Long Color blind Poems
Long Color blind Poems. Below are the most popular long Color blind by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Color blind poems by poem length and keyword.
..She felt so damn nervous making that call,
and when he picked up she just gushed it all,
he listened quietly, then she asked to meet,
she quickly wrote down the place and the street.
She met him at one of his restaurants,
he looked different now, his eyes didn’t haunt,
he had no gun, just company t-shirt,
but something about him still spoke to her.
She asked him, “Why did you do what you did?
Why risk it all to go and save my kid?
We destroyed your business, threatened your life,
made it clear we hated anyone white.”
He gave a sad smile, and then explained,
“If that’s why you’re worried, I’ll make it plain,
how could I have just let your child burn?
The thought of it just makes my stomach churn.
“He’s a human being, in danger great,
what kind of man would leave him to his fate?
Whatever rage that the mob felt for me
had nothing to do with a child of three.”
Jacinta learned forwards. “You didn’t care
that my people didn’t much want you there?
After what happened, and what we destroyed,
you went to rescue a random black boy?”
“My ‘people’ call themselves American,
and I’m pretty sure that you’re one of them.
Even if you weren’t, I’d still have to go,”
he said,”Such horrors children should not know.”
She felt amazement, and shame more than a bit,
that it took all this to understand it,
she thought ‘color-blind’ had been some quaint phrase,
those were the words that her family would say.
But this man had felt that her son mattered,
even when he had been just a stranger,
and she realized that his life mattered too,
whether black, white, or brown, such people were few.
This one man refuted lies she’d been taught,
her brother’s nonsense had all been for naught,
she saw a good man, wanted to know more,
started talking with him about his stores.
He told how his father had opened the spot
that the mob had burned, she felt her soul drop
on hearing how he’d played in the kitchen,
and chatted when young with those who came in.
She told him of Keenan, where she now lived,
he offered a job, said, “It’s mine to give.”
Soon enough Keenan would play in the back,
and the man smiled, gave him lots of slack,
mostly because he was dating his mom,
Jacinta didn’t stay on welfare for long,
the other workers snickered, she let them,
where would she find such a lover again?
CONCLUDES IN PART V.
-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet-
Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause
The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance,
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest,
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein
You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal,
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."
I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter,
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer
Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light,
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes,
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.
If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause
by;PD
I do it for fun
Her name is Seren
Yes the proud welsh girl, not foe, hopefully a fren
The number of contest she entered, maybe a million
On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d give her a billion
She has passionately stated her favorite color is green
She talked about more shades than I think I’ve seen
My vision isn’t great, but good thing I’m not color blind too
Then I’d be like those Greeks, with one word for green and blue
She also has a pooch named Tilly
If that’s a variation of Teal then she’s green silly
Maybe instead of silly I better choose a synonym
Lest emerald becomes jade and I sing a new hymn
Yes of PD, I could write clerihews day and night
However, whatever I may or might write, it’s never in spite
She loves alliteration, writing recklessly reaping rich reward
Of ailing alliteration, I’m alienated, not even a steady steward
I think my friend PD thinks I’m the meanie
With my clerihew about seeds, I think she dubbed me weenie
I am sorry Linda, I was going to remove it from the site
But too many others found some delight
Last but not least ThePhilosopher, yeah that’s me
The one that always seems to be lost at sea
You would think either past or present I was a sailor
However on life’s quest I’ve been quite the delayer
My name is Wayland, no not the first nor the third
I am the second and sometimes I mention a bird
Speaking of the bird, I look at the top 100 poems list
And obviously there is something that I missed
When I speak of the top 100’s list, I mean for two weeks
Some post almost two hundred, yes 200, they aren’t meek
I wonder how it’s possible and then I read their verse
Many times I’m often left to curse
But since when did ThePhilosopher, become the judger of prose
His clerihews always talking about these, thou, and those
I should change my name to King James
But my buddy is already King of the Quatrains
Oh yes My buddy Jack will be the last
The subjects he writes about are vast
Too many to remember with all his pretty words
When I think of his poems I don’t think of birds
I recently read his poem titled bums unite
He said he gave them money at times, it probably felt right
He said someday they may even get a ten spot
If someone gives me a ten spot, then I’m yelling JACKPOT!
*these are always done if fun, hahaha another random rhyme
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
The color seemed to drain from the sky,
falling in small orbs as the blues turned to greys.
The trees all seemed to droop, the green of the leaves seeping back into the ground.
The roses recoiled from the cool air,
shutting themselves off from the world protecting their vulnerability.
The water below the bridge played games, waves playing tag,
colliding, the screams of their collisions filled her ears.
Raindrops coating her white knuckles, her hands tightly grasping the bridge bars behind her.
Tear drops covering her swollen lip, mingling with the blood.
Brisk wind on the bruises of her inner thighs,
the empty marks where hands once grasped on her wrists.
Her mind seemed to become color blind, as the world around her melted behind a curtain of tears, ending the horror show that was once playing in front of them.
Her audience were the members of the play, the grass that had been below her body, the screams that seemed to linger in the air awaiting the new ones.
