this way.
Our two brave bowsers
chased the mouse up dad’s trousers
He thought he’d be safe in there.
Until Dad started to dance
with the mouse in his pants
Then he jumped up on a kitchen chair.
Mom smacked dad’s seat
and then came a repeat
And the mouse climbed out of his pocket.
Unseen by all
he started to crawl
into the wall through an open socket.
Later that night,
With no one in sight,
I put out a nut for the little mouse.
I had no hate toward him,
And I tried to reward him.
Even if he was trapped inside our house.
I told him my name,
And he did the same,
Then he stuffed the nut into his cheeks.
He said thanks for the food,
And I don’t mean to be rude,
But that was the most fun that I’ve had in weeks.
He lies in peace beneath this tree
where death by shock came suddenly.
That thunderbolt struck Uncle Tom-
he faced the storm before the calm.
April 16, 2019
Premiere Contest: Your Best Light-Verse Poetry
Sponsor:L Milton Hankins
I hate myself today,
I hate being black
I hate that I didn’t help defend those
white supremacists, who were under heavy
anti-fascist attack
I hate that I chose to silently collaborate
with those fighting to protect democracy
Why didn’t I assist the alt-right people,
who wants us to be ruled by Nazi bigotry
My inaction was so cowardly
I hate myself for that ...
I’m a coward,
I hate being black
I hate that I hid,
while they were marching in the light of day,
shouting their racist slogans boldly
I shoulda joined them,
and let them unleash their anger on me
But, I was a coward ...
I didn’t wanna get beat down,
then lynched from a tree
Black people know, we ain’t equal to Aryans
On this main issue, with white supremacists I agree
I’ve always been an Uncle Tom
my whole life
Even married me an Auntie Ann wife
Black people know we oughta do
what those angry white people say
How in the world did we get so uppity,
acting in such a rebellious way
I hate myself,
I hate my black skin
Why didn’t I help those good KKK folk
who were merely
trying to bring back slavery again
I’m such a coward
for not helping to make their dream a reality
I detest my traitorous liberty ...
I always wanted to remain a slave;
In my dark, black heart,
I know I’m not white enough to be living free
The next time,
when the white supremacists
come out in force —
I’m gonna denounce my vow of cowardice,
just wait and see ... I’m gonna bravely
approach my masters on bended knee
And let them do whatsoever they will,
even if they choose to kill me
This is my tart tongue
firmly planted in my sweet cheek
— Romantic Warrior
My Uncle Tom was the life of the party
He is creative or so arty (artistic)
He makes us laugh and cry
His art is so beautiful, WHY!
Tam Pierce
a gray mare
the circus-clowns' car
old uncle Tom Cobbley et al
going to Widecombe Faire
Genealogy
—The beginning of a family tree—
For my great, great grandfather was a son of a slave,
he also was the slave,
and he grew up with a sad and appalling bedtime story
under the dim candlelight flickering in mother’s deep and painful sigh.
Since there was no book to turn over the leaves
no colorful pictures to see or fine letters to read.
The story was from the lips of dear mother,
who worn out from a long and hard day’s labor at fields,
and it was the most touching story he ever heard.
He, therefore, with his poor mother’s image
by his bed side though grievous,
carried this sad and heart-rending story
as an unforgettable boyhood day’s memory in his heart.
The story was, then, handed down generation to generation
and it was the story of Uncle Tom,1
one of most beautiful human beings,
agonizing under the heartless master’s lash,
gasping his last in the bosom of
a gentle-hearted young Mas’r from Kentucky
where the Tom-less Tom’s cabin on the sunny side hill still stands.
Nonetheless, Struggle was the only word they knew
to survive though not as human beings but as a simple living thing,
nonetheless, Struggle was the only word they have to bear in mind
in order to eke out an existence
though not as a dignified being but as an insignificant thing.
They struggled for their lives throughout their never-ending
tiring days, throughout their dark and restless nights.
Although my great, great, great grandfather’s father was
a proud warrior of a tribe
which dominated the wilds in the coast of the Black Continent
where the glow of a setting sun kisses yonder horizon to redden
the ripples, to call the stars and moon from the other side of sky
for the undisturbed and peaceful rest at night.
However, when the evil-spirited wicked ones
whose domain encompasses to and over the seven seas
invaded this peaceful land, though he was a courageous warrior,
whose strength was greater than the king of the beasts
he was trapped and lost his mighty strength.
Able to run faster than the cheetah in the wild
he was shackled and lost his swift legs.
The wings, which enabled him to soar higher
than the eagle were broken to pieces as he was captured.
