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Long Poems
Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Unquotable quotes: Janitor, Gardienne, Portero, Sereno, Hausgast -XXXI Part One

Unquotable quotes: The Janitor, Gardienne, Landlady, Housekeeper, Portero, the Sereno and the Hausgast – XXXI  Part One

Be they so named or not in these here parts, visions of shrieking furies with Gorgon heads and frightful temple-guardian Dvarapalas and Gothic Frankensteins with blood-dripping fangs and gnarled claws loom into view at the very thought of these gentle folk. 

This class of saintly women  cannot but live off the mass of urban populations under the pretext of serving the latter as their hand-and-foot maidens. Gare à vous!

The C.S. (Conseil syndical), the all-powerful co-proprietors council which decides what is to be done with the monies they require residents to pay for the so-called upkeep of the place under their control. The CS - mainly composed of women: housewives, spinsters, widows and old maids, with one or two crusty men thrown in for good measure - is supposed to be elected by the entire number of co-proprietors at the annual general assembly, but, in actual fact, the inscrutable ways of democracy being such the ring leaders canvass and obtain by proxy the majority of votes to do whatever it pleases them.

The Syndic administers the accounts of the co-property: collection of provisions, payment for services rendered by plumbers, electricians, lift and intercom maintenance technicians, insecticide sprayers, including the payment of the whopping salary to the gardienne (and her otherwise employed husband), and of course the famous organization of the General Assembly when decisions taken by the CS are put to the vote for the succeeding year’s expenditures. The president of the CS also maintains a common account from which (s)he pays for certain emergency services, the sums of which (s)he recovers from the Syndic, however.

Now, the rub is this: the Syndic receives payment for his services; the gardienne is paid a regular salary, but the CS, nothing. Their services are considered to be offered in an altruistic spirit for the betterment of the co-proprietors, but is this the case? Th	at’s for you to decide. It is however a convention among all the residents that they may help themselves as and when they please to whatever appears appropriate in the circumstances and here much developed forms of imaginative speculation is required to guess at what they can do to pay themselves for what may be considered “work” whether foul or not.

The gardienne has the quintessential role in this set-up. She knows the ropes, for her kind on a national level have managed all exigencies and are worldly-wise about how to keep the money flowing.  She informs and directs the hand of the president of the CS who then allows her a sizeable cut of the purse. For this purpose, a whole array of service providers who are willing to cooperate are called upon to serve them.  And the coproprietors don’t much bother about who benefits from what, so long as the job gets done, and they are not put out - much too much - of their pockets.  Their least of all concerns is the legality of the situation. In this thieves paradise, the insurance companies’ employees too willingly play the game by shutting a conniving eye to misdeeds.

Little wonder then that in Napoleonic territory, the chief players in this particular form of laissez-faire hail inevitably from the Mediterranean countries. Only such a state of affairs could have provoked the greatest wit in these parts to comment: “…wherever you go in France, you will find that the(ir) three chief occupations are making love, backbiting, and talking nonsense.” Cf Candide by Voltaire.) 


                     The Terror at the Door

There she blows the tough lump twitching rude bums
   Riding on the mop stick between wily witchy thighs
Nasty tongue lolling with itchy gossipy gums
   Messy breasts soured by curdled milk‘s retchy sighs

Mean glutton button eyes on the lookout for victims
   Those without rich connections the lone occupants
On whom she unleashes her venom her whims
   The hushed neighbourhood numbed by wails by rants

Each morning the terror strikes at some bolted door
   Some migrant woman in arrears rent husband on dole
Accusing the wretch of littering some space out of door
   Summoning to witness the mighty indigene soul

Each night she’ll scorch indecent threats on paper:
   “He who laid that lame cabinet down by the basement
I know by name – Before the day grows duller
   I’ll have him arraigned by holy writ’s firmament!”

So she’ll whine and she’ll grind her victims to pulp
   Till she’s got them all on the run tout azimut     
While she fawns kiss-asses the rich who cuddle pup
   At the buildings entrance where she sets up court

There to villify denigrate and condemn
   Those who dared point a finger at what she got
To justify phantom expense free flat unearned gem 
   The terror at the door the lèche-cul lèche-bottes

This migrant terror who would not finish school
   Sports a sinecure even Ph. Ds cannot earn
Add to that kickbacks from fake contracts drool
   And payments from useless chores money to burn

Do Lords of the Manor tolerate terror at their door
   Turn masochist key in keyhole of prison
What system of human rights permits such horror
   A land that’s seedbed to such criminal poison

