"blackie" poems
Midnight!
Midnight!
Midnight!
The burning sensation of those word were hard to digest
Sorrow, Tear, How ugly can I be
Black is Beauty I say…to whom they say
Midnight! Midnight!.. you are as dark as Midnight
I'm haunted by those words, As they stuck to me like fresh sap from a tree..
I’m drowning, I’m drowning, I can’t get free, those words will forever trail me..
They trailed me; they jarred me, Blackie Tutu! Blackie Tutu!
How can kids be so cruel using skin color as a tool
I held my own and stayed cool for I knew has long I was in this school my fate was doom.
Pickey-Pickey head! was the melody of the song
I listened allowing the word to sink into my soul
The beat made me sick and I knew this one would also stick
I Looked up to the sky wondering why
No! No! No! Woman don’t cry
Be an African and hold your pride…
Hands by my side, I held my head up high
I found the fight within me, Stone faced Killer bee
I faced the music and it set me free
On the attack I had them flee…using word to conquer thee
I carried on knowing freedom wasn’t free and then
Like bolt of lightning it occurred me
To defeat them I had to BELIEVE in ME
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
Mandolin harmonies
trailed up Bear Hair Gap,
echoed between
the chestnuts, hickories
& sweet blackberries.
Lodi & a bad moon rising
stifled the cool air,
wood spirits whispered
secret incantations
to the fairies & sprites
flying amongst the fireflies.
This is the sacred
Coosa place,
where bricks have names,
where the wolf man
drove his Impala
spooking summer campers
& where old blackie
got trapped.
Two are gone now,
one succumbed to the bottle,
the other still stalking hikers
near the Raven Cliffs
o'er near Helen.
The bricks will remain forever
'neath the phases of the moon
beside the maiden Trahlyta,
up from Blood Mountain.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
Meowing through the fields
Frolicking through the meadows
Blackie won the race
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 11:08 AM UTC
While sitting home one night, I hear burglars fiddling
with the lock. This is what I've been waiting for!
I run around to the back and open the door, invite
them in, and pour some drinks. I tell them to relax,
and I help them off with shoes and masks.
In a little while we are fast friends, and after a dozen
toasts to J. Edgar Hoover, they begin to carry things out.
I point to the hidden silver, hold the door as they
wrestle with the bed, and generally make myself useful.
When they get the truck loaded and come back inside
for one last brandy, I get the drop on them. Using Spike's
gun, I shoot them both and imprint Blackie's
prints on the handle.
Then I get in the van and drive away,
a happy man.
"Moving Day" by Ron Koertge, from Making Love to Roget's Wife: Poems New and Selected. © University of Arkansas Press, 1997.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
¿Qué hemos de hacer nosotros los negros
que no sabemos ni leer?
Fregar escupideras en los grandes hoteles
encerar y barrer
manejar ascensores
en el Gran Club servirles de beber
o hacer que el cadillac sea más lujoso
vistiendo la librea de chofer.
Tenemos la respuesta siempre lista:
en París "oui, monsieur"
y en Georgia, en Lousiana o en Virginia
un eterno "yes sir..."
Los negros, pobres negros de este mundo
¿qué cosa hemos de hacer
debiendo de comer todos los días
(y a veces sin comer)?
Bajar la testa reverente
y a lo mismo de ayer.
Hasta que llega un blanco y "nos descubre"
nos mete al ring
y aquí comienza para mal de males
el principio del fin
Footing, training, sombra;
saco, pera, soga;
upper cuta
hook
cross.
Duchazos, masajes,
fotos, reportajes.
¡Okey, boss...!
El cañaveral de mi lejana tierra
me dio estos fuertes bíceps.
Los buques cargueros de todos los muelles
me dieron envidiable complexión.
Y corriendo, voceando millones de diarios
fortalecí
muslo
pierna
y
pie.
Ahora, en el Madison Square Garden
de New York,
dice mi manager:
¡No whisky!
¡No tobacco!
¡No girls!
(No money)
Negros acomodadores
ubican a los blancos en ring side.
Perder esta pelea
significa volver con ellos:
Con Blackie de Maniatan.
Con Brown de Alabama
Con "Nando" Rodríguez de Puerto Rico
...y entonces
no whiksy
no tobacco
no girls
no money
and
¡knock-out!
My challenger
es ***** como yo
Si pierde le espera lo mismo
(Aquí los únicos
que nunca pierden
son nuestros managers y el promotor).
Comienza el round, voy hacia el centro
-en este plan voy a perder-
este es el round numero trece
¡voy a demostrarle quién es quién!
Me está llevando hacia una esquina,
si caigo aquí me cuentan diez.