Now in the after credits she is the only one to be seen.
Her heart is empty and her will has vanished into the depths below her.
She removes her pinky from the bar, letting go of her smallest worries,
her grades, her job, her small extra things that once brought her joy, but are now the pebbles that will help her sink.
she removes her middle and ring fingers, letting go of her mediocre problems.
her breakup, her friendships, her college rejections. Once hopes that helped her move but are now the strings that help tie her feet together.
She removes her index finger, letting go of the things that pushed her to this bridge. Her parents divorce, her fathers repetitive slaps to the face, his words that whipped into her skin, and lastly the memory of the boys in the forest. Who dragged her, and put the tape on her mouth that will silence her scream as she falls.
She removes her thumb. Letting go of her existence.
When they look into the death of one beautiful girl, the last thing she left behind,
was a painting of a bridge, with stormy waters, and a girl, being engulfed in its depths, although the photo looks as if its melting, it al becoming one.
MY FATHERS BEDSIDE GOODBYE..
His Legacy 6/24/2022
Standing on lifes fragile ledge,
I gaze
wonderingly
into your brown orbs.
Windows into a house built
By your large hands
Hands That I would now inherit.
Deep and cavernous..
oh the stories they tell.
Rooms filled with comings and going’s..
The good, and the bad..
The all encompassing Rolodex of filed away emotions.
Like a campfire burnt through the night, that turns to coals..
that light now
Dims.
And yet, the shadows we cast into this life wildly dancing
whilst your fire burnt hot,
Are seared forever into folds of gray..
Painted on a canvas
Of
Leathery past.
Your skilled artists stroke of the brush, breathing life into this color blind grey world we inhabit.
Lifetimes of adventuring..
Built upon solid foundations.
Laughter at the ready, like that of bows
drawn.
And arrows Release..taking
Flight
through the air, embedded into its mark.
Like a Cupid of life’s happenings.
Touching and seeing.
We have together, lived..
We have Loved,
We have Laughed.
Oh, how we have laughed.
We have ALL laughed.
I have heard a story, but laughter..
Your laughter..
Reaches higher than any other.
Your love language was laughter.
My life is framed,
picture worthy,
eloquently streaked with shades of infectious laughter.
We have grown older together..
Lines in the sand washed by time
Becoming that of more permanent folds in
Stone.
But I am at ease..
In troubled breaths release you slide deeper into a forever only you will truly know
until we see one another again.
Thank you for the labor of love..
The lifetime of laughters edge.
The support given to artists poundings..
Tickling of the keys,
Treading the boards of a theatre,
Lines drawn to paper.
Visionary..
you share life seen through a shifted lens.
Thank you for sharing spectacled views.
Spectacular views.
Fatherly views.
I love you, Dad..
Always..
And Forever.
What’s the Hue of Your Heart?
Does ‘claim’ to be ‘___’ (1) not suggest one’s more Racist?
The Truth’s we’re all mongrels (and born of one mother!),
whatever our ‘Color.’ ‘Eve’ might have been monkey!
Best Science won’t lie (Evolution’s still hazy!)
Is ‘White’ or just ‘Pale’ the more ‘rich’ appellation?
Should language divide us or seek to blend angels?
My wish, ‘more were color blind,’ makes me a Fascist,
attacking divisions means I’m not your brother?
Does love of prosperity make one Death’s lackey
if wealth is preserved in a world that’s not crazy,
and Love blesses all? Is God’s Grace calculation
that serves to control us, Grace lies, thrives on angles?
Does Grace (that Christ died for) suggest you’re deserving?
Lord, color us humble, who struggle with pride that
we’re ‘Whiter,’ more prosperous, charming, and smarter
than thrall of Eve’s children whose blessings look scattered
on ‘day of their birth.’ Who provisions himself, Lord,
from gifts we deserve, gifts Grace dreams we’ll let serve us?
Man’s colors aren’t Race, just supremacist blindness,
that justifies meanness (war’s rape via broadsword),
thanks God for meek slain and frail innocence tattered,
the treasure that’s captured when brotherhood’s martyred.
Race covets a place at Hell’s gate as a doormat
(as Heaven’s more stringent!) Christ does the reserving!
Long Tooth
January 24th in 2021
Poet’s Notes:
(1) Substitute the color of your choice, ‘Red,’ ‘White,’ ‘Blue,’
etc., and you’ve made my poem worth my effort!
(2) In these post-Trump days of such blatant racism, it might be
easy for some to bemoan even our “White House” as one more
racist symbol from our shameful past that we still have not dealt
with thoroughly! This is evidenced by our ongoing suppression
of Black Voters in America and attacks on our Constitution!
I thank God that most racists are too uneducated to know that
white and black are not even real colors but the reflection (or
non-reflection) of all visible light.
I’ve seen black sheep set in Pongola grass
Within pallid seas, differed,
Like black buttons on a white cotton suit;
Sheep are color blind.
A bee is fine-looking,
But there’s fire in its ass.
Can the wild goat trust
The adder with inviting pelt?
Did Emmitt Till paint changes
With his blood in cotton picking towns;
The blood that called from Mississippi,
Like Abel’s blood calling from the ground.
