The greed of the white man knows no bound
It transcends life, it transcends death
Their eyes gleam with profit
Their mouths salivate at another black death
Prices heightened on a casket
Won't be too long till another black body fills it
Money earned from this purchase
Used to pay their rent
If there is anything left they'll use it to pay for their children's education
They don't see us as human
But they do see us as a money making scheme
They target us and then
Up the prices of our funerals
Their own system to monetize our deaths
Acting is their forte
When they look in our eyes and lie to our faces
Sending condolences our way
But inside brimming with happiness
Not an ounce of sympathy
Not a fibre of empathy
Just pre dug graves and unnecessary funeral bills
To them we are products ready to be exchanged
An autopsy of a black body
One who suffered greatly
The body pushed past its limits
To the point it had enough and quit
A scalpel to their chest
Slowly peeling the layers of flesh
Noticing the rot
Hit by the stench of trauma
The body dissected
The organs removed
Leaving the body an empty shell
Of a broken person
Beaten by an unjust system
There was no hope for the body to be saved
It was always going to give away
The person that had owned the body stood no chance
From the trauma to the head
Consumed by the complexities of PTSD
To the bruises on the legs
From a lifetime full of abuse
Carrying a body hated by society
It was like a troubled home
A place that was out of control
Where the quiet screams of abuse
Are trapped within the cracked walls
Bearing the weight of secrets untold
It was damaged beyond repair
No amount of glue could fix the damage of what was done
The body could heal
But the trauma couldn't be undone
The cause of death: racism
This is what happens when you live a life on the run from discrimination
Beaten by the harsh reality of hatred
Isolated by a world full of prejudice
Living in an abyss of hopelessness
Every Wednesday on the dot,
off to the newsagent like a shot.
A solitary sixpence,all my wealth
picking up the Hotspur comic from the shelf.
To read of my hero W W Wilson,the wonder man,
sporting 'extraordinaire',batted bowled and ran.
Soccer &cricket were a piece of cake,
leaving all others in his wake.
Bowling ,on a sixpence seven from eight,
above average Wilson was uniquely great.
He'd bowl all day at one twenty an hour,
never stopping to take shower!
In futuristic black body suit,
a record breaker without dispute.
My inspiration,this imagined prince,
never bettered ,'fore or since!
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
Every Tuesday on the dot,
I would be off to the newsagent like a shot.
A solitary sixpence,all my wealth
to pick up my favourite comic from his shelf.
Not the Beano,Beezer,Dandy or Eagle...
the Hotspur and Wizard were my kings regal.
To read of my hero W W Wilson,the wonder man,
sporting giant extraordinaire,batted bowled and ran.
Soccer ,cricket were a piece of cake,
he left all others in his wake.
Give him the ball and the game was soon over,
he even outscored Roy of the Rover.
Bowling right armover,on a sixpence seven times from eight,
well above average Wilson was incredibly great.
He'd bowl all day at one twenty an hour,
never stopping to take a shower!
In futuristic black body suit,
an English record breaker without dispute.
My inspiration,this imagined prince,
never bettered then,before or since!
Traveling birds
Shifting seasons
Are reflected on your front glass
This is a usual scene every morning
That day, too
Before bringing our children to school
That day, though
You didn't come home
Injured severely on the road
A few days later
You were back
Your white butterfly like eyes
Looked sad
Appealing that you wanted to work more
The shattered face does not match to your slinky black body
Daddy will get you to hospital
Wait till then
The horn from trains CT and NY lines
Sympathetic and respectful
for our car who had been in service
for more than 20 years
A white sepal falls, it is of the early May bloom,
it is of a blossomed tree
that smothers with the light yielding weight
of its insistence,
that it will be stirred with the gentle wind.
A bee can hover, intent
on its hunger for the floweret's soft pink nectar.
And the black body of the bee
is a deep night, its dawn colored wings
are a flutter of heart strings
that are plucked by the sound of the children
at their delightful play: shouts(orders);
laughter(independence);
a melody of youth sung
as the spring birds
weave a dance over the children's bodies.
A deflated shiny balloon
is the captive of the distant watchful trees
with desert-red buds,
whose limbs shape the faces of ancient spectres,
seen through the snow tints
of the wind blown petals milling an early May.
May 2, 2021
I looked out my window
and there to my surprise
was a beautiful set of green eyes
These eyes were in a glossy black face
With exquisite features that sent my heart at quite a pace
Sleek black body from tip to toe
How I managed to look away I do not know
Agile hunting movements
That transfixed my stare
Sharp teeth and claws
Hidden in soft mouth and paws
This encounter became a regular event
Meowing and purring were her calling card
To let us know she was in the backyard
We called her Beauty
And that's what she was
Charming and beguiling
Exciting and delighting
Then one day this feline friend
On us did no more decend
Where did she go we do not know
What can we do
Except remember and continue to enjoy the view
Beauty
Damn ants-
found one
walking on
my good glass table.
grabbed a napkin
pinched it over
the black body.
there's something
so unnatural
about having a bug
in your home.
how the hell
do they roam in anyway?
