racism poems

Blanket | John Baverstock

The boy was surrounded by the gang,
One looked straight into his eyes,
Then asked are you frightened man?
The boy who was black,
His eyes had fear written all over them,
Though he was never going to say yes to the question,
He had been subject to name calling and being bullied,
Throughout his short life,
Once being threatened by the gang wielding a knife,
Fear was relatively all he had ever known,
This because of his skin colour and its tone,
An onlooker rushed over and came to the boy’s aid,
The gang backed off, they could tell he was afraid,
What’s up with you lot? the onlooker said,
What has this boy done to you?
Why are you surrounding him?
You should be ashamed of yourselves,
Persecuting someone because of their colour of their skin,
Inside we are all the same,
We all have hearts, we all have lungs,
We breathe the same,
That is because we are the same,
You need to understand your shame,
Our skin is merely a blanket,
That is wrapped around our frame,
Inside we are the same…
That is because we are the same…

More at https://www.facebook.com/johnspoems.net/.

Unintentional Anonymity | Langley Shazor

Just another
Black face in the crowd
Going unnoticed
Overlooked
Even in this town
Where we are few
And far between
We are inherently
Paid no attention to
You glance again
“Oh hey, I didn’t recognize you”
And you wouldn’t have
Had you not thought
I was going to relieve you
Of your items of value
We have sat together
Shared meals
Conversed
Celebrated ideas
The genesis of great opportunities
But the conditioning
Stands at attention
Alert and aware of my presence
But unaware of my identity
If I hadn’t spoken
You would have walked by me
Just another
Black face

A Letter to the Racist | Joseph C. Ogbonna

I love only my kind.
But a world of just
your kind would to
monotony consign you.

I celebrate just my kind.
But a world that celebrates
only you, would to the utter
depths of boredom relegate you.

I prefer just my kind.
But the preference of your kind
would your curiosity wear out.

I only recognize my world.
But a world of only you
can never its horizon broaden.

I only relish my own race.
But a world devoid of
other races would be the
most uninteresting.

My race must the entire earth occupy.
But without the ‘inferior’ races,
how could you ‘superiority’ claim?

I have a lebensraum for my
race to occupy.
A lebensraum for only you
would geography obliterate.

So let your world be yours,
and let mine be mine.

Your culture and language you
may retain, whilst mine I also
retain,

as we both our diversity
celebrate.
Because diversity is nothing
more than the spice of life.

More at https://www.poetrypoem.com/mypoems8838.

Prodigal Mother | Nyashadzashe Chikumbu

What am I?
That gum you spat seconds
before you even chewed.
The black illegitimate son
you exorcised from your
societies.
With Regurgitated filth – rats
I was baptized in the slums.
Graced in proletariat garments.
My Creative ingenuity Splatter(ed)
like a fly between
a spatula and gravel.
As I dived, medulla first into
stagnated mud pools.

Red | Sravani Singampalli

I am always ignored
I am always humiliated
I am always cheated
Is this all just because
Of my skin colour?
They say people with
Darker skin are aliens
But isn’t the colour
Of our blood the selfsame?
When did we become aliens?
We all are from the same race
The colour of our blood Red.

THE Cart before the Horse | Renee' Drummond-Brown

“Woe to the bloody city! it is all full of lies and
robbery; the prey departeth not; The noise of a whip, and
the noise of the rattling of the wheels, and
of the pransing horses, and
of the jumping chariots. The horseman lifteth up both the bright sword and
the glittering spear: and
there is a multitude of slain, and
a great number of carcases; and
there is none end of their corpses; they stumble upon their corpses:”
Nahum 3:1-3 (KJV).
Never forget negros them ol’ carts prancing before the ol’ horse and
bridling to draw up the head and
dropping down the chin and
disparaged in pure resentment about THE marching and
still IZ culturally expected, devine and
a jockstay prancing coffins through dem’ filthy woods and
back dirt-roads in prehistoric times and
one can’t beat a dead horse when they’re already down and
yes they can; IZ’ lied and
it’s sortta like an extinct animal being pranced upon and
sortta like a mammal lost in space-aged time and
a show horse gallivanting~~ 2 the tune of the processions and
fiddlers playin’ on the roof and
juggling coffins like a circus clown and
might I may add; one of the best of the best noble acts in town and
mares on elm street and
charging stallions who can’t compete with steeds and
no flags for him only them downy white sheets and
black nags marching alongside me crying after him and
equestrians gallivanting like an ugly black beauty whose deep inna sleep and
also laying in state as for waiting a prey, and
for a white sheet is a deep ditch; and
THAT strange fruit is a narrow pit and
increaseth the transgressors amongst colored men and
colored women AND
do you know how many black bodies them trojans carted off in the woods?
I do AND
Dedicated to: Ashes to ashes; dust to dust; one of the greatest shows in town!
A B.A.D. poem
—–
Renee’ Drummond-Brown, is a poetess with experience in creative writing. She is a graduate of Geneva College of Western Pennsylvania. Renee’ is still in pursuit of excellence towards her mark for higher education. She is working on her seventh book and has numerous works published globally which can be seen in cubm.org/news, KWEE Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Raven Cage Poetry and Prose Ezine, Realistic Poetry International, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, SickLit Magazine, The Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., Tuck, and Whispers Magazine just to name a few. Civil Rights Activist, Ms. Rutha Mae Harris, Original Freedom Singer of the Civil Rights Movement, was responsible for having Drummond-Brown’s very first poem published in the Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., in Albany, GA. Renee’ also has poetry published in several anthologies and honorable mentions to her credit in various writing outlets. Renee’ has won and/or placed in several poetry contests globally and her books are currently eligible for nomination for a Black Book award in Southampton County Virginia. She was Poet of the Month 2017, Winner in the Our Poetry Archives and prestigious Potpourri Poets/Artists Writing Community in the past year. She graced the cover of KWEE Magazine in the month of May, 2016. Her love for creative writing is displayed through her unique style. Renee’ is inspired by none other than Dr. Maya Angelou; because of her, Renee’ posits, “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

Memories | Gil Hoy

Their homes, cone-shaped wooden
poles covered with buffalo hides.
Set up to break down quickly
to move to a safer place.

She sits inside of one of them,
adorning her dresses, her family’s
shirts, with beads and quills.
Watches over her children, skins
cuts and cooks the buffalo meat, pounds
clothes clean with smooth wet river rocks.

When she sees the blue cavalry coming,
she starts to run again.
Is that what made America great,
back then?

African families working hard
on hot cotton farms. Sunrise to sunset,
six days a week. Monotony broken only
by their daily beatings, by their singing
of sad soulful songs. Like factories in fields,
dependent solely upon the demands
of cotton and cloth.

You could buy a man for a song, back then.
Is that what made America great,
once again?

There are swastikas in our schools today,
gay pride flags being burned. Whitelash.
While those in government spew anti-Muslim
venom, rant of white power.
As the old new man at the top
solemnly swears, he’ll make America
great again.

They say the full moon was bigger and brighter
last year than it’s been in 69 years.
Than it’s been since Jackie Robinson
played his first big league baseball game.

Tears of My Ancestors | James Gregory Paul Sr.

a tear fell that day
from the coast of ivory
for the souls of juillet, jimi,
babet and bambara

and landed in washington dc

a tear fell that day
from a plantation in mississippi
for jude, whipped and smoked
cealy, leashed and yoked
phoebe, tarred and feathered
jupiter, penned and tortured

and landed in washington dc

a tear fell that day
from a tree in lynchburg
an unmarked grave in baton rouge
a baptist church in alabama
a bloody balcony in tennessee

and landed in washington dc

a tear fell that day
from the joy of my ancestors
for barack hussein obama

the first black president of the u.s.a.

More at http://www.jamesgpaulsr.com.

10 Reasons the South Will Never Be Home | Khalisa Rae Williams

10 Reasons This Never Felt Like Home

1. Long back roads still rattle me. Still make me fear being asked to step out. The night stick, the gun, being turned to roadkill – being left on curb and forgotten.

2. The pitch black reminds me of the fire, the deep fried, boiled, tarred and feathered, the hanging and watching like gruesome drive in film.

3. Open fields remind me of the leather whip, of blood, of dragging and raking fingers through grass, still remind me of sweat-lathered cotton, body parts left out for fertilizer.

4. Farms and animals grazing remind me of the buying and selling of meat, the ripping baby from mother for consumption, the burning and branding, the slaughter, the hanging out to dry.

5. Big plantations remind me of house slave and field negro, of maid and mistress, of dinner service, bronze bodies as ornaments on antique shelf, expensive china fresh off the auction block.

6. State fairs remind me of ‘Come see the hanging Negro’, ‘Where can I place my bid?’ ‘This one has a strong back and good teeth, broad shoulders, and cheekbones.’ ‘Not the whole family, how much for the little boy and girl.’

7. Hunting season and woods still reminds me of running through forest, of bullets grazing black skulls, of branches cutting ankles, of underground railroads, of hiding under the creek, of coon dogs, and sniffing out the smell of a runaway.

8. The Cape Fear River reminds me of the drowning, the throwing bodies over the bridge to hide the evidence, the vanishing of whole families, how they threw us over ships like fresh water salmon.

9. Boxing matches still remind me of strapping brute blacks fighting for bets, the bare knuckle knocking out until unconscious for entertainment. How they used to toast to the tearing of flesh. Smoked a cigar in celebration when one was dead.

10. Southern belle and sweet tea still smell like centuries of injustice. Southern comfort taste like privilege. Southern hospitality still sounds too unsettling to ever feel like home.

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