Black History Poems | Examples
These Black History poems are examples of History poems about Black. These are the best examples of History Black poems written by international poets.
the devil swings
with the pain Billie brings
to the song of a sparrow, once lost
but heaven cries
with the drug in her eyes
and the weep of a willow's sad cost
the awed repute
of a tree's strangest fruit
never gave up its dead or it's moss
one mother's urn
sifted ash from the burn
of a tragedy's southern-most cross
shall only years
dry that muddle of tears
the torrent drowning races and sin
or will the truth
age a sweeter vermouth
let as blood on a much darker skin?
weep collected
for life, disrespected
would deluge all Jehovah's dear streams
yet not one wonder
that God's loudest thunder
will ne’er quiet that riot …
of screams.
~ for Billie Holiday ~
Copyright © 2020 Gregory Richard Barden
( photographic art created copyright-free by the poet with GALA AI software )
Breathing should be easy
Yet somehow it's the most difficult action
We shouldn't have to remind ourselves
Yet here we are
But what is the point when the world has its knees on our neck
Why fight a battle that strips us of our weapons
The expectations to submit
To actions unfit to complete
When either way our existence gets us killed
Scolded when we plead -
For human rights and equality
Peace was never an option
When survival is to watch us bleed
It's a familiar type of exhaustion
One my people know all to well
Where - we breathe and we die
Or we speak up and it's systemic suicide
Tensions suffocate the air
All we want from life is to be treated fair
Yet, atlas life is a never ending cycle -
For us, filled with chronic despair
It's hard to breathe when silence is the only option
When the words are there, but in the end we end up choking
It's always been this way, of cyclical hope then watch it slowly dissipate
Knowing we can't trust it, yet it clings to us for survival
One day maybe it'll be different story
Though let's not hold our breath
We still need it for our survival, Rome wasn't built in a day, we have to be realistic
They existed, they were here
Real people made to disappear
Hidden history, lies and erasure
For them it was protocol
For us It became normal
What really is normal
In the conversation of racism
Of different rules
When it comes to black people
It becomes opposite -
What is, is what's not
What's not is what is
A confusing cycle
We are expected to follow
When they themselves
Aren't reliable
This isn't about judicial rule
More control of a certain race of people
Don't be fooled -
By the fake smiles they draw
This is not societal
This is purely individual
If it wasn't, their morals would be total
The system of law -
Would be equal
However that is not the case at all
When eradication is their goal
It's why they deny their history of violence
It's why they bury our stories in silence
It's why they bleach the stains of their hate
It's why they burn our bodies to rid of their guilt
It's why they drown our voices in the ocean of their lies
It's why our history books are empty of our ink - just the erasure of our names
A sketchbook from back then
was stained with abstract colors
like our ten fingers
why didn't we arrange bright colors back then?
black, blue, and white
mixed together without a basis
I remember very well
how the pattern was ultimately
ruined by the darkness
while you labored
on your own sketch
and I only knew a little about that fetish
We grew like shoots
far away from the colors back then
like a line that had been etched
sometimes we disappeared
I still live with bangs on my forehead
exactly the same as back then
and you still like classic cars?
maybe we've only gone a few steps
Count 20, open eyes
ahh, that's just a coincidence
I still scold Wednesday
but you look good
with those stripes
Sometimes you give in
waiting for me to run awkwardly across
you strummed that music
making me confused
guessing your dream last night
but you were far more confused
because you didn't say anything
Do you still remember
the flaw in my eye?
While I was still writing poetry
I seemed to be starting to forget the calm
shape of your Adam's apple
when you drew black lines on our sketch.
The Black Sea of Hostility**
I express no willingness to engage in the metaphorical black sea of hostility. It is a misconception to believe that individuals are born with fractured souls; rather, such conditions develop throughout one’s life.
One enters this world devoid of sin, possessing innate virtues and qualities. However, I am not inclined to accept an invitation to your table, where the tablecloth is whiter than the pristine blanket of snow on Monsanto Lake. I will not participate in such gatherings.
Your opulent Gorham silverware glimmers, reminiscent of clusters of grapes hanging from a mountain. Nevertheless, I remain disinterested in both swimming in this sea or dining at a table rooted in animosity.
The children raised in this environment are instructed to disdain the clergy. Meanwhile, violence stains the streets of northern communities as politicians indulge in lavish dinners costing $2,000 per plate. One must question who is safeguarding the gates of moral decay.
The realm of politics is indeed tumultuous.
Hot off the heels of Back in Black
A face melting 10 track
From the opening with cannon blast and more
It went to number one, Back in Black only number four
What? You question and rightly so
How did Back in Black peak so low?
Not sure, but none are out done
All AC/DC albums are number one
Even Powerage (the anti-disco disc)
And Flick of the Switch
Will scratch where you itch
(don't scratch the vinyl)
Or Fly on the Wall some say
Doesn't fly the AC/DC way
Hey it's all AC/DC when tracks are laid down
So put it in the 8-track, cassette or CD player
And rock your hometown
So when I listen to AC/DC my neighbors do too
All the way through (the mists of time):
For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)
(P.S. Thank you Daniel Mannix for the history of the Coliseum in Rome
AC/DC wouldn't have had the inspiration without reading your tome)
Storms off Cape Verde garner strength in the Oceans.
Fed by seas of angry, restless spirits, Middle Passage emotions.
A black child knows the song of heavy trains,
as clanging engines brought my father home.
His weary, sweaty, fat thighs bearing strain,
from cooking pots of food for those well-known.
We felt the forceful song of heavy trains,
not rails or trams that ride below the street.
A move that in your gut of gut does reign,
black power that comes up beneath your feet.
Our past has known the song of steel on steel
as trains have carried tired heads held high.
When we approached we heard the air brakes squeal,
and at that sound we thought our hopes were nigh.