¡Virgen del Cobre estoy perdido!
No puedo ver
No... pue.. do... ver...
La gente aplaude al que me mata
El referee no dice "break".
Que mi mujer no sepa nada...
Mi nombre es BENNY "KID" PARET.
923
At 18 my chocolate skin is almost close to perfection.
Light stretch marks surround my hips, which makes some feel insecure but reminds me of my natural beauty.
Oh...and don't bother asking me for any make up tips, cause baby I don't do it.
I stand 5'3 and my walk is mean.
My smile is too die for but my hair as ***** if not nappier than baby blu's.
I can't keep my hair the same for nothin, from tracks to braids oooooo!
So many options with my ***** hair.
They call me ****** blackie, midnight...list goes on but what they don't know is black don't crack.
I mean you gotta learn to embrace what comes with this chocolate skin..
Because if you don't love it who will?
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
George Merle had to take a trip to Calgary for a medical assessment at the bidding of his union. He had to be there June 24th at 9:00 a.m. to se a Dr. Paul Darlington. George was apprehensive to say the least.
George made a booking at a motel close to the clinic. He also made a booking to fly from Regina to Calgary the evening of the 23rd.
He arrived in Calgary and took a cab to the motel near the clinic. He made himself comfortable in his room and tuned on the T.V. Around 10:00 p.m. the evening began to drag and things were getting pretty boring.
He left the comfort of his room and went out into the cool crisp night air for a stroll. He passed an all night tavern. He went in, sat down and ordered a coke.
Inside the dimly lit tavern he met a man whose name was Blakie. Blakie was dressed in, you guessed it, black. he had a full black bear, wore a black leather jacket, and a black New Jersey Devil's peaked cap.
Blackie told George a few food jokes and they became fast friends. Blackie said he was from the Mission down the street, also they would go there later for a bite to eat. He then ordered George a drink.
When the drink arrived Blackie paid for it. George sipped the drink, it tasted good so he drank it down. The affect the drink had on him was devastating. The music became deafening, the room spun, strove lights flashed all around him. Blackie suggested the go outside for some fresh air.
Once outside, George stumbled in the street. Blackie grabbed him, kept him from hitting the ground, but at the same time surreptitiously stole his wallet. They stumbled down the street to a poorly lit doorway that read Mission of Lost Souls.
They reached a plateau and a door that said Belfry. He had the dry heaves then opened the door. The door to the belfry creaked open. His eyes took a minute to adjust to the light of the moon. There was a huge raven sitting, staring at him atop a 4x4 crosspiece that supported the bell.
Then an eerie voice that seemed to come from nowhere said, "What is your name, why have you come here?"
"My name is George, I have come to find a better way of life."
The raven began to caw loudly as if laughing at him. It flapped its wings and took off. It flew wildly right through one of the stained glass windows. There was a loud crash and scream that cried, "You will forget?"
Once again the eerie voice said, "What is your name, why have you come here?" He could not remember his own name. He was completely perplexed and mumbled, "I don't know.
He returned to the Mission of Lost Souls and thereafter became known as "Ralph." The Mission of Lost Souls had claimed its 617th victim, George Merle never made it to his appointment with Dr. Paul Darlington in Calgary on the 24th.
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 8:05 PM UTC
Blackie the cat has gotten old, it's time to say goodbye,
my heart is broke, after all the pleasure he gave,
17, long years, we miss him now , and he's still here.
What's it going to be like, looking at an empty chair. !
On death row, he sleeps, he dose'nt know ; bliss
a date was chalked down, a reprieve turned up,
Cold feet, and trembllng hands we called the Vet,
" Can you wait till next week, he is still our pet ".
Arthritis, Diabetes , Cataracts , and that's only me ,
the cat is worse, he can hardly see.
All his health problems, can disappear,
when he looks up, and Miow's in your ear.
By Holly Barrett
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
Following your footprints
My favorite stepping stones
Even with a pebble in my shoe
It's finally in season
So I keep marching on
Forfeiting white flags *** I have you
And, which tree is that one?
Quick! Catch my balloon
God how I love watching you look
Up
Following your whistles
Jungles won't make me blind
I'll find you through the heatwaves and the blues
Every time
Where'd this leaf fall from since
The forest glows in your glasses
When you are facing the sky
Following your fingers
Won't get thorns in mine
Tell me stories about Blackie and Sunshine and
I'll be fine when summer's gone
I can skip the berries
*** you can pick the Blossom
And there are no thorns on fretboards
Oh,
So it's a sugar maple?
Lord knows I won't remember
But I'll never forget you
Looking up
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC