Very brutal by nature my mind can confirm,
Poetry marathoners need a cap laced with wisdom,
To grace the desired seats of battlescarred warriors,
The skillet must still burn hotter than Hades.
Surely Marathons are run with endurance and persistence,
So is this one, for my goals are lofty.
Though I lack great speed, power, and technique,
My oak must stand deep-rooted through the storms.
My drafts litter bins as torn scraps of junk,
Haters blot the ink of my masterpiece.
Negativity weighs on my frail shoulder,
Yet my resolve stands steadfast on aching feet.
But no one can deny good poems their glory.
Like smoke they escape all traps and dissipate,
Clutching throats to make their presence felt.
All I need do is write—and hope.
The songs that masterpieces sing
Are heard by the deaf and sung by the dumb.
Their rhythm washes away the dust of imperfection;
They heal the soul and soothe the mind of sorrow.
So, my pen, fill yourself with ink of perfection.
Write on this paper I lay before you—
Another poem no sponsor can deny the top prize.
Write before the last drop runs dry.
An unclear image moved swiftly by
Briefly seen from the corner of my eye.
A rumbling upstairs made my heart pump,
Downstairs in the dark—thump, thump, thump.
This house suddenly seemed to come alive,
The chills enveloped, I pulled my blanket up high.
The movements and sounds—I just heard something fall,
I peeked from my blanket to see the bounce of a ball.
I slunk to the floor and crawled toward the door,
Silent and still, my heart pounding once more.
It just charged down the hall in a wild, playful race—
Then yipped with delight and licked my face!
My puppy at play in the dead of night,
Turns out the scare was no match for his bite.
Do not Fear, will not fade away at these dawns waving crimson flag
Before burns out last owen that fumes above my homeland
It is my nation's star that will shine forever
Its mine, its my nation's however
Do not wrinkle up your visage dear coy crescent, I'll be sacrificed
To my hero race smile once, what is this severity this wrath
Then will not be just for you our bloods that poured out
Deserves independence my nation who is worshipper of God
Written by Mehmet Akif Ersoy
Translation Honor Su
Hashtags.
Used to promote to get more attraction to a desired cause
To create a movement , to even open doors
But - like most things it has its flaws
Used to manipulate for narrative control
Stories of real life trauma
Plastered on social media
To be auctioned of and sold
To the highest bidder- usually a politician
Their favourites, those that contain stories of racism
Not because they care
But for emotional manipulation
Used to make them look like a 'diverse hero'
Claiming to love everyone
Yet create policies for a mandatory stop and patrol
'Coincidentally' in only black neighbourhoods
Most hashtags aren't even harmful
If used for the greater good, it can be very useful
A way for slogans to become a movement
One example - #blacklivesmatter
To boost, to help go viral
To become a worldwide sensation
After all you can never have enough people
To tackle this centuries long issue
Yet human nature makes people resentful
When they aren't the centre of attention - when they aren't popular
Usually the oppressors, they can't stand feeling inferior
They'll twist a cause to suit their reputation
After all what's a campaign without deception
EBONY REVELATIONS
We are not
Their Hams,
We are Lambs
Of the Lord:
Our Liberator:-
Their race-based
Biblical thoughts,
Are as winter snowballs,
Falling into the fires of hell:-
What should be an atmosphere of excitement
Becomes something more deadly - more violent
A child's first sound should be heard
Instead silence echoes
Even before life began
A black baby understands
That in order to survive the world outside
Their cries should be kept on the inside
How painfully sad
That before it's existence
It inherited generational silence
Ones whispered through the branches of their ancestry
The unspoken rules that come with the guide of how to survive -
Being black and alive
There are way scarier things then the dark
Like the clothes on your chair, something innocent
Becomes dark and twisted
Once the lights are off
Morphing into shadows
Worse than any nightmare your mind to conjure
If you don't understand this metaphor
I'm talking about the performative actions of the modern day oppressors
How messed up
That we live in a world
That claims that us black people are the 'monsters'
Yet before our children are even born
You've forced
Our sons and daughters
Into a life dictated by silence
A black boy stands in front of a mirror
Practicing how to address an officer
"Yes officer"
I promise I'm good
I won't cause no trouble just because I'm from the hood
I won't make a noise
I won't make a sound
I'll make sure to leave the hood of my hoodie down
No frown on my face
You dont need to tell me I already know my place
You dont need to remind me of my race
"Yes officer"
I am in school
I also have a future I'm looking forward to
No I don't sell drugs
I'm just playing football
And yes I live in this neighbourhood
Black people can be rich too
"Yes officer"
My father is around
Never been to prison but is the mayor of this town
As for my mother she is a lawyer and that makes me proud
We aren't on food stamps
In fact we are the type of people to give back
And yes we can afford to do that
"Yes officer"
I'm black
But that doesn't give you the right to attack
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
Unmarked grave
Epigraph reads slave
Not even dignified with a name
Just a ghost of a boy surrounded
By tombs of those known
Tombs of those never alone
In a cemetery full of strangers
Even in death he is separated from his family
Who was he?