We've listened for the song of trains for years.
Their mournful horns just croon a memory,
and often resurrect the blues of tears,
or flash across the mind as reverie.
For many years we've sang the sad refrain,
with strength and power striving in the soul.
This melody of freedom laced with pain.
The weight of all life's longings taking toll.
Oh, sing a song of praise for those who bare
the weight of heavy trains within our past,
a rocking to and 'fro' from here to there,
maintaining in our spirits WILL to last.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, my blessed little Sister!
When we were young, Papa always called
You “Black Patti”! Now we know why:
A Senryu Quintet Tribute To “Black Patti (1868-1933): **
For My Sister, Sula “Black Patti” Baye (08/25/1943)
Water gives rivers life
I swanee, “Black Patti” gave
Life to the songs she sang:-
“Black Patti” felt that
Singing songs was to her, as
Sunshine to flowers:-
When “Black Patti” sang,
Flowers flooded world stages:
Concert Halls, sold out!
She was Mitilda
Sissieretta Jones: singing
Abolitionist!
Black Patti, rather
Than Adelina Patti, was
Their Era’s Greatest!
**When others sit down and do oursrorical research,
They will know why Papa gave you that honor. Go
And enjoy another blessed year, perpendicular to
Earth and Heaven. To God Be The Glory. In the
Onederful oneness of the onement of Extended
Family, Peace And Love, your favorite Brother,
Deac.
Where do all the voices go
When told to repress their emotions
Do they fake a smile and swallow it whole
Or do they bury their heads in the ocean and scream
The black voices are silenced
Trapped in the purgatory of compliance
Usually erased by a history of violence
Or thrown into solitary confinement
No light, no windows
Just an eternity of darkness
Voices hidden by oppressive shadows
But what of those that demand to be heard
Voices beneath the earth
Silenced by death and historical erasure
Instead of words
Do they make the ground tremble with their anger
Do their spirits control the weather
Do their souls become messengers
To represent all those who go unheard
All those black speakers
To continue a legacy of black courage
Of daring to speak up against the oppressor
A burned up system of control
A revolt spoken with flames
Silence was no longer an option
Peace had been exhausted
The only language they communicate
Violence
The police man specialises in brutality when it comes to the black man
'Stop and search'
An excuse they use
To abuse
The 'blacks"
Used as a slur
By the oppressor
As if it's poison, as if it's something to beware
Of
The Brixton riots of 1981
An explosion ready to happen
All that was needed was a lighter to spark the fuse
13 bodies
13 humans
13 black men,
Lost to hate
Tensions rose like the smoke in the buildings
A quite smile left on the faces of those reeling
Their own kind of justice, it was oh so freeing
Retaliation they didn't expect
In their own words they believed they had 'controlled the blackies'
But we have a weapon
One that whispered through generations
Nothing loud
Just something strategic
Something quiet
A lingering secret
Black rage
A communal experience
Of built up fatigue
Of the uk's involvement
In the mistreatment Of black people
Chiaroscuro ballerina,
Rond de jambe in chaînés
Jeté, jeté
Grand jeté
Mariana Victoria,
Your Seiren eyes speak in
Adamantine lies
Forbidden apple gates
Amina Afrikana,
Runes enjambed in chains
Adamantly denying
Grand opries
Bloomeria guro,
Your six-petaled cries sing
"Beaujolais, beaujolais!"
Forbidden pomegranates
Hot summers dry up the land
The dirt crumbles under the heaviness of disrespect
Fresh flowers adorn the land
Covering the uneven burial grounds
Overshadowed by privilege
What better way to claim superiority
By soiling the plantation they stand on
Ignorance crowds the air
Cast aside by vows of love
Tainting history with a wedding
The stories of black labour whitewashed into a picture of a bride in white
Covering the truths in a veil of fragility
Ironic how they use the innocence of a white wedding
To ink over history
A picture is worth a thousand words
A simple picture of a now conjoined family
Haunted by secrets of ownership
How the brides grandmother was once a girl
Who stood on this same plantation
Watching her parents become slave owners
A simple picture
Once innocent becomes a sinister backstory
A history haunted by the darkness of whiteness
Flower petals spread across the venue of black bones
Not to pay respect to those buried
But to honour love consummated on the grounds of black history
Smiling in pictures with a tainted memory
Plastered in magazines profiting off of slavery
But hey at least they gained popularity
Disposable.
Just like the bodies scattered
As unimportant as the soldiers blood splattered
A black man stands watching violence unfold
Not to the enemy
But those who fought close
Those your supposed to trust
Comrades
Yet somehow
The black man
Is on the receiving side of the bullets
Not by the opposition
But by those claiming to be on the same team
With words that sting
He fought for his country
And as a reward
He is erased by history
He became an unknown soldier
Whitewashed because of colour
Seen as another sacrifice 'for the greater good'
Yet deprived of herohood
A man who once had a name
Now demoted to a nameless face
The question is will we ever know
The story of this unsung hero
Will his name forever be buried in the trenches of history
Hidden beneath the blood Soaked sludge
Drowned out by the white man's scream
Forever silenced by the songs of white history
Now an invisible grave of black memory
Under appreciated by a system so weak
It used black strength as a weapon and shield
It's not about tone
Its about policing of voice
It's not about the sound we make
It's the words echoing through them
They don't fear us being seen
They fear us being heard
That we will hypnotise the masses with our words
They know their biggest threat is the power of our voice
It's why they wield silence as a weapon
It's why protest is a declaration of war to them
That every march is a song of rebellion
They fear our music not because of its beauty
But because it spreads a message of spoken truth
We write our history
We sing our feelings
We paint our stories
Our strength Fueled
By the mourning of our fallen
Our joy the face of protest
The very thing they want gone