Long Black african Poems
Long Black african Poems. Below are the most popular long Black african by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Black african poems by poem length and keyword.
Who am I?
When people ask me, I respond with the name my mother gave me with a smile on my face.
But is that the right answer to the question?
My name is my identity, but do I identify with my name?
Angel
If I was asked to picture this, a bright image of a white woman with wings is immediately summoned into my mind
With wings stretching far past her arms
Beautiful blonde hair, big-hearted blue eyes, tender tan skin wearing a long and flowing white dress.
This woman floating in the sky
Has the clear blue sky behind her and the bright sun shimmering and glistening on her skin.
When thinking about it as an adjective, words like
Celestial.
Heavenly.
Divine.
Ethereal.
Virtuous.
Glorious.
Beautiful.
Pure.
Holy
Righteous.
Worthy.
Float around in my mind.
What is the purpose of a name?
Some say it’s a window to who a person truly is.
Maybe it’s a brief overview of what to expect from someone.
It could be contradictory like a joke parents wanted to play on everyone that knows their child.
Or it could just be a way to address someone while speaking to or about them.
I like to think I identify with my name. But who truly is the judge of that?
Everyone might have a drastically different idea of who I am.
Some people might describe me as
Celestial.
Heavenly.
Divine.
Ethereal.
Virtuous.
Glorious.
Others may not.
I am not even sure I would identify myself as those things.
I certainly would not identify myself as that white woman in the sky.
So who am I then?
Do my intentions behind my actions matter less than the perceptions of those around me?
I still don’t know the answer, but if it were up to me, I would hope I represent the name my mother gave me well.
When you put your hands on me,
I don’t flinch or move away.
I accept all the love you’re giving
I don’t have to rush and take charge.
Baby, I know your scars,
’cause we share the same fears.
I know how harsh the world gets
when they see your nightly complexion.
You’re not an object for my pleasure
or an item that’s meant to be thrown away.
I won’t be the one to forsake you
you’re a person I’m meant to cherish.
I’m not here to dominate, I don’t need submission.
All I need is your delicate touch while
I paint your amber-like skin with my lips
as the sun makes your eyes turn hazel.
I’m caught in your gaze,
and it’s telling me to come closer.
It’s telling me to hold you when you’re low.
It’s telling me to love you right.
When the moon rises through the curtain,
I remember what it means to have you.
As the scent of your cocoa hair drifts through the room,
I remember the love of a Black woman.
Even when there’s snow on the roof
I will have fire in the chimney
I will keep a warm hopeful heart
And a strong steady mind
Determined despite my flaws
To win it all
Life love liberty
My ancestors lived died in chains
In hopes that I may live die free
Their tears salted the earth
As they walked with bloody feet
No shoes but splendid souls
Only the strongest survived
That I may live so
I can move mountains
Learning that which can’t be taught
Acquiring assets that can’t be bought
I am the eagle flying highest
When my enemy stoops the lowest
And to reach my destination
I can move mountains for others
That only seem a pebble to me
For my mind has broken it up
Into many rocks and defeated
Any negative thinking linking
Mind over matter
I will use my gifts my wits
My back my **** whatever is
My personal asset
Grab it and run with it
For my days are numbered
I fear not death
But aware I must clear the path
Just as ancestors have
I stand on raw shoulders
And I am too a stepping stone
When I move the mountain
I don’t do so alone.
LEGENDS IN SILENCE, VOICES ETERNAL
Hip-hop icons who faced life’s toughest trials,
Pen laid down, eternal rest in Hades or the stars.
Some losses don’t just echo; they hit hard,
In the stillness, debates are sparked.4
TakeOff, 28 — a quiet genius, finesse in flight & style,
Orbiting greatness, until violence made him fly.6
Tupac, 25 — a legend, prophet, poet, a flame of truth,
Shot into shadows, the system took his youth.8
Biggie, 24 — a wordsmith, heavy with dreams,
A vision too grand, vanished at the seams.¹°
XXXTENTACION, 20 — a whirlwind of sound, emotions laid bare,
Searching for identity, then the sky fell unaware.¹²
Nate Dogg, 41 — the eternal hook, a voice like velvet,
Bringing warmth to evenings, yet time wouldn’t let it.¹4
Eazy-E, 30 — a rebel’s mind and Compton’s pride,
Concrete intellect, but the era’s wounds couldn’t hide.¹6
Big Pun, 26 — a titan with rhymes that spanned the ages,
His craft kept Latin pride alive through all the stages.¹8
Young Dolph, 36 — a king who stood tall and free,
His hustle and legacy of strength lives eternally.²°
Pop Smoke, 20 — tomorrow’s voice, silenced too soon,
Dreams felt unsafe, trapped in a room.²²
King Von, 26 — a chronicler of danger, stories too real,
His story closed the book on him, fate did seal.²4
Nipsey, 33 — a marathon thinker, preaching ownership,
Building futures, but death had a grip.²6
They didn’t just rap; they voiced the pain,
Hope chronicled through bruises and strain.