Everyone’s out to break the coded law at will
   Who’s there to watch over other individuals’ rights
Can the system of Justice prevent wanton kill
   When the vast majority abhor others’ written rights

When rulers and electors are left to their devices
   All turn a deaf ear to open faults and crimes
The people show brazen courage in upholding vices
   So long as those who suffer do not decry the times

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Poet M.e. | Details

To Gregory Pardlo, Pulitzer Prize Winner

As soon as I heard 
You were the First African American Male
To win the Pulitzer prize for Poetry
I wanted to run out and celebrate
I wanted to wake up Hughes and Dunbar
And Baraka and say we made it
No one would have been prouder than Maya
She sold ten million books
And didn’t win a Pulitzer
And you win after selling one thousand-five hundred books
Surely this is even more incredible


They finally let us in their world of literature
After a hundred years
You did good Gregory
Our fourth Black Pulitzer prize winner in all
But the first African American Male
The more I stared at your picture I thought
My he looks Cuban or Chilean
And I read that your wife is from El Salvador
And Pardlo is far from a Black name
But that doesn’t really matter
Close enough
We made it
You are Black enough for me

I was so thrilled I ran
To read all of your poems I could find
And then my champagne glass tipped
As the pages of the poems flipped


Not shocked that none of the major articles
Mentioned you being an African American
More confused that you only mentioned it
In the context that the White media
won’t correctly honor you as they did Hughes
So an NAACP image award had to do
But I know you didn’t pick the Pulitzer
It picked you. Still I am happy for you.
You mentioned your battle with alcohol
And that your family was dysfunctional
Alcohol and dysfunction 
Are metaphors for African American
So again close enough


But not even that was my greater issue
I listened to you on You Tube
And the thing that made me gasp
Is that you could never read your poetry
To An African American fifth grade class
They wouldn’t understand your syntax
And would be lost in your anapest
Never get your personification
The more I listened the more I heard
Rita Dove again
The last time Africa America has heard from her
Well I can’t say when
But I am still happy you won the Pulitzer


For the next twenty years of your life
You will feature at Harvard near a Ghetto 
At Stanford near a ghetto
In Detroit and Chicago near Ghettos
But mostly White audiences will celebrate you
Because your sponsors
Don’t want to stop their cars in BedStuy
The very neighborhood you live in
And you will impress people with your
Iambic discourse
Of course

But city blocks away
In a ghetto dreary
Where the Halogen dreams burn dim
They will hear that the man of words
Has no words for them
And growing up in suburban Wilingboro
You will never write a PREFACE
You’ll Never know RIVERS
And you will never know why 
MALINDY sings
Or why the CAGED BIRD beats its wing
But still I am so happy that you won.

And assuming being an African American
Had something to do with you winning
Please be an African American
Be like Gwen and refuse 
Sponsorship from Taco Bell and Pepsi
Be like Langston or Baraka and
Get charged for being Un American
Or be accused of being crazy like
Claude McKay
Or even like Nikki and cuss somebody out
Even if you have to do it gracefully 
And even if you do it only once

I too am honored by your NAACP image award
And I know you will fight up there for more
African Americans to be included 
in the “86% White Publishing World.”
Please Mr. Pardlo remember that we just need more
Black people down here 
Just to be included in the eating world
And in the employment world
Please use your beautiful words for us too


And so I close with these words:
In the Guardian, you asked why
Black Writers are so Invisible to White people?
Well I say, If they don’t hear your poems
Or if they don’t see you or hear you
Far beyond the posh Harvard hills
There are forty million who will


2017 A Letter To Gregory Pardlo.. (Pulitzer)
Michael Ellis...

Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by m.n.i.w m.n.i.w | Details

