Long White person Poems
Long White person Poems. Below are the most popular long White person by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long White person poems by poem length and keyword.
Why we stopped explaining racism to you
Because even if it Slapped you in the face
You'd still claim it doesn't exist
So why would we spend our existence
Pandering to your ignorance
I mean we have better things to do like ending racism
The same racism you claim doesn't exist
Even though you've had the privilege
Of never experiencing it
Ain't that ironic
Telling a black person as a white person
That racism is not a problem anymore
It is not our job to educate
There's a thing called the internet
So stop being so ignorant
And use your white privilege
To get an education
And speak out against racism
We are done 'gentle parenting'
And codling your white fragility
We are done protecting your fragile egos
You need to wake up
And realise that not everything is about you
Because we are tired carrying the weight of your guilt
You decided to be ignorant
And now you'll face the consequences
Of being indifferent
Could Not Break My Spirit
Running alone in a crowded world, I lived my life in solitude. Some dreams came true in unexpected ways. Often, I thought I’d found my true calling, yet reality unfolded differently. I existed in the sheltered confines of my truth—the road, the pain, the silent games of survival in a sometimes-hateful America. Disappointment etched on faces, three years to secure a decent job, odds and ends to make ends meet.
I recall an agency assignment: a two-year-old toddler without ears. Her white parents handed a challenge and failed to change their ways. When lunchtime arrived, they said, “Step outside to eat; we’re Jewish.” I listened, smiled, and walked away, never to return.
Racism, pain, and low expectations—I vowed that no white person would feel what I felt that day. I quit the agency, guided by my grandfather’s wisdom. Sanity demanded distance from those who’d deny my humanity.
And so, I moved forward, my black hands never again touching that white baby. For I had lived
alone, seen it, and flushed it from my mind. In this world of bigots, I stood firm, resilient, and unyielding. A bigot, intolerant of differing beliefs, could not break my spirit.
black and white views
In this era
Of extreme polarization
We have lost our sense
Of humanity
Seeing the same event
A black man walks to his car
Confronted by five cops
Guns drawn
He tries to get in his car
To check on his three children
As he is pulled out of his car
He was tazer then shot
Seven times in the back
At close range
While his three young children
Sit in the car
Look on terrified
As they see their dad
Shot by the police
Many whites think
Well he must have done something
To deserve this Fate
On that date
Perhaps he had a criminal record
Had a knife or gun
Talked back to the police
Perhaps used curse words
Perhaps not showing proper respect
To law enforcement
Which should be a crime
After all
And it does not concern me
I don’t care
About this at all
Not my problem
Will not ever
Happen to me
But in any event
People will hit the streets
Protesting yet again
Why can’t they just shut up
And leave it be
It is what it is
Black people brown people
Think of course
He was shot dead
Shot seven times
His crime
Being a black man
In Trump’s America
A white person would not have been shot
Would have been treated with respect
But he is just another
In a long line of people
Shot by the police
Many of them
Turned into ghosts
Because black lives
Do not matter at all
The truth is lost
In the shuffle
The facts are clear
The police over-reacted
Using deadly force
As a first response
Not as a last resort
After talking to him
Trying to calm things down
If that did not work
tazing him
Should have been the end
Of the confrontation
If he was indeed
A violent criminal
But he was a black man
That is all the cops saw
Black lives still do not matter
They have never matter
Will this change anytime soon
I doubt it
As longer as old white men
Are in charge of our society
And black and brown lives
Do not matter at all
It is what it is
.
As I stalked the dust clouds
headed westward
and moved in mine red hide
for the closer vision
that beating was not our tribes
buffalo skinned drums
it was my Shoshone born
heart
as mine eyes intently stared
at that
ta-ba-bone sylph
My bow
and arrow
I quickly replaced with the
wild grass lands flower
and like our mountains lion
I crept besides
her pearly white flesh
Her trembling hand reached
for mine gift...
instantly as our hands began to
mesh
I felt the hot flash
of her fathers
wrath
Inspired by Deborah Guzzi's, Westward movement.
Ta-ba-bone was a Shoshone ("one coming from the
Sun, East") word for a white person.