The world may never know
His body buried just like his story unknown
He was born into shackles
And died in them
He never got to taste the sweetness of freedom
Even in death, even in the afterlife
He will always be known
Through only his skin colour
We will never fully know will we?
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
Dedicated to George Stinney Jr
The mind of a child
Is one supposed to be filled with innocence
But his was clouded with fear
Barely out of the womb
And already he would be buried in a tomb
He barely had time to start life
Barely had time to love and be loved
He barely had time to be a son
He would make history
Just not how he would've imagined
He would become the youngest person on death row
Youngest person to be executed on death row
A black boy who never got to be a boy
His last thoughts were a prayer
To be saved, to be seen, to be given a chance
'Are you there God, its me george'
Unfortunately God's grace doesn't extend to his black 'children'
Unfortunately his life was cut short
Unfortunately he wouldn't get to grow old
Apparently he wasn't deemed worthy enough for 'God's love'
Justice was never served
Even after 81 years
Consent.
Break it and your punished
Usually,
That's how the story goes
That's the way it's supposed to go
The hippocratic oath.
Ethics. Principles. Confidentiality.
A promise. A vow. A pledge
Beyond race
Beyond gender
Beyond sexuality
An oath against inequality
That's how it is to be taken
That how its supposed to be took
But what if?
What if those blinded by power decide to change the rules?
To abuse their privilege with different tools
An excuse used - for the greater good?
Or naybe it's just a clinical way to own black people
Henrietta Lacks.
A woman. A human. A black person.
Hidden by a history of white erasure
The story of her life hidden in invisible ink
They didn't see her as anything other than a toy to play with
As a body to experiment with
It wasn't that she was silenced
It was more that she went unheard
Her voice was a ghost they ignored
At her most vulnerable they stole Something that was hers
Something she had the right to preserve
Her cells
Stolen from the place they called home
Observed
By doctors
Who only saw her as a catalyst for research
INNOCENCE
ONE INNOCENCE IGNORED FOR IN WEST
ONE IN NORTH-WEST WITH GLORY OF HURRICANE
ONE IN EAST WITH PRIDE
ONE WITH MORE IGNORANCE FROM WHOLE WORLD
ONE WITH CHILDREN AND INNOCENT PEOPLE
Dressed in their Sunday best
Toothy grins
Pristine shoes
Eyes sparkling with joy
A simple family picture
The epitome of innocence
'Spick and span' as they would say
A nice family outing
Where you ask?
Church?
A family picnic?
Day trip?
No.
They dressed up in their Sunday best
To watch a black man succumb to a slow and labored death
To watch his long drawn out last breath
The slowed movement of his chest
Giggling as the now still mans body stops all movement
They await their turn to take picture
A forever reminder of their first lynching
Their tears drown out truth
In a thick coating of white lies
Used to prepare our demise
Each tear, a loss, a death, a wound
That seals our communities doom
A cry for war without any real cause
Our flesh the only thing it burns
A pain that continues into the next generations
Fragility they use for power
Without it they would starve to death
Insecurities dictate their minds
Flooded by the truth of how they feel
Dominating their being without attention
They don't just crave it, they need it like the air they breathe
Or the alternative dealing with their thoughts of inferiority
Whilst being clouded by jealousy
They feel to the race they claim to hate
Yet copy everything we do
That steals everything we've built
The power of the white woman's tear
Is something to be studied
Something so dangerous it's killed more than the white man
Curated a war against the black man
Killing the innocent with their blood Soaked tears
This a crime gone unpunishable for centuries
Specific Types of Race Poems
Definition | What is Race in Poetry?
Poems Related to Race
bolt, breed, chase, color, compete, competition, contention, contest, course, culture, dart, dash, event, family, gallop, hurry, hustle, marathon, match, nationoffspring, people, progeny, racism, relay, run, rush, scamper, scramble, species, sprint, sprint, tribe,