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Read Poems by millard lowe

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Below are poems written by poet Millard Lowe. Click the Next or Previous links below the poem to navigate between poems. Remember, Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth. Thank you.

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NextLast

To The Sable Side of an Iago-American Mirror



Strange, yet a reality none the less:
the oppressed destroying themselves 
for the sake of the oppressor.

The battle of creatures of the sea
has now become that of the humanity
of the conquered land.  A bizarre misguided
catharsis born out of guided mind bending
of victims killing selves for the sake
of molded daily bread of the oppressor.

The dehumanizing of common human bond
etched into souls by Middle Passage bondage
and stitched into long landed psyche, has 
yet to be extricated from psychological slave mentality.
Its debasing scraping—like the depths of the sea—continues
to run deep and wide as the long ago Passage.

The sea that spat upon the shores of a strange land,
swallowed the anchors of satanic ships laden
with remnants of the booty of their sooty cargo;
a sooty cargo whose songs made no sense in a strange land.

Shackles may be broken and fall clanging from their physical
grasping; but minds may remain invisibly chained—unaware.
In nature, the causes of demise often remain unseen—veiled.
And liberation becomes a misconceived deception; seasoned
by the salt of the sea—rather than burning  with freedom’s fire!

America, a deception in disguise, has revealed herself in reality;
but like Iago’s ego,  the true self remains among the unknown.
Yet she rings the bell of justice till it cracks—stilling its silent tongue;
and in veiled blindness hang scales to seek their own balance.

They stripped the heaven-ward pole of its clothing;
but the colors remain in altered stripes and stars—
flushing a noose-like wave in smoke filled skies reeking
with the murderous smell of spiraling gun powder residue
lingering in air as they echo purity while simultaneously
orating mass hued skin perdition.

Though we are of the same seed of our brother, Othello,
we shall not let this adopted land ‘…roast in sulphur…’
nor be washed ‘…in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire.’
Nay.  We are of the soul of the phoenix—
rising black doves roosting—plucking feathers of injustice
from the bleeding breast of a forgiven nation.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2017

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