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When I first met you, I cried.
Looking upon your silhouette, I wondered.

Reading your articles, I wanted to know you.
Searching for hours, I would find you.

A traveling boxer, just breaking into fame.
A husband, a father.

She moved from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and was your demise in 1902.
I moved from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and I will remember you.

A decade younger than her, but I feel the responsibility heavy on my shoulders. The resemblance to me, uncanny

She took you to your grave and I will celebrate your life.

Why did it have to take this long?
Check out the Alonzo Tucker Project on Facebook and YouTube to learn more about this man.
Francie Lynch Jun 2020
It's been two thousand years,
But here we are again.
An innocent dark-skinned man
Was lynched,
And it engages and enlightens our world.

Let's not make this a habit.

And Pilate's here too,
Cowering in ******'s bunker,
Washing his tiny hands,
Blathering: I'm not Responsible.
That's what truth is.
As George Floyd's daughter proclaimed: "My father has changed the world." I pray she's right.
Michelle May 2020
Sorry, Momma,
I am not coming home tonight.
Not to my wife,
Not to my kids,
Not to the love of life that I hid
In my bedside drawer.

Sorry, Momma,
I am not coming home tonight.
Not to the sun,
Not to the moon,
Not to birds calling morning so soon.

Sorry, Momma,
I am not coming home tonight.
I was shot,
In the spot,
Where the sun meets the ground.
I was homeward bound.
But I am not returning to you,
I am not returning home-
Prossnip42 Feb 2020
I've been rolling since I was born, without anywhere to go
Traded shots with the devil himself, and handed him my soul
I've got a shotgun across my back and a six-shooter in my hand
You better get your shot out first, cause I'll **** you where you stand

They tell when that rope's pulled tight, you'll beg'em to set you free
But I'll stare'em down in the eye, till they cut me from that tree
And I won't go down without a fight, cause i know i'm gonna die...

Hang'em High
Graff1980 Sep 2016
Hate was the darkness
tied in thick frayed ropes
smothered in kerosene
swung over the biggest branch
and wrapped around my throat
while strangers pulled and tightened it.

It was the match lit that **** fire.
Their rage burned my skin
while choking me out
like a sadistic wrestler.

It was branding
and dismemberment.
All those children remember it.
It was little trinkets of remembrance,
bits of flesh, and teeth
Any part they could take of me
before and after
I hung lifelessly
from the most convenient tree.

But if you think this is just
some case of dark skinned history
Then check the news
and you will see
they are still lynching me.
The winds whipped the trees
and a body swung,
bypass the scent of magnolia...
raining ash, flickering through the breeze....
Beat the rhythm
empty hand,
Iron cast chains
rattles command.

Ol' Boss Hogg,
baton raised
Self righteous fool
has need of praise.

In order that
he gain acclaim,
thinks with hate,
acts with shame.

Human beings,
ships hold stacked
with those once free.

Bodies piled
upon high
you will not see
the strong ones die.

Scars embedded
on their backs
chained and shackled
to the racks.

We deal in branded
breathing stock,
Unload black vassal
from our docks.

Beat the rhythm
empty hands.
Iron cast chains
in far off lands.

We keep our skivvy,
wired hair blacks.
We work them hard,
we score their backs.

They do for us,
they work the field.
Grow the cotton,
pick the yield.

Keep the body,
take the mind.
Labour whatever's
left behind.

And if demeanour
does ever flinch.
We'll introduce you
Willie Lynch.

Beat the rhythm.
Empty hands
Iron cast chains.
Unfair demands.

Beat the rhythm,
shackled feet.
We take their worst
but can't be beat.
Anybody know who Willie Lynch was? Anybody? Raise your hand. No one? He was a vicious slave owner in the West Indies. The slave-masters in the colony of Virginia were having trouble controlling their slaves, so they sent for Mr. Lynch to teach them his methods. The word "lynching" came from his last name. His methods were very simple, but they were diabolical. Keep the slave physically strong but psychologically weak and dependent on the slave master. Keep the body, take the mind.  (Melvin B Tolson)

19th  July 2015
© Copyright Christopher K Bayliss 2014
Janine Jacobs May 2015
Struggling to catch my breath
as the corporate noose tightens
with every mundane task flung my way

Slowly losing my contentment
with this poor disguise of slavery

Suffering alone in silence
with a fake smile plastered on my face

I swear I've been here before...
living the same year on repeat

This can't be it
there has to be more to this boring game

“Money can't buy life”
realisation burns like a slap in the face

I'm smarter than this
I won't get caught in this web of numbness
that comes from only existing

Opening my eyes with a blade
it hurts... the truth always does
Opening my eyes to life
...that feels good though

— The End —