1Cf: Harriet Beecher Stowe. Uncle Tom’s Cabin
Under my 8 year old brothers bed
lies my dog chewed Barbie, no sign of her head
a faded Snoopy cartoon, deflated yellow Birthday balloon
and one stuffed zoo animal baboon
Romote toy car from Uncle Tom
Cassette of Raffi, sing-a-long songs
half a fruit roll-up, and a beat up
tonka truck
A wooden dream catcher, made in Summer camp
his moon and star shaped night lamp
one lonely brown button from his Winter coat
A crumpled crayon castle drawing, complete with
an alligator filled moat
A real rabbits foot, for luck, from Grandpa Mack
half a fourth of July sparkler, old fashioned box of jacks
glass jelly jars of grass, sticks, leaves, assorted bugs
science fair worm farm living in moms old Garden jug
Under my 8 year old brothers bed
it has to be said, if you find yourself lost
beneath it
you are as good
as dead!
Form:
Lanky’s Chronicles
We meet a long-limbed white boy that said his family was owners of slaves.
He was a leggy ole boy and bony angular in his physical ways.
Uncle Tom was from his past.
He described plantation life as [w]holistic.
We nicknamed him Lanky.
Lanky always got to the point.
He lives in Gross Point Park, Michigan.
He talks for hours non-stop.
He was wealthy.
He was well off.
Lanky was very sharp.
Now, one thing we have discovered about Lanky is that his family migrated
from the South, which really did not make since when he was white.
He said it was done during the surfacing of Industrial North.
They came to form a greater empire.
1930s is when this took place and today Lanky is an ole boy well to do in
Southgate.
Flip the Script
Lanky is an ole boy from the Confederate South.
He married a Cherokee woman and became tribal.
He became Chief of the Creek Tribe.
He was a White Indian in black folk’s lives.
His family migrated to the North.
They established themselves in Chippewa territory.
Peace was kept and life became whole.
Lanky was seen as a canon in focus with a dogma purpose.
His annals are archived at the Smithsonian.
Lanky demised in 2005.
This is to bring forth knowledge of his life.
___________________________________|
Penned on June 5, 2014 @ 12:33 A.M. EST!
Manacles suppress a beautiful mind
decayed by the stench of putrid bitterness
created long before Mr. Whitney
made you expendable
yet you loathe me
despite my relation to Harriet
uncle Tom was never relevant
nor did his cabin provide shelter
unto your bitterness
its wood burned food for thought
could one become a christian
to be born again
and return as an abolitionist
the absurdity of it astounds me
but chains will always bind us together
regardless of our ancestry
linked through the color of love
red hues splashed in anger
dipped in disdain
tainted by the past
we live to paint
the pictures shadows cast......
Bob Shank-Nov.20th, 2006
Powerful words,
Truthful words,
Honest words,
Brave words;
This is exactly what the Doctor orders,
For a nation, who's trying to fight the horrors
Of blatant racism,
Unfairness, injustice,
Nepotism and sexism.
A man of Peace,
Without controversies,
Is not a genuine activist.
The truth is being tolled; there is no reason to apologize,
‘Cause you're exercising your God-given rights.
The sickness, the maladies,
Which America has been suffering
For over five centuries,
Need to be healed as you're reading
My honest feelings.
This is painful, this is long overdue.
My brave People are tired of fighting
The ills and the stigmas of our societies.
This is hurtful, this is way overdue.
The Truth hurts, thank God Almighty;
"Another One" is unafraid to tell the Truth,
"This One" is dissecting the false myth,
And the backward ideologies, thank God Almighty!
The prisons are populated by innumerable innocents,
The Police and their cronies randomly humiliate
Our parents, siblings and cousins.
We have every reason to be mad and irate.
A more just and fair system needs to be in place now.
The Brother is using strong medicine right now:
Powerful words,
Truthful words,
Honest words,
Brave words,
To save America,
The beautiful diva,
Who stands for: "Justice, Freedom,
Liberty and Happiness for All."
We should denounce Uncle Tom
And his monkeys. Brothers, who walk tall
Like you and our President,
Are rare and almost nonexistent.
The Truth will always set free:
The men of Justice, the men of integrity,
The men of Peace, the men of honesty;
The Brothers and Sisters who will tirelessly
Fight racism, the twin-brother of slavery.
P.S. This poem is dedicated to all my brothers and sisters.
Copyright © February 19 2009, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
The sun is shining,
warm summer,night
time to set the grill alight.
Wait untill the charcoal is white,
then you know,it's right.
Bratwurst, steaks,spareribs,
it makes my mouth water,
thinking of this.
The aroma of the meat
sizzling on the grill,
cold beer nicely chilled.
Salads,jacket potatoes,
garlic bread too,
any thing else,just wouldn't do.
Guests seated at the table,
all there from uncle Tom to aunty Mable.
savoring the grilled delights,
talking, well in to the night.
Aunty mable, stands up to go,
not too steady,don't you know.
Nothing to do with the drink,
it's old age, I think.
We party till early morn,
after having drunk, lots of korn.
Telling of tales old and new,
wondering how the time flew.
Yes that was a good night,
now it's time to sleep tight.