You'd think
the rest of the world
would be room enough
for one little black bug.
Bumble BEE
I Flutter and fly
Got stripe yellow/black body
Stringer my beehind zzzz!!
10/30/17
by James Edward Lee Sr.
BEAUTY OF NATURE
A butterfly on a flower,
It's a moment of pure delight
Testing the nectar with it's feet,
Colourful wings ready for flight.
A ladybird sits on a leaf,
Her red and black body so small,
Working at eating those bugs,
Who ruin plants, making leaves fall.
There's bees buzzing over a bush
All covered with pretty flowers,
Taking pollen back to the hive,
To make honey by the hours.
Ants scurrying to build their nests
They sense rain is on the way,
Each scene is joyful to ponder
The beauty of nature each day.
Copyright © Vivien Wade June, 2013.
Every Tuesday on the dot,
I would be off to the newsagent like a shot.
A solitary sixpence,all my wealth to pick up
my favourite comic from his shelf.Not the
Beano,Beezer,Dandy or Eagle...
the Hotspur and Wizard were my kings regal.
To read of my hero W W Wilson,the wonder man,
sporting giant extraordinaire,batted bowled and ran.
Soccer ,cricket were a piece of cake,
he left all others in his wake.
Give him the ball and the game was soon over,
he even outscored Roy of the Rover.
Bowling right armover,on a sixpence seven times from eight,
well above average Wilson was incredibly great.
He'd bowl all day at one twenty an hour,never stopping to
take shower!
In futuristic black body suit,an English record breaker
without dispute.My inspiration,this imagined prince,
never bettered then,before or since!
He has curved horn
colored dirty black body
never brushes his teeth
that he exposes often
probably to express envy
to every rival seen around
He cares not about the tail
that is doggish and fat
mustache he does not brush neat
and the belly that is heavy
as that of a she-goat touches soil
when he moves around the herd
He stands up to address goats
and to warn line of opponents
But the mouth gets stuck
He only waved his doggish tail
and shows off his harmless horns
as he intimidates others ..Meee. Meee!
But the more he brags and intimidates
the uglier he looks in the herd
He causes goats to laugh, jeer
while embracing other He-goats
intimately!
re-post inspired by Brenda's contest
THE HERO
Every Tuesday on the dot,I would be off to the newsagent like a shot.A solitary
sixpence,all my wealth to pick up my favourite comic from his shelf.Not the
Beano,Beezer,Dandy or Eagle...the Hotspur and Wizard were my kings regal.To
read of my hero W W Wilson,the wonder man,sporting giant extraordinaire,batted
bowled and ran.
Soccer ,cricket were a piece of cake,he left all others in his wake.Give him the
ball and the game was soon over,he even outscored Roy of the Rover.Bowling
right armover,on a sixpence seven times from eight,well above average Wilson
was incredibly great.He'd bowl all day at one twenty an hour,never stopping to
take shower!
In futuristic black body suit,an English record breaker without dispute.My
inspiration,this imagined prince,never bettered then,before or since!
It darts past then briefly hovers
picking up the scent of rotted fruit
following it to until it came to the source
where it feasts until bloated.
Back on the hunt it swoops
and dives like a bomb,
flashing its yellow and black body
a warning to all to keep away.
Uninvited it hones in
and joins the bar-be-que,
as people scatter from its path
some flapping their hands at it.
Buzzing angrily, it returns
sourcing out the sweetness
of ripened tomatoes and
flavoursome BBQ sauce.
It darts in and out
grabbing a bite or two
then to everyone's relief
it leaves for pastures greener.
Me... closed box... death hangs*,
Heartless dreamers can't see in
Bastards! Am I dead?
Poet's Notes:
A famous thought experiment in Physics in which the life or death of Schridinger's
Cat (an imaginary animal) in a box depends on unpredictable chance. The
experiment unimpeded, the cat will die, the question is only when. The larger
issue however, is that since no one can see what has actually happened, the
actual state of the cat is unknown and hence can only be discussed in terms of
the probability of the cat being either dead or alive. And probability ends the
earlier mechanistic view of both God and His creation. God is no longer black and
white, color has returned to His cheeks.**
* hangs - like the sword of Damocles, capable of falling randomly at any instant.
** see my earlier poem 'Black Body' for an even more poetic discussion.
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