Fame offered no shield, talent no guard,
Influence couldn’t armor them; life left its scarred.³°
This poem serves as a warning, not just a show,
A lesson, not a headline, urging us to choose life & grow.
Their bodies may rest, but their legacy thrives,
Gone too soon, yet their spirit & legacies survives.³4
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©?15th February 2025.
Lynching Live; So What? Trumped-Up Normality Reins
Knee lynching streamed live,
Shadowed death’s source is revealed;
Justice remains blind!
Cameras roll, showing death’s shadowed
source.
Cameras don’t lie; streaming the truth of
live murder.
Oppressive actions of intentional racialism
unveiled;
Yet, lynched justice remains dangling on the
tree of life.
In oppression, when freedom fires flare-up,
Executive ordered murderers begin shooting;
Revealing despotic authority racialism controls.
With the support of blind justice’s unbalanced scales,
The justified lynching of hued citizens remains pandemic.
The pandemonium of the intentional killings of forested
black men
Has become as normal in America as its friend, out-right
abject racism;
And breaking news reporting of such is as much a crime as
living black.
Live streaming of First Amendment rights has been deemed
unacceptable
And will be dealt with as an aggregated affront against the
government;
Getting back to normal again has become the unleashing of
viral racism.
America boils,
The pot of death overflows;
Racist soup spilling…
Many rains ago,
Lynching blacks was quite normal;
Today, it still is…
The lessons of today’s liberation struggle
Must not be viewed as a virtual surrealism
But clearly realized that it’s graduation time
And all must strive to be valedictorians
Least we all will fail to cross the live stage;
Yes, we hued ones are all in this mess together
And anyone of us could be next victim, even you!
In poetry, love and wisdom intertwine—a heartfelt love poem can carry profound wisdom, and wise reflections often touch upon matters of the heart. ????
Psalm 90:6
in the morning it springs up new, but by evening it fades and withers.
When my heart returns in seclusion,
I uttered these words to myself,
Give it time, be wise, embrace self-compassion
I must put myself first, I must, I must,
This time around, I don't want to walk away,
Taste only me, make love to only me
Reflected only in my space.
enchantment leads to my dearest delight
enter my soul before the break of dawn
A dream within a dream according to Edgar Allan Poe
For our morning blessing/
Happy or sad, our morning salutations/
There is nothing more appealing
Then seeing white undershirts and white teeth
as it captures the youth of innocent,
falling in love, with a cub, half my age,
A trickery of unfocused emotions bearing down.
I can see no flaws,
I see only what my heart allows,
Trembling lips, both top and bottom
gazing into those eyes of witchery illusions
Just this once, just feed me, just enter my soul
This frigid northern cold, the Africa heat rises:
Who will bless this union?
When it all fades like leaf
All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.
Let me love you for now,
Let me smile, while you smile,
aloud me, to accept you,
as you enter my soul
Summary: This poem weaves love, wisdom, and introspection. It invites readers to embrace self-love, navigate illusions, and seek blessings amid life’s impermanence. ????
The inspiration behind this poem lies in the interplay of human emotions, the ephemeral nature of existence, and the search for meaning. The poet grapples with love, self-compassion, and the complexities of relationships. The references to biblical verses and contrasting elements (such as northern cold and African heat) evoke deeper contemplation. Ultimately, the poem invites readers to explore their own hearts, desires, and vulnerabilities. ????
I love the month of February,
The coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like she is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amid treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
Feb is the month of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, pristine,
Snowy, short, cold, dark, and lovely; She's now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No swimmers on the wintry beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Hebert Logerie Tuesday, February 2, 2016
TO DUE TIME AND SEASON
(APROPOS LESSONS FROM ODYSSEUS)
In deep winter womb of mind
the heart yet glows
with fervent warmth
of hope un-died;
hope un-denied—
in due season to come,
faith firmly fitted for the testing.
