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Here, I will share with you poems that have touched me; poems I've written, as well as those written and given to me by the young ones in my family (ie, my daughter, nephews, nieces).
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Sisters. . .
Sisters, let's greet Each other with A warm smile With sisterly Affection Comrades in our Sister struggle Share our stories Lessons of triumph Our journey Through joy, tears Hope and faith Sisters, lets greet Each other With a kindred spirit Celebrate sisterhood Sister love Sister struggles As sisterfriends As mentors A shoulder A listening ear An anchor of light In an unkind world *Color Me Woman Collection |
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The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. Robert Frost |
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Introspective One |
The Sisters poem actually happens in real life among caring sisters. I received a call around 1:00 am this past Sunday night that my elder sister had a stroke. A couple of her sister-friends followed the ambulance to the hospital and stayed with her until the family arrived. |
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Originally posted by Len:
The Sisters poem actually happens in real life among caring sisters. I received a call around 1:00 am this past Sunday night that my elder sister had a stroke. A couple of her sister-friends followed the ambulance to the hospital and stayed with her until the family arrived. ----------------- Thank you, Ms. Len, I appreciate your kind words.  |
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When Black People Are
when black people are with each other we sometimes fear ourselves whisper over our shoulders about unmentionable acts & sometimes we fight & lie. these are somethings we sometimes do. & when alone i sometimes walk from wall to wall fighting visions of white men fighting me & black men fighting white men & fighting me & i lose my self between walls & ricocheting shots & can't say for certain who i have killed or been killed by. it is the fear of winter passing & summer coming & the killing I have called for coming to my door saying hit it a.b., you're in it too. & the white army moves like thieves in the night mass producing beautiful black corpses & then stealing them away while my frequent death watches me from orangeburg on cronkite & i'm oiling my gun & cooking my food & saying "when the time comes" to myself, over & over, hopefully. but i remember driving from atlanta to the city with stone & featherstone & cleve & on the way feather talked about ambushing a pair of klansmen & cleve told how they hunted chaney's body in the white night of the haunted house in the Mississippi swamp while a runaway survivor from orangeburg slept between wars on the back seat. times like this are times when black people are with each other & the strength flows back & forth between us like borrowed breath. *A. B. SPELLMAN (1934- ) |
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Now Ain't That Love?
who would who could understand that when i'm near him i am a skinny, dumb, knock-kneed lackey, drooling on the words of my maharajah (or what/ever they call them in those jive text books) me. i am a bitch. hot. panting for a pat from his hand so i can wag my love in front of his face. a princess, black. dopey with lust, waiting for the kiss of action from my prince. now i know that this whole scene is not cool, but it's real! so a-live----dig it! sometimes we be so close i can cop his pulse and think it's my heart that i hear in my ears. uh. now ain't that love? *CAROLYN M. RODGERS |
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Ku Klux
They took me out To some lonesome place. They said, "Do you believe In the great white race?" I said, "Mister, to tell you the truth, I'd believe in anything If you'd just turn me loose." The white man said, "Boy, Can it be You're a-standin' there A-sassin' me?" They hit me in the head And knocked me down. And then they kicked me On the ground. A klansman said, "N.. Look me in the face--- And tell me you believe in The great white race." *Langston Hughes |
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Strange.