My final curtain call

I'm sorry momma.
I'm sorry father.
I couldn't be the man you raised.
You instilled me with morals and values,
from which I chose to stray.
I chose to leave those college days,
just to be on the streets stuck in my stagnant ways.
Little leagues games that I always use to play.
Back when you could stand to look into my eyes
and it put a smile on your face.
Now when I look into yours eyes
I see the reflection of a disgrace.
But you can't blame yourself
for me being stuck in this forsaken place.
You opened up doors for me.
I'm the one that chose not to enter.
I know that you regret the day
I separated from your placenta.
Because you weren't sure
of what you were getting yourself into.
But momma I never meant to.
Bring you shame
or stain your name.
It's just that living in this world,
it often gets hard to sustain.
And hard to maintain.
My desire to be better is strong,
but it just seems to come without gain.
Now malicious thoughts only exist
within my mind frame.
Hand signals and twisted up fingers
like I suffer from carpal tunnel.
Choosing the wrong paths
to make it out the tunnel.
And I can't get through.
My street fraternity,
my hood brotherhood,
the people that I run to.
I'm wreaking havoc among oppositions.
Some demise upon a few.
I have no love for the world.
I tried,
but there's not much that I can do.
Society caused my heart's shrinkage,
so there's only room for a few.
Mainly just you and you.
I saw you working like a slave
just to make ends meet.
And those times that you couldn't
I watched you weep
because we had no food to eat.
Living on a mad street.
Where the sound of sirens
and bullets ricocheting made it hard to sleep.
I was always confused.
Every time I saw lights flashing red and blue,
it brought me the blues.
No one cared then,
so now I could care less
about following the rules.
And no one cared
when I went to school
looking like a fool
with my cheap clothes
and worn out shoes.
Paying dues that could never subdue.
I saw that the good road was full of cracks.
And the bad road was smooth sailing.
Any opposition I assailed.
I tried so hard,
but my good humor failed to prevail.
I know that you all are praying for me,
and wish me well.
But I know I have a special position in Hell.
Or locked in a cell.
So father don't wait up on me.
And momma please don't cry.
'Cause my train to the Lord's haven
has already derailed.
No lie.
Soon I'll be...
Staring out the window of a cop car.
I know the end of the road is not too far.
Soon I'll be...
Staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
I know no parent wants to hear about
the death of their son.
To the man I always look up to like a hero.
As I matured the feeling was reciprocated.
When he realized his son was a zero.
It left him devastated.
To the woman who caressed me
to warmth and shed light.
On those dark cold nights
when disparity was the only thing in sight.
I'm sending out this apology because
I know y'all saw the higher me.
But this is the life for me
and I could never rise to be.
I'm a beast lost in this worldly jungle.
Just know I'll always love you.
I'm sorry to you all.
This is my final curtain call.

Copyright © m.n.i.w m.n.i.w | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by LATARSHA GRANDBERRY | Details

A Woman's Worth

A Woman’s Worth
When she walks in the room
she wants people to stop and stare
not because they’re whispering…
what she got on girl, what’s up with that hair?
But because she looks good, conservative and chic
looking her best from head to feet
she knows the spiked heels and look at me blouse
will make all the men become aroused
she knows that look would make conditions tense
but how she’s dressed builds confidence
she doesn’t do loud make-up, green hair or tight skirts,
if you don’t know, how will anyone else know your worth?
Not trying to be  Nicki Manage,
never putting on a fascad
being original, still blending in
all because she’s good  in her own skin
She looks pretty
and carries herself well,
clothes should hide
what only time should tell
When a man calls us out of our name
boy, do we get offended
Aretha told us the Rule of R-e-s-p-e-c-t
It’s usually us that bend it
Wearing anything to work, 
any and everything to church
talking that ghetto talk
walking that ghetto walk
telling your friends, girl, he don’t respect me
your friends telling you that you save nothing to see
Asking him out first
Not knowing your worth
You didn’t give him a chance
giving all of yourself on a one night stand
sitting there wondering why he didn’t call
now you’re starting to feel about 2 feet tall
think back, yall never took the time to ask for number and name
now you’re feeling so ashamed
It wasn’t your smile or your smarts that got you here
that drink, you didn’t think
Oh, is that a tear?
Men respect us based on how we think of ourselves
they measure us on what our body tells
what is your body telling?
that you have something you’re selling?
there’s so much you can tell with your body
you don’t have to be revealing to be a hottie
besides, I have daughters and they’re watching me
I try to always give them something beautiful to see
what are we teaching our little girls?
that our bodies will further in this world?
the answer to that question is no 
the BIBLE says train a child in the way they should go
what we need to understand as women we deserve respect
but sometimes what we give is what we usually get
when most men see a woman in low -cut shirts, short skirts and high heels
to him you’re worth about as much as a happy meal
if I’m a meal, I’m Crème Brouleé , Beluga Caviar, Laute Truffle Chocolate, with 1945 Chauteau Vintage wine,
That’s who I am all the time
Be who you are, 
can’t be me, I’m taken
If you think you can live as someone else
you’re sadly mistaken
I’m a woman every week,
365 days a year
I don’t clock out
I wanna make that clear
Ok, sometimes I can joke and be crazy, 
but I never forget that I’m a lady
so girls, get it right,
you can stay on your grind
FOR A REAL WOMAN IS A WOMAN FOR REAL AT ALL TIMES


Copyright © LATARSHA GRANDBERRY | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Andrew Crisci | Details

Part I-THE ESCAPE OF A ROOSTER NAMED HARBOR

A handsome rooster with red-breasted feathers, soft and lustrous,
and a head covered with golden plumage,
was too unhappy to sing about his age,
so he embarked on a long journey, sadly departing from his friends.  