Would it be safer to be born as a white person
In a world that worships them
What would it take for the world to accept black
When we have always been treated as less than
What would the world look like if we chose peace
Where our hands connect in the name of justice
But you don't want this
Clearly
Cause if you did we wouldn't live in a world of injustice
Where the only language you speak is racist rhetoric
Where your only purpose
Is to spread hatred
To a race that wants nothing more than to be accepted
But are met with your envy turned racist
So what makes you hate black people
Is it because when you look in the mirror
It cracks with jealousy
Is it because you see our potential
Or is it because our blackness is to political
To the point where you decide you have to get rid of us
And if you agree with this
With racism
You are sick and twisted
And if you believe in the devil
Even he would agree that your evil
Could Not Break My Spirit
Running alone in a crowded world, I lived my life in solitude. Some dreams came true in unexpected ways. Often, I thought I’d found my true calling, yet reality unfolded differently. I existed in the sheltered confines of my truth—the road, the pain, the silent games of survival in a sometimes-hateful America. Disappointment etched on faces, three years to secure a decent job, odds and ends to make ends meet.
I recall an agency assignment: a two-year-old toddler without ears. Her white parents handed a challenge and failed to change their ways. When lunchtime arrived, they said, “Step outside to eat; we’re Jewish.” I listened, smiled, and walked away, never to return.
Racism, pain, and low expectations—I vowed that no white person would feel what I felt that day. I quit the agency, guided by my grandfather’s wisdom. Sanity demanded distance from those who’d deny my humanity.
And so, I moved forward, my black hands never again touching that white baby. For I had lived
alone, seen it, and flushed it from my mind. In this world of bigots, I stood firm, resilient, and unyielding. A bigot, intolerant of differing beliefs, could not break my spirit.
The Love Song
I woke up early in a good mood, thinking of writing a love poem to my wife.
Looking on YouTube, I came across
“The three tenors” couldn`t resist their beautiful voices.
I was going to find “I believe in angels” by Abba, but first the famous tenors.
My wife woke up and told me to turn it off because she couldn't sleep.
I remembered Lorenzo Marcus, 1964. I was on a ship
unloading cargo destined for Rhodesia.
Everything has changed now, LM is now Maputo
And Rhodesia is Zimbabwe, and it was a good time
for a white person.
So I didn`t play the Abba song as the lyric is banal
And I was no longer in a loving mood
The Love song
I woke up early in a good mood thinking of writing a love poem to my wife.
looking in the YouTube, I came across
“The three tenors,” couldn`t resist their beautiful voices.
I was going to find “I believe in angels” by Abba
but first the famous tenors.
Wife woke up told me to turn it off she couldn`t sleep.
I remembered Lorenzo Marcus 1964 I was on a ship
unloading cargo destined for Rhodesia.
Everything has changed now LM is now Maputo
and Rhodesia is Zimbabwe, and it was a good time
for a white person.
So I didn`t play the Abba song as the lyric is banal
and I was no longer in a loving mood
Running Alone
Within a crowded world, I lived my life alone.
Some dreams were fulfilled in unexpected ways.
Often, I believed I’d found my true calling,
yet reality unfolded differently.
I existed in the sheltered confines of my truth—
the road, the pain, the silent games of survival
in a sometimes hateful America.
Disappointment etched on faces,
three years to secure a decent job,
odds and ends to make ends meet.
I recall an agency assignment:
a two-year-old toddler without ears.
Her white parents, handed a challenge,
failed to change their ways.
When lunchtime arrived, they said,
“Step outside to eat; we’re Jewish.”
I listened, smiled, and walked away,
never to return.
Racism, pain, and low expectations—
I vowed that no white person would feel
what I felt that day. I quit the agency,
guided by my grandfather’s wisdom.
Sanity demanded distance from those
who’d deny my humanity.
And so, I moved forward,
my black hands never again touching
that white baby.
For I had lived my life alone,
seen it, and flushed it from my mind.
In this world of bigots,
I stood firm, resilient, and unyielding.
A bigot, intolerant of differing beliefs,
could not break my spirit.