That in this N'r place I should meet life face to face; When, for years, I have been seeking Life in places gentler-speaking. Until I came to this vile street And found Life stepping on my feet! *Langston Hughes |
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Peace
We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark They could not see Who had gained The victory. *Langston Hughes |
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Girl Held Without Bail
"In an unjust state the only place for a just man is in jail." I like it here just fine And I don't want no bail My sister's here My mother's here And all my girl friends too. I want my rights I'm fighting for my rights I want to be treated Just like anybody else I want to be treated Just like everybody else I like it fine in Jail And I don't want no Bail. *MARGARET WALKER (1915 - ) |
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For Malcolm X
All you violated ones with gentle hearts; You violent dreamers whose cries shout heartbreak; Whose voices echo clamors of our cool capers, And whose black faces have hollowed pits for eyes. All you gambling sons and hooked children and bowery bums Hating white devils and black bourgeoisie, Thumbing your noses at your burning red suns, Gather round this coffin and mourn your dying swan. Snow-white Moslem head-dress around a dead black face! Beautiful were your sand-papering words against our skins! Our blood and water pour from your flowing wounds. You have cut open our breasts and dug scalpels in our brains. When and Where will another come to take your holy place? Old man mumbling in his dotage, or crying child, unborn? *MARGARET WALKER (1915 - ) |
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THE NINETEEN SIXTIES
SOS Calling black people Calling all black people, man woman child Wherever you are, calling you, urgent, come in Black People, come in, wherever you are, urgent, calling you, calling all black people calling all black people, come in, black people, come on in. Imamu Amiri Baraka
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The Negro's Tragedy
It is the Negro's tragedy I feel Which binds me like a heavy iron chain, It is the Negro's wounds I want to heal Because I know the keenness of his pain. Only a thorn-crowned Negro and no white Can penetrate into the Negro's ken, Or feel the thickness of the shroud of night Which hides and buries him from other men. So what I write is urged out of my blood. There is no white man who could write my book, though many think their story should be told Of what the Negro people ought to brook. Our statesmen roam the world to set things right. This Negro laughs and prays to God for Light! *Claude McKay |
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to all brothers
yeah. they hang you up those grey chicks parading their tight asses in front of you. some will say out right baby i want to ball you while smoother ones will in tegrate your blackness yeah. brother this sister knows and waits. *Sonia Sanchez (1934 - ) |
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If I Stand in My Window
If I stand in my window naked in my own house and press my breasts against my windowpane like black birds pushing against glass because I am somebody in a New Thing and if the man come to stop me in my own house naked in my own window saying I have offended him I have offended his Gods let him watch my black body push against my own glass let him discover self let him run naked through the streets crying praying in tongues. *Lucille Clifton (1936 - ) |
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Love Rejected
Love rejected hurts so much more than Love rejecting; they act like they don't love their country No what it is is they found out their country don't love them. *Lucille Clifton (1936 - ) |
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The Roach
A roach came struttin across my bedroom floor, like it was beyond reproach, or was some sexy-lookin whore, and if I hadn't snuffed it, left it alive, I know it would've come right up and gave me five! *John Raven (1936 - ) |
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black power poem
a spectre is haunting america--the spectre of hoodooism. all the powers of old america have entered into a holy alli ance to exorcise this spectre : allen ginsberg timothy leary richard nixon richard daley time magazine the new york review of books and the underground press. may the best church win . shake hands now and come out conjuring. * Ishmael Reed (1938 - ) |
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Who shall Die?
Walk out into your country. Whose is it? Not the "polack's" not the "fascist's" or the "immigrant's," Or the "Nrs" with his dreams bitten off. It belongs to no one; Those who profess to love it Feel nothing in the quagmire of broken faces Where reprehensible magnates step, The cry of the smallest bird is buried In 200 years of filth shit on: So the human being, defiled, chokes On the wrongness of his dream, Is gorged with chrome, steel, and vomits up The excrement of slums. He who shall die, buried to his eyes In the racist hegemony, in the backward-running Movie called the rights of man, He who shall die unlamented, part of the nation still, Whatever the politicians promise In this or that election year. . .Nothing happens. By a white stream, in a white dream, A white God with white ideas, White as a white dove whom no one will love, The dove of death. "Large commercial investments required. . ." "The ghetto is a sociological phenomenon. . ." "They're better off as they are. . ." Nothing happens. The aspirations of nation, ethic. What are these? There is a nightwind, There is a blowing There is a bloodletting of the mind. To the universally dispossessed, There is The sterilization of desire. In these Such a wind is building, Harsh by night, in a darkness With no silence, Cricket-words buried, Those who are hated shall surely Give hate in return, Those who are despised shall despise equally. But all the poets of the world's past, Pushed on by dreams and great deeds, Cannot match the beauty of one Who sits alone In a house someone else owns, Who very carefully, Who very slowly Pulls out a long blade, Who slit his throat. . . *James A. Randall, Jr. |
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