Thousands of miles over farms, vallies, villages and cities he flew,
seeking with all his strength an urban, bustling place...
to terminate that monotony, which made him too blue
and disunite himself from an ordinary life which implied bondage.


And roaring over majestic mountains, rolling hills and cities with skyscrapers,
he encountered suspicious and envious eagles that
challenged him with their vicious shrills, but he displayed no apparent rage...
still diving into luminous and transparent clouds.  


The unhappy roosted had not rested for three long days,
and exhausted of flying, he decided to take a brief break by a bubbling stream;
his dry,wind-whipped eyes started to roll and he fell asleep...
and trancing and tossing, he rolled downhill into an harbor of sailing ships.


The well-rested rooster woke up around noon, finding himself in the lap
of a gorgeous boy and he was telling his mom kndly,
" I want this rooster, he can keep the lonesome and quite parrot  company."
And she replied, "It's a not a pet, my son!" she explained.


Mothers always try to please their kids, and sometimes spoil them,
not according to their customs and bekiefs...fathers are much stricter than them.
"I'll take care of him and I'll feed him, and soon he'll be living on our ranch home."
"From now on, his name will be Harbor: the lovely place where I found him."


The gentle boy kept his promise and Harbor became family,
and the untalkative parrot tought that Harbor to say the same and exact words he said,
and as days went by, nobody knew how he could utter them humanly;
and how did they find out that Harbor was smater than any other rooster or even bird?


They actually heard them in a challenging conversation who could find a perfect mate
in the shortest time and the shrewd parrot would surely be a winner,
but to his surprise, Harbor, with his accumulated widdsom, sought in a nearby, sunny farm,
where chickens were raised and transported on an old air conditioner freighter.


Harbor looked around, and he didn't seem to like any chicks he saw;
was he about to give up on his search? Suddenly not! He trotted past the noisy barn,
and to his bewilderment, he spotted a beautiful chick on the grass below...
and gallantly accosted her, and with a chat, he started a romantic affair by keeping her warm.

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by Daryl Joplin | Details

Gypsie Boy Part One

The toot of a lute
Rang through the air
The carnival was uproar with laughter
A little boy's eyes
a much larger size
at the sight of what he was after
A stale piece of bread
Sat in the trash
It made the little boy in rag's mouth water.
So he reached through the gate
as soon as it got late
Hoping to avoid his slaughter
For stealing was a crime
Even from a trash-bin
They'd have his head off in seconds
A guard caught his eye
But before he could cry
Fate thought he'd need a hero, I reckon.
Some strangely dressed women
appeared from the shadows
and drew their shiny swords
The strangers fought
In the dead of night
The boy was lost for words
One of the women
She approached the child
She bent down to get another look
Seeing his starvation
The pain in his eyes
And the energy that life's stresses had took
"Come with us," Said the women
With a friendly smile
She offered the little boy her hand.
"You'll be safe with us,"
The women explained
"No more getting kicked in the sand."
The boy gave the women 
a cautious look
He greatly considered her offer 
His parents had just died
Of a horrible starvation
Tonight, hunger wouldn't take another
The little boy agreed
To join the Gypsies
Together they ate and they danced
They traveled from place
To place to place
With a merry smile around he pranced
But what they didn't know
Black magic was brewing
The pagans couldn't sense it upon them
But the hungry little boy
Had always had a gift
He knew when trouble was near him
Immediately he ran
To alert the Gypsies
He said something dark was coming
The pagans all stopped
The music died down
They'd send this enemy running
With candles and an altar
Some herbs and a pendant
The pagan's had formed a plan
They'd cast out a spell
That would protect the people
The animals and the land
Suddenly the sky darkened
Rain started to fall
Their magic wasn't working
With no wind blowing
A candle tipped
Danger was definitely lurking
The fire spread 
through out the camp
Tents burned down to ash
The gypsies all panicked
And fetched buckets of water
These problems surely couldn't last
The next two moths
were full of bad luck
The boy got covered by glances
"These problems didn't happen"
"Untill this boy came along."
They said getting rid of him would raise their chances
Of surviving in this
Horrid world we live in
They shunned him within a matter of hours
The boy wandered the earth
With tears in his eyes
His cries rang out with power
So on he walked
Following the road
As his gypsies had taught him
Though his spirits were crushed
and his body hungry
Nobody in the world would stop him