Death had a voice, a voice in the wind,
The wind that walked north-west
And brought a microscope
For John Public to see
How inferior to dogs we are.
As a child, I played
Ring-around-the-roses
Until I saw “Rosewood”
And heard the drums
Beaten like Rodney King,
And the heartbeat of Cojoe
And Nanny racing
Towards the mountain of the devil,
To escape the cotton fields.
The drums are always talking.
The old south is alive and kicking high.
This is no Elvis tale. Exhume the body,
See with your own eyeballs.
No DNA can confirm
That Jim Crow is dead.
Jim Crow has a roost on Fox News.
He’s always crowing,
Whipped up by the “boy”
In the WHITE house.
How much can you see
If you look from the outside?
I’ve seen it even in REM sleep,
Even when I dream of roasted breadfruit,
Jockato in coconut milk, and Chinese geisha;
Willie Lynch is a man breathing
The smog-filled air in Washington.
In 1955, Money was the root of the evil,
And ’68 Memphis was the cross
Of the sacrificial lamb,
But these days men are lynched
In broad day light.
String up, dangling
Like papa's khakis floating
In breeze walking the orange glen.
All eyes should see our opinion of them.
Today we’re civilize,
And Catholicism is not voodoo.
We no longer use rope,
Our tongues do a fine job.
Like Mutabaruka,
I have no color problem;
Everything is black to me,
As black as Sarah’s view of the motherland
(It’s not too vital for her to learn).
If blue skies
Cried acid,
And wash the dark color
From this portrait,
I would still be black,
As black as tar.
It’s in my blood.
Suddenly over the sudden years
I have felt an encumbrance; I sense an albatross -
the weight of sundry uncharted days.
Times I chronicle today as if I were a wax cylinder
and not the broken spool in a cassette tape.
A subfuse goose whispers: Record the sky for me.
I must write ‘sky’ ten times a day
so that the abated will not be forgotten.
Yet how to keep a goose-gray sky fresh
when the days are so metallically shiny and blue?
None recall the monochrome stories
we once told our color-blind children?
They have grown beyond such things.
I have so little time, yet must set down
the legend of little boy gray,
his history has almost passed away,
now eyes have no corners to see.
I knew him well, alas the roads to that tale
are backhoed by cartoon rainbows.
History calls me out into the park
where a lineage of dog leads the nose
to a yesteryear, a brawling time
free from the wow and weight of newness.
we lived then as historians leading other historians
upon trails of immemorial sensations.
Meadow larks meant something once,
but now look at them, they strut like roosters
over the journals of the dead!
History cannot now be cured; it is far gone,
its prone, hump-backed form encumbers
like a speed bump.
Wordsworth and his damn golden daffodils -
as if we did not know already.
I hover over histories sickbed
my impedimenta droop like the dewlaps
of a prodigal deity.
Only a moment ago history ran through hill and dale
as naked as an infant,
its fields were alive with love, war, and kapok -
a stuffed, full metal jacket;
a saucily heraldic Kevlar.
I breathe into histories colorless lungs,
there are flocks of moribund geese tucked into each
alveoli and bronchi,
they have plucked themselves naked,
they long for the ten sky’s
named in my cinereal histories.
I shoulder this burden of faded things,
this molting albatross,
all the trappings of then and thereupon,
these I place now in an ash lined
and crumbling
vault.
They looked at me with disgust in their eyes
The moment that I walked in
The hatred and fear they felt inside
Based on the color of my skin
I was just a stranger passing through
Who simply got lost on his way
I stopped in to get some food
Not realizing prejudice was the price to pay
All heads turned and followed me
As I found my way to an open seat
The once noisy room was silent now
The waitress – afraid of me to greet
I smiled and nodded my head to the few
Who dared to look me in the eye
I knew that they all wanted me gone
But I couldn’t comprehend the reason why
Then a little boy returning to his seat
From the men’s rest room stall
Stopped right in front of me, and said,
“Why he doesn’t look mean at all”
I smiled at him and said, “No, son,
I am not the boogey man
Just someone travelling about
Trying to get a meal if I can
I’m sorry if I disturbed your peace
I am not trying to make a stand
I saw the restaurant sign from the road
And I am hungry, you understand
If you can overlook the simple fact
That my skin is a different color than yours
I promise I will do no wrong
Then get back on my tour”
“That’s okay, Mister, I don’t mind
I’m not scared like everyone else
I was told I should love everyone
The same as I love myself”
“Well the person who taught you that
Is certainly a very smart woman or man
And if they are in this room,
Well, I would like to shake their hand”
“Sure, Mister, it was my Dad
And you can come sit and eat with us
I think if you weren’t sitting all alone
There wouldn’t be so much fuss.”
The little boy took my hand
To everyone else’s surprise
The Dad stood up and shook my hand
With a twinkle of pride in his eyes
“I guess my boy learned his lesson well
Though the rest of us did not
How to welcome a stranger to our town
I guess we all forgot”
Everyone went back to their meals
And the fear just passed away
Thanks to a polite little boy
Whose innocence saved the day