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In My House
by Michael R. Burch

When you were in my house
you were not free—
in chains bound.

Manifest Destiny?

I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.

This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.

When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.

I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.

We were wrong.
This is my history.

I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.

We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.

Published by Black Medina. Keywords/Tags: racism, racist, slavery, chains, plantation, burned, house, free, freedom, history, forgive, forgiveness, brother, brotherhood, understanding, tolerance, equality, justice
Jayantee Khare Jul 2019

            The                             arrival            
        of                          monsoon,
sprouting        begins
on parched,
on the

Shape of sprout roughly made
Sudipta Maity Mar 2018
Drop by drop, grain by grain, overnight
the seeds of your love are growing inside my chest.
They spread their roots throughout my veins and capillaries.
But they don't know that,
my poisonous blood enter into their meristem gradually.
One day it will end them up with rotting roots and rusting leaves.
when they fight to survive.
Then please don't grieve yourself
When you did know that-
you planted on the moon's chest.
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
Right in the dead of a very cold winter
When the tired slave's soul is ash gray
And the cotton plantation becomes whiter ,
Begins a poor slave's hard working day .

In Winter when the master makes a call
This was every slave's worse nightmare
It was time for his hard whips to fall
insurmountable pains he couldn't bare .

Snowballs are piled outside like cotton
His Wounds hurts but as usual he's told
Stay strong brother Kunta, just hold on
Just Stay calm till the barn is closed .

This is the mid of a cold bitter winter
And the crow of a **** heralds a sad day
A slave's prayer to God was a sad whisper
He needed strength to get pass this day.

follow me on twitter@ivanclappers
The soul is not freed when the body is in captivity..
Sam Hawkins Mar 2016
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.

In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.

A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined sugarmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand.

The stone like a bleached out mini-monolith,
square rectangular, could be stood on end;
was swollen at its center like a pulled cork.

What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to exactly discover,
except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.

Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock
for sugar works buildings.

The drop at-arms-swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.

A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.

Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.

So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
un-housed in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa.
And there -- Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright,
with its three centering star points in rational line,
as if Hope could have flung its anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.

Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half knowing I was in no dream.

I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
a story of what happened...a feeling and vision I had, in 2008. written then. the stone is piece of mortar...
The Terry Tree Dec 2014
Your thoughts are kept warm
And unwithered by the bedside
Of an old tree with branches
That I found growing
In the valley of
Our affection

As I
And vigor
The seeds of 
My smile
Become one 
With pure 
And the 

In our tree
Every branch
Finds a particular path
In which to show
An ancient age that 
Time has passed on
For us to share
As new stems 
Grow and

A garden of light
What a beautiful sight
Pulsating and flourishing 
As healthy leaves might

Birds resting and nesting
Befriending sunlight
We are the story of life's
Uncharted mystery
Planted in the memory
Of tomorrow's history
And the plantation
Of our heart's

As we graze for days and days
For many years to come
We will harvest this
Homestead in the
Never ending
Of our


— The End —