Copyright © Daryl Joplin | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by charles hice | Details

1one2two9nine

 1one2two9nine 
1one2two9nine 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
WiseorFoolish 

 DOING WHAT THE JESUS SAID 
Eye am risking the loss of some merits to at least prove to some of you that to do 
the works of JESUS is the right and lawful thing to do the man was just like me 
he seems to be a homeless and eye asked him to share my food he said no he 
was taken care of a food card from the service. Eye wound up giving nothing but 
a courtesy yet my blessing is unending the words that JESUS speaks are meant 
to be the life we breathe and giving is so certainly the thing to do. Not bragging 
unnecessarily just letting people knoe to do the works he says to do. Offer 
someone food if they can take it it will help you if they refuse it you can eat it 
seems to me there is nothing there to lose. Now the food eye have to eat is better 
for the act of sharing even the man is not eating with me the food it's doubly 
better in proportions. Show me the house that's built on stilts that's built on sand. 
There is a temporary church that meets inside the main church building they 
usually start the service at nine thirty today they went out on a run away there was 
no church service even eye usually go just to knell down near the table and thank 
Jesus for the offering there there is Coffee and some coffee cake and other 
things as well but today eye am on mye own attempting more than one thing at a 
time it seems beyond the eye trying to stay hooked into the wonder of this life for 
it seems like GOD is just like Santa Clause to me when we have it in our heart to 
do he sees it just the same. 
Eye still carry my raincoat my umbrella even though it has not rained for many 
weeks I'm ready. The place eye like to visit has been pulled out from under me 
the preacher needs to visit his own prayer room just to see how dark his heart is 
to become without his love. He warned me not to trespass and so far eye have 
not been back but the wonder of it all is that the place still seems to stand a 
monument to decadence a monument to disgrace. They knoe that eye am 
homeless eye still walk the street without a place. The blankets in the dump 
seem so nice when eye am cold. Foolishness or wisdom tell me preacher what 
would you do when the sky was falling would you stick your turkey neck up to the 
rain and then just drown or would you find a church with a poor doorway to get 
dry. The path is narrow the climb is steep and harrow the preacher fast asleep. 
Eye cry a homeless to the end of time. 


Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details

THE BOW LEGGED GIRL

      THE BOW LEGGED GIRL
I took all of your tank tops and your hose and your sox,
and I put them all together in a little brown box.
I put all of your dresses and your shoes in a sack,
and I wrapped it up because I knew you're never coming back.

I took your funky records and your Playgirl magazines
and dropped them in the trash with all your green and purple jeans.
I took the clothes I bundled up and gave them away,
to the Salvation Army, it seems like yesterday.

You never told me you were leaving town,
you never told me you were leaving.
You never told me you were leaving town,
you never told me you were leaving.

I met a wino on the street, she looks just like you,
she wears a see through blouse and she walks bow legged, too.
She sings those funky songs and plays the guitar outa sight,
and she takes a bath in cheap perfume like you did every night.

She still sings about Viet Nam and love we don't show,
guess she doesn't know that Viet Nam was 40 years ago.
She's out protesting every day and carries a sign,
 and bites her toenails ev'ry night just like you chewed on mine.

You never told me you were leaving town,
you never told me you were leaving.
You never told me you were leaving town,
you never told me you were leaving.

She has a job but all she'll say, it ain't chopping wood.
And it's funny how her money lasts, and she lives so good.
She bought a brand new car one day, a green Cadillac,
and it's got a bar up in the front and mattress in the back.

I don't know why she thinks she has to work every day,
cause I never had a job I just live on my welfare pay.
She picks her nose and rolls each bugger in a sugar ball,
and just like you used to do, then she eats them all.

You never told me you were leaving town,
you never told me you were leaving.
You never told me you were leaving town,
you never told me you were leaving.

I married her in the park, it seems like yesterday,
and I don't know what I'll do if she doesn't run away.

She brought her uncle home with her from work the other night,
and her uncle and my cousin all got drunk and had a fight.

She got locked in the bedroom with the meter readers dad,
and they had a lot of fun all night, but I felt awful bad.
He took her home with him a while, but she wouldn't stay,
I wish you'd come back home to me, and run her away.

