Trapped within the soil
Told stories filled with turmoil
Carrying the weight of black history
But it honours their memory
By always remembering
By never forgetting
Soaked by the tears of the enslaved
Waiting, hoping, praying to be saved
The ground an unknowing witness
To them being worked to death
But in awe of their perseverance
Throughout the years
One thing that remains clear
To the soil is that just because things have progressed
Doesn't mean life for black people is perfect
Racism still exists
It went from slavery to incarceration
To it being prevalent throughout the system
Racism just evolved through each generation
We the soil see everything
And hold the key
To untold black stories
We live in such a diverse, multicultural world
Yet I have to ask why Black History isn't taught
What is it about the black culture that mankind
Refuse to educate, elaborate, reveal, and expose
Black history is like taboo, no one wants to speak or preach
I often wonder what the men of old said about the first men in the world
Were they words dark and cold
Vicious and malicious
Vindicated and warlike, or did they write about a race
That was independent and intelligent
Powerful and wise
Great and Spiritual
Excellent and Gifted in Yahuah's sight
I choose not to offend, but I cannot help but follow the pen
You see, I am not the master mind behind the words I write
I am just the vessel that's used to inspire, awaken and motivate
Teach and educate a culture that has forgotten how great there are
History clearly reveals that Black slaves
ENDURED the worst of their real life NIGHTMARES.
There is also the sense that their hearts
ASURED them that their future and that
Of their descendants held their
Best DREAMES.
400 years Today
Although my feet has bared the mercy of my body
I used the stars ? to guide me
I am no longer present in this moment
For I am not a slave
I am not a bastard
Oppressed and marginalized
I shall not bare the thought of my offsprings
For what will become of them
For miles I’ve ran to freedom but freedom had forsaken me
Arm and arm we’ve marched
Only to take a greater lashing
For what is freedom
I have no rights and there is no justice
Return me home
But there is no home
Native to the land but the land is theirs to own
Burn it down with my ashes into the flames
This ain’t no life of mines
Have mercy on soul
For I am not a slave
Written By: D. Collins 2/15/24
To me, red, black, and green means.....
Black blood embedded all over the earth.
There has never been any who have actually seen.
Being used as a tool with free, yeoman's work.
I put this to paper just in case people forgot.
I've been around a while, and have seen a lot.
So, I'm qualified to give the downright-nitty-gritty.
And, contribute my version of Black History.
It's still bad in Compton, where I was born.
Beaucoup years after Katrina N.O. still ain't home.
There are states removing us from history books.
Now, you tell me, who are the real crooks?
Born and Created
Legacy guided
Inspired from
Destined to Everywhere
Story my own
Mentors who taught me
Knowledge
Victorious enriches me
Accomplishments gained
Intriguing legacy voices
Never forget
Believing you always can
Challenge yourself into win
Black History a mission to always try
Even through the cries
One’s self
Always be yourself and nobody else
Black History is
Always will be
Educational and Sensational
Learn from the best
Wisdom is my test
Press on and enrich your own legacy
Do, Will, Shall and fulfill
The History of Black People,
And all of our People should be celebrated
Year-round: every day, week, month, and decade.
The celebration should go on unabated,
All the time. The first couple,
Ever existed, had dark skin, said
Many credible historians,
Archeologists and great citizens.
The month of February is evidently too short.
Twenty-eight days are not enough,
To commemorate our Brave People, who've fought
And defeated ignorance, bigotry and slavery.
Three hundred and sixty-five days are not enough,
To honor the struggle of the Slaves who were brought
To different parts of the world. A century
Is not enough. Many centuries are not enough.
We need, every single day of the almanac,
To celebrate, to remember the first Black
Couple, our Ancestors,
Our Brothers and Sisters.
Copyright© January 2017 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.
In the USA, Black History month is celebrated
In February, the month with the shortest days
Meanwhile in my world, I celebrate year-round, every day
In my heart: Black History. I’m absolutely delighted
To the point of being ridiculously amazed
I’m laughing, giggling. This is taking my breath away
In reality, we need thirteen months to celebrate
Black History. Be mindful that everything started
In Africa. However, I am saying ‘thank you’ anyway
There is no need to say obviously more or elaborate
Mankind must be pompously and joyfully celebrated
On a daily basis. There will be no world without Africa
We all must hear the message: Africa is the motherland
Africa is the mother of history. You might not want to stand
With me. Please prove me wrong. Show that you understand
The saga.