Though life’s winding stairway
seem to veil much—
we are children of the sun—
under which all revelations
are reflected yesterday, today
and tomorrow’s tomorrows:
come let us continue to plow the way.
Let us rise and continue to sow pregnant seeds
in the fertile rows the struggle has bumped
and folded on the face of mother earth;
let us continue to mulch the seedlings
of our visions in the fields of our dreams:
that we may yet reap ripening fruits
of our promised emancipation.
When the harvest is plentiful
so equally must be the reapers
that our plow sheds not be abandoned
burdens of emptiness ghost dreams left;
nor like crack shells that once housed eggs
that life left stuck in the mud of fear; rather
let us walk the footsteps dried in fear’s mud.
Let us not to be the children of Sisyphus;
for rocks, like their statues, can’t grow;
we are the ebony children of the tree of life—
destined not to wander the proverbial desert
but to fly to mountain top as on phoenix wings
and swooping down in due season into the valley:
our mighty talons grasping evil monster of injustice.
Indeed, no lie can live forever—
the cold winter blast of injustice
shall become as ice in the presence
of the rising sun coming like Joshua
to the walls of Jericho—melting the in
leaving justice flowing like a mighty river
cascading over into the sea of redemption.
so let us not wallow in the weakness of despair;
and be not in distress, for in due time
we shall be delivered…from lying lips and deceitful
tongues…as if by two-headed arrows
balancing new scales of justice; the all seeing eye
watching from up on high and in due season, surely
spring and hope shall usher in freedom, peace and love.
LIKE A TREE PLANTED BY THE WATERS
Though stolen, I never left you: remaining
Like a keloid
Etched across your healing womb.
The umbilical flow of a river never
Empties itself of its source.
Thus I wade backwards to the genesis
Of my being;
And grow like a tree planted by the waters:
And I shall not be moved.
From my Nile and Gold Coast waters beginnings
I shall not be moved.
From my blackness, I can no longer be
Sold.
From my blackness, I can no longer be
Cajoled.
From my blackness, I can no longer be
Ostracized.
From my blackness, I can no longer be
Comprised.
My sable Sahara soul is indelibly free
As I want to be.
Like God, Africa is, and I am, like a tree planted
By the waters:
And I shall not be moved.
Every November, Harlem hums
coquito chilling, collards cooking,
a holiday approaching
that never sat right with me.
Before the parades, the plates,
my mind slips past the pretty lies
we paint over pain
and calls it “Thanksgiving.”
I think about Columbus
the way they crown him a hero
when really
he sparked the unraveling
of my whole bloodline.
Taino shores stained red.
Africans dragged into ships.
A continent bent under the weight of his footsteps.
And every year,
I whisper the same wish:
“If only I could turn back time…”
That’s when the sand rises
lifting out the sidewalk cracks,
spinning into an hourglass storm.
Suddenly I’m in 1492,
staring at the moment
everything went left.
Columbus stands on his deck,
smug, boots tapping out the rhythm
of centuries of sorrow.
And my whole soul wants to stop him
one push,
one word,
one shift in the timeline.
But the sand flickers
and replaces him with worse.
A conqueror history hid
because his cruelty
couldn’t fit on clean white pages.
He doesn’t want gold.
He wants erasure.
The sand darkens.
Across the ocean, Africans fade
not freed,
just gone,
executed on their own soil
before they could ever become ancestors.
The Caribbean I know
Bomba drums,
Taino caves,
abuela’s laughter in Loíza
collapses into dust
so fast I begin fading with it.
I reach for Harlem
its stoops,
its music,
its cultures braided like my own DNA
but my hand slips through the city
as if I’m a ghost
in a world that never had a reason
to make me.
If I change the past,
I erase myself.
I erase my people.
The sand spins like it’s teaching me
with every grain.
Then suddenly
a softer shimmer.
The scene resets.
Columbus steps off the boat humble,
listening.
The Taino greet him without fear,
teaching him how to walk the land
without breaking it.
Years later, Africans arrive
not in chains,
but in hope.
By choice.
Bringing rhythm, language, strength,
building a true America
with the Taino
side by side.
The hourglass rights itself.
Harlem returns
alive, loud, imperfect,
but real.
And I breathe.
I can’t change the past.
But I’m the proof
that my ancestors made it through
anyway.