You never told me you were leaving town,
you never told me you were leaving.
You never told me you were leaving town,
you never told me you were leaving.

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2011

Long poem by Norey Bailey | Details

Weekend (how it all began)

i want to know if you wake up on Saturdays to watch cartoons with more than two in the bed
running to the kitchen on commercial to refill bowls of cereal and cups of kool-aid
not even looking at your watch cause the time you are spending is priceless and lovemade

i wonder if the kids go out to play at midday and your wife starts the laundry as you go
to the the window
you turn the radio to that ol'school station and compare every song to someone you've
loved and lost
you go "back down memory lane" thinking of skintight red "leather" pants and blue magic
you start reminiscing  the  taste  of a  "natural woman" who
"like a virgin" you touched  for the  very first  time
 you are comparing the "good times" sharing notebooks symbolic of passing notes in class
to "she's got papers" and it's cheaper to keep her ass
you "truly adore her" you were her prince she should have been your queen
she was your everything yet you did not give her the ring
how come you didn't "make it last forever"
like the midnight to 5am phone calls
like the dollar store sentiments that are still in peripheral view
"as we lay" i had wondered does she make love to you
does she kiss you the way mind mind wants to?
does she "stoke you down" to get you in the mood?
is it "fire and desire" as you look in to her eyes?

you still in the window as you see a kiss float to you from a cloud
do you remember her lips her panty "ribbon in the sky" falls so softly in the palm of your
hand
you had her wrapped around your finger she was purely ancient like egyptian
every time you saw her it was like johnny kemps "friday night" you felt like you just got paid
and even though you let her go you still want her to this very day
you wonder what she's doing this weekend and if you could just get a way
you would just wine and dine her all rainy day
she loves to love you in a way you cant describe
she doesn't even have to say it, you see it in her eyes
you know you would do any thing in your power
you are Sampson she is your Delilah
she knows your weakness was shed when you cut your dreads
so she uses her cleansing powers to heal you and restore your strengths
weak in the knees as breast brush against your spleen
teeth marks on shoulder blades "these are a few of her favorite things"

is she that chick you would cheat on ya wife with?
even though she wouldn't let you and you are obliged to respect it
and "betcha by golly wow" if you were granted a chance it wouldn't go neglected
see you next weekend

Copyright © Norey Bailey | Year Posted 2008

Long poem by humble b | Details

I Don't Hate America

I Don’t Hate America

I like the country I live in
That doesn’t mean I have to sing their songs
to prove that sh@!.
That doesn't mean that 
I can just can’t get over the fact that
they murdered the people who built it
 
America was dedicated to a proposition that
“all men are created equal, except
for women, indians and blacks

The white men were just fine is what we were told 
but what about those who were stolen that never made it over to NEW WORLD?
The ones that were thrown overboard and
those who died from sickness while in transport

Remember those who were born into slavery and never even knew what freedom was before their physical bodies left
and people like Thomas Jefferson
He understood that slavery was wrong but did not free his own until his death
What about those who beaten senseless and burned, and hanged,  
All while screaming “Nigger" What’s your new name?
Oh how soon do we forget…
That’s why I despise that word and
I don’t care who it is that uses it
#u$k that slavery sh@!
And #u$k that flag b@%ch!
#u$k you America because you’ve always made things hard .
So don’t look at me strange when I show those songs disregard and those fake ass patriotic undertones about how we are the land of the free
more like the land of the captured and the Home of the Slaves, see

I don’t’ hate America
I can be and do and go as I please
But, then I remember the poor people they injected with disease 
They thought they were getting free health care but the doctor is giving them syphilis 
Please! 

I remember the natives of this land
They slaughtered and labored them to work for freedom in their own land 

I remember the Civil War 
where we were a country divided by the Mason Dixon Line
The north and the south of the same country at war to save lives
 
I don’t hate America
This is my home 
But I refuse to let the things that 
my ancestors endured during the struggle of building SUCH A FINE COUNTRY be forgotten
It’s 2012 and the politicians still plottin to find a way to take away the black vote 
It’s the same shit, but now they just don’t use the noose to choke the life out of souls  
I’m so tired of the constitution and it’s loop holes, and amendments, and acts, and laws
This just proves that man can’t govern themselves because even with all these rules we constantly fall into the black hole deeper and deeper
I don’t hate America
I just choose to not take part in its little song and dance
I pledge my allegiance to God 
and continue to write and lose myself in my poetic trans 

Copyright © humble b | Year Posted 2012

Long Poems