Copyright © February 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
it is as though
they saw my beauty,
full and radiant
lasted only in the
rich soil i was born in.
so they picked me and
stomped the roots dry.
one survived
nature nourished it
with love.
we are the race,
the only race,
forever searching for
our place of birth.
October, the privilege to cast off once more,
The thirty-first, get ready to dock once more,
No need to continue within the scholastic helm,
The adjustment of sails lay with the dominant realm,
Throughout the year,
embark upon the songs of our history,
Unfettered towards the shores of diversity.
(In England Black History Month is 1st to 31st October)
February brings the return of Black History month
Black history is real history every day of the week,
So, I react with an “it’s a long coming” harumph!
Important roles of Blacks have been a hide and seek
It’s a cryin’ shame we must now denote “special” days
For Black history is “real” history every day of the week.
Learning important roles of Blacks will always amaze
Every day in American history, Black people excelled,
It’s a cryin’ shame we must now denote special days.
In school, Black achievements were routinely quelled
We were not taught their innumerable accomplishments,
Every day in American history, Black people excelled.
Black people are long overdue for acknowledgments
For their inestimable, incredible contributions to our lives,
We were not taught their invaluable accomplishments.
All lives matter in the grand scheme of history’s archives
Every day we must honor people of all races and creeds
For their inestimable, incredible contributions to our lives.
Written January 29, 2022
my soul chained with fears
caged in a dark place
cries with sorrowful tears
down my pale, hollow face
the notes of my song die
before even being born
my broken wings cannot fly
deep in my heart, I can feel
this sharp, constant thorn
I dream of a new land
the land of the blue skies
-the land of the free-
across this desert,
across this dry sand
across this stormy sea
will I dare to act on my dreams?
will I dare to rise and break my chains?
will I dare to free all the inside screams?
will I dare to reveal all my pains?
my soul without any fears
flies free in a colorful place
cries with new happy tears
down my bright, beautiful face
a new song is born in an instant
I carry it on my new silver wings
there’s no time and no distance
I’m born in the eternal existence
my heart forever sings
I dream of a new land
the land of the blue skies
-the land of the free-
across this desert,
across this dry sand
across this stormy sea
tho he is gone
his dream lives on
he stood tall
fought for freedom for all
they walk in the rain
it was pain
being put in jail
sometime no bail
he still had lot to give
he did god will
now still today
his
BLACK
HISTORY LIVES
Like fruit
upon tree branches
Like a caged bird
my songs are bitter sweet
Like the forgotten
my name is lost
Pages are destroyed from my book
the times have changed
The evils only taken new forms
Like waters
I flow
over dams. down streams
like my tears
flowing down my face
My body hurts
I've been beaten like Jesus
saying father. forgive them
Time has forgotten
but the nightmares still exist
last in line
and still pushed aside
Who knows my tears
cry with me
let us comfort each other
mending these wounds
time has forgot
From Africa to America spanning the world, quite possibly
My DNA struggled to survive to make me,
My existence is a testament to survival fitness,
My life is to nurture the future and bear witness, the past,
My name is the name to property they gave,
My heritage my lineage is that of a slave,
Yes, slave, property, harsh words to hear,
Great Granddad was born enslaved, three generations too near,
Granddad laid bricks, played music and sang,
Hope from Grandma’s illiterate lips, I sprang,
A lineage broken in Georgia or Carolina south,
passed on and on by word of mouth,
The legacy must pass through me to give my children power,
For their momma’s line stepped off the Mayflower,
In both I must help them see honor,
For the strength and the pride that made me must endure,
Listening, and teaching, and learning I press on without blame,
Learning from the past about my past I move on without shame,
Each new day, new creation, I write the story,
One of survival, renewal, reflection, doggedly pushing toward glory,
I am black yesterday, I am black now, I am black history.
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