Workin' fo’ free from cradle ta grave
Laborin' sunup ta sundown e’eryday,
while Missy and Massa sat in da shade
Those were da days
Us darkies knew where our place was then,
blonde ambition wish fo' freedom was a sin
Sho’ could use a good *****
like Mister Uncle Tom again
Givin’ a big pearly grin ta greet da hate,
got a ‘xtra dollop of chitlings on da plate
Man, dem auctions, dey ne’er did run late
Those were da days
Pickin' ‘o cotton was a prickly prayer sent,
wearin’ dem chains made da soul feel bent
Runaway blues was da best song ta lip hint
Those were da days
Sunday was da fav’rite time of da week,
us tar babies got no spittin’ on da cheek
Still, we weren’t allowed shoes on da feet,
seems da hounds need a scent in da heat
Thirsty breaks always were short not long,
ere by da hangin’ tree rest da buried bones
Plantation livin’ made us boys ne’er grown
Those were da days
Thus, were the miserable days of being a slave
When America get great again,
will me and my kin get Hebrew reparation paid?
400 years has been a long time ...
Us dark faces have did a lot of siren crying,
and a whole lot of lynched dying
Our stolen heritage
was shipped in a cargo of lying
Yeah, 400 years is a very long,
solitary time ...
We’re the chained cursed ones cast in prison
Us Dante portrait byword souls
got framed for the crime
Degradation is our father,
poverty is our mother
Pain is my sister,
anger is my brother
Airy abolition nary hope got ferry shackled in leg iron —
Sepia sea cheeks kissed by a whip and a gun
was our stern, captivating reality
When robo machines got to do the labor fun,
we were allowed
to escape into color-blind fantasy
Emancipated drugs
was the cracked pipe crystal meth mirror
of our downtrodden opioid liberty
Birth of a Cloudy Eye Nation ...
only twin native promises ever given to us strangers:
Two four-letter swear words —
Jobs and Work
Guess being the reel son of a slave,
means a re-run of the old ways
Vanilla ghetto dreams rooted in the red dirt:
Plantation flowers misty tear-watered
under a cold, Northern blue sky ...
turning suddenly hot, Southern gray
Ain't no IQ need to wonder why —
Future past, these now be those days
In the fantasizing brains of all Nigerian Fulanis,
Including their kindergarten still urinating on nannies;
All the entries and exits within country’s Aso Rock
To keep obeying their adjustable, Fulani clock!
Presently, the unstoppable aspiration of the Purest Hausa teens
Recklessly announcing the same to their napkins:
The Achilles Heel of the Brazilian Football Team,
Easily her ruinous tears commanding,
When she should a loser’s smile beam,
This, thorough Good Breeding demanding.
By the United States beautifully masked,
In her playing of Uncle Tom, enormously tasked;
Her millions of Dollars readily releasing
A loved President, the next election, losing!
To nearly every deprived tribe
Something to fight with the fattest bribe
Or surrender with a loaded gun
Making sure it doesn’t away run!
I’ve tried to The Mentality justify,
Baring a Bible verse that does it fortify…
Or so to me it had seemed
Or, probably, I has deemed…
‘The Elder shall serve The younger’…
And God must’ve, the service years, made longer!
They say your color defines you,
that it is your identity,
that pigment must determine what
it is that you choose to believe.
You are no individual,
just lumped in arbitrary groups,
if you don’t buy what they’re selling
then the bastards come after you.
You’re an Uncle Tom, a Twinkie,
an Apple or a Coconut,
tou’re a sell-out or a traitor,
to be hated no matter what.
You’ve never been human to them,
just a vote for which they pay,
if you want a meaningful life
then it’s time to walk away.
They say that gender is all fluid,
that there are no women or men,
yet still insist all ‘real’ females
are gonna have to vote for them.
They declare that reality
is what they’re ‘feeling’ in their hearts,
that you can be a manly man
even if you’re lacking the parts.
To say that youe real gender
might influence how you think
will fill them full of rage and get
you fired within a blink.
Despite thousands of millennia,
the truth of it they cannot say,
if you would see things as they are
then you have got to walk away.
They sat that we need tolerance,
to appreciate differences,
by the way they act I wonder
if they even know what that is.
Borrow from another culture
and they cry ‘appropriation!’
Forgetting that we’ve always thrived
on free assimilation.
And God forbid you win power
and they suffer a defeat,
they cry ‘fascist,’ put on black masks,
then assault people in the street.
Elections, see, are only cool
if it’s their side that wins the day.
Should you believe that people rule
then you are bound to walk away.
They sat that it is quite alright
to dictate what’s ‘hateful’ speech,
forgetting that hard arguments
can enlighten folks, and teach.
They always come after your guns,
saying it is for your own good,
leaving free folk vulnerable
to all tyrants, thugs, and hoods.
They say that all religions are
superstitious and absurd
but never will dare to blaspheme
all their hallowed leftist words.
They paint a smile on their lips
to hide just how much they hate,
and if you would live a moral life
then it’s time you walk away.