massa asked for forgiveness
massa unchained their ankles
massa cut his farm into provinces
massa gave them freedom they cant handle.

baas made a public apology
baas said he gave his power to his worker
baas watches it destroy the workers ecology
baas smiles as his situation gets worser.

massa and baas are one in the same
massa and baas fooled them into their freedom
massa and baas know the black mans pain
but massa and baas dont hear us weeping.

Grab your pitchforks run him outta town,
only because his skin is brown.
If he knocks on the door don't let him in,
only because he lacks white skin.
Punch his face with a bang and a whack
only because his skin is black.
Pull out your gun shoot him in the head,
only because he grows his dreads.
Lock him in jail for nothing bad,
call him a loser and a deadbeat dad.

If you don't think you've gone too far,
you're wrong, your soul's as black as coal tar.

When a white woman is victimized they'll scour the streets, fan out, stop,
harass, detain, arrest any black man. Any one they can finger for the crime.
They say things such as they all look alike or something to that effect.


A black woman is abused they'll look around, see white males everywhere but they cannot find any suspects? None of them fit the description. Why is that? Yeah, that's right, it is because they all look alike! Too many of 'em. Can't arrest everyone now can we? People have rights!

Yep, I suppose they do...

As long as you consider them, "people," -they have rights.

The sad part is..I write these pieces to escape the world but(you) won't let me my comfort was in seeing that no one ever saw/watched-it...yet here you are?

God....has some sense of humor.

Michael Louviere was a man of the people,
Who held in his hand a book of the law,
And outside his belt a gun for his safety,
But never would he have used it for murder,
I'm told he helped many but never killed any,
But Sylvester Holt did not believe it,
He said the actions of one create a whole guilty people,
And he took the matters into his own  hands,
And killed poor young Michael for serving his people.


So I'm sorry young man, you been born with white skin,
In a world with the permissions to murder and to maim,
But just to have freedom depends on your name,
But if you think its good I suppose ill let you,
Work for a cause that is just out to get you,
And keeping in line with the others before him,
Sylvester took the bait and the hook nearly gored him,
But the worm could've lived it was just his misfortune.


Sylvester laid down with a bullet in his chest,
And the gun in his hand had a burning hot barrel,
He assumed death was better than life and life only,
But in his last second he pulled out a small knife,
And cut in his gun small violent furrow,
It was then that he realized this all wasn't worth it,
He saw those two notches and handed himself in,
To a lifetime of no pain and and unwoken rest.

Last night the house shook
the earth grumbled
crockery flattered in sway
the world teetered on the brink of collapse
fear paralysing the neighbourhood

           I counted the dead
           and the injured
           read the morning newspaper's
           record
           heard mine management
           bemoan the seismographical
           scale reading

             We walk this earth with death
             so must die
             but there must be a better
             reason
             than to make some richer
             others cast in the gloom of
             premature orphanage

Sepamla, Sydney Sipho (1932 - )

A trained teacher, he has been a personnel officer and a magazine editor. His poetry volumes, "Hurry Up To It" (1975), "The Blues Is You in Me" (1976), "The Soweto I Love" (1977), "Children of the Earth" (1983) and "Selected Poems" (1984), mingle standard English, township patois and vernacular expression, in order to examine both ironically and with harsh directness, black urban life under apartheid.

//

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unwritten
unwritten
Jan 21

on tuesday,
dylann roof was sentenced to his death.
on tuesday we tried
to make one body feel like nine.
to make one body feel like justice.
on tuesday we said
there has got to be some price to pay
for entering the house of god
with a sinful tongue
and a handgun.

today,
six days later,
we remembered the rev. dr. martin luther king, jr.
we looked at the world,
called it a place with potential for change,
called it that because there has to be some softer way
to look at bloodshed,
for sanity’s sake.
if not then
all that remains is a solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave because he knows,
knows that breathless black bodies
are a constant,
are transcenders of time,
whether sunken in rivers,
hung from taut ropes,
or bathing in blood on historic church floors,
singing, singing, screaming, shrill
for some messiah bringing mercy, mercy, mercy.

felicia sanders wants mercy:
prays for it, wills it down from up above,
unfolded from the hands of god
so that it might fall upon the head and in the eyes
and within the very being
of the man who killed her son.


it takes a certain grace —
one so foreign to me i can hardly write of it —
to see god in such men who deliberately defy Him,
to ask that heaven’s gates
be so indiscriminate and overt.
i would want him to burn for this.
but it is not my say,
not my life,
not my long, resounding, unflinching “hallelujah!”
not my certain type of grace.

breathless black bodies
are a constant,
are transcenders of time, a recurring motif.
but so too, then, is the black body full
of breath,
that inhales and exhales faith
without ceasing.

such is the black body
that sees a little bit of god in dylann roof,
that prays that he prays for forgiveness,
that thinks there to be but one kingdom,
and he, too,
a worthy subject.

the solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave
is not a surprise.
the black body has always known
so well
how to die.

but felicia sanders hopes her son’s killer finds mercy.
perhaps the one thing the black body has always known better
is how to love.

(a.m.)

written 1.16.17 in honor of MLK day, and of the charleston church shooting victims. #blacklivesmatter, today, tomorrow, and always

next time you see me slit my throat
let my blood gush like it did on american streets
mute my screams like i did while the news got old
let your knife kill the silence and ignite the need for equality.

next time you see me pull the trigger on my foolish mouth
shut me up while i complain about my silver spoon
while children die of empty stomachs in the south
let the gun sound wake up people like me to reality.

next time you see me lynch my body
let it hang like decoration to show people that
the silent are like the violent
the mute are like police who shoot
the ones who are quiet while they feast on a meal
are like the crooked politicians who steal.

let my silence be the death of me
and my new found voice be the death of the thoughts of our enemy.

-t.m

please dont touch my crown
the black rubies were encrusted by steve biko
madam cj walker made it a sign of royalty
blood was shed for this nappy hair
i am a servant to this crown, and i will show my loyalty.

please dont touch my crown
i can feel the curlism in your fingers
your greedy hands appropriate it for relevance
you have hated volume and colour for centuries
but now you see beauty where you once saw pestilence.

please dont touch my crown
let your eyes feast on the sight of true glory
forget about vanity, and hear our chains
taste our dry blood, smell our lynched bodies
but never touch our hair without remembering our pain.

-t.m

Seth Paul Williams
Seth Paul Williams
Dec 30, 2016

Our only home throbs
as we squeeze, devour,
dump, repeat while
hoods around us bleed,
march, shot down,
incarcerated, drowned
by the sounds of the
Next
New 
Thing
while the reservations mourn
their rivers, lakes, and streams, 
counting down the sacred
spaces defiled by our greed
while the mosques downtown
fear our acts of
“freedom," “peace," and “creed"
while the border jails swell
with the young, old, 
and frail while the night 
clubs twitch hit with 
homophobic kills while
the witch trials proceed
around abortion clinic bills
while from sea to shining sea
the man we chose to lead us,
guarded in his tower,
would rather fucking tweet us.

Micaiah Wheeler
Micaiah Wheeler
Dec 28, 2016

400 years America ,
For 400 years America, we've been playing this game of cat and mouse, and for 400 years America, you refuse to give us the keys to the house.
For 400 years America , we've been asking to be free, and for 400 years America , you sat there and you promised me, all the freedom I could ask for , for just a small fee

For 400 years America , we've been paying that small fee in sweat, tears and blood
For over 400 years America, we have witnessed the flood, from the storm clouds that burst in a black mother's eyes. The Storm that rages in her heart as she cries. The Lightening that strikes her heart as she watches her son bleed as he dies.
For over  400 years America , we've had to watch our people bleed , for over 400 years America , you've literally scorched and scathered and destroyed our seed.

For over 400 years America our sons, daughters, fathers , mothers have bled and for over 400 years tear after tear was shed
The flags that represent you, makes you free . But the same flags that represent you, doesn't represent me. The flag that represents words that say"all men are created equal" considered me an animal and there seemed to never be a sequel.

400 years later and still "no refuge can save, the hireling and slave from the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave" I am not blind, don't need a stick or a stave, I am not foolish, I see the road that you have paved America!

For over 400 years, America, My brothers and sisters have fought for your pride
We carried your rifles, we lifted your flag and still you were snide
For over 400 years America, for you battles we've won
400 year later you still point your gun

It's been 400 years America, Gotdammit I am not a slave
I want my rights and you will not tell me how to behave!
You've always had freedom white man, and you don't know how bad I crave! that my kids grow up in freedom and for that I'll be brave to the grave. Even if it kills me, I will not let the color of my skin decide whether or not I win. I will not you let, America, and your adulterous, heinous sin control me and the condition I am in

400 years later America, and you act like you still don't know their names
400 years later America and you still plea ignorance, you don't feel their pains
Emmit Till, Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray
These are some of the lives from us you took away
400 years later and you still make us pay
and that's not okay....
To you slavery was yesterday and we should shout free at last?
To you the last police shooting was last week, we shouldn't riot,  it's in the past, You want us white washed but we can't shake the scars from centuries in a caste

Freedom isn't free, but I still believe, I still believe that someday my eyes will see, all nations, all skin colors under one tree, connected to one vine, to the divine

 
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