Black Poetry : BLACK HISTORICAL TYME POETICLY

Is'e don't care if'n massa hear me pt. 9


ya knows, it's beenz a whilz sinci'n is'e benz rounds de'se here parts. my legs still functionin' buts i ain'ts spry as I used ta be, i can still get's up an' whip a li'l tail if'n yas catch my driff'....

i'se came back frum da past ta tellz you'ze d'ere in da future a l'il story if'n ya don'ts mindz..I'se thanks ya kindly!

my daddy once tells me a story onez day whil' we'se wuz out in da fi'el dat went sumtin' like dis he're. wun day a white lady wuz bakin' a choc'late cake in da kitchen an' her son put his han' in da cake mix an' smuthers his face wit' it. He looks at his momma and sayz "look ma I'se black" an' she **** her right arm back and gives him a swif' back han' cross his face den tells da boy to go showz his pa whut he did. so da boy runz off an' sayz to his pa "look pa I'se black", his pa cocked his right arm back andz hauls off on da left side of his face and says go tell yo gran'pa whut you did. so he tells his gran'pa and his gran'pa beat 'em t'ill his face turn blue. Then, gran'pa say no go tell yo momma whut you dun learn'd. so he's a crying his po l'il white heart out and go back to da kitchen and his ma ask him whut he dun learn'd and he say "I dun learn'd dat I'se only been black 5 minutes an' alsready I'se hate you white mother ------r's".......if'n's you catch my meanin's!!!!!

now a whils'e i'se in da fiel' layin' on mi back a chucklin' myself ta def at wut my daddy jus' tol'e me, my daddy in-te-rup (dat de're wun mo word dat Fred Dugla's taught's me bak's de're in pt's wun of dis here serie's) my snigglin' and say "ya see's sun no'se matta which gen'ratiun of white folk you deal's wit day's all da same, they all hate choc'late on dey face because they will always be fraid's of God.....................!!

It tuk me a li'l whil'e ta get dat wun de're but i ain't stop scratchin' my head ti'l i got's it.....

how bou'ts you?

Brother Info © 2009
 
STOLEN DREAMZ AFRICAN'S DEATH VOYAGE

Just wanted to send da word on the dreams that was stolen from Africa
where Africans died by the millions on a voyage where they was stolen
sold and beaten into poverty and slavery as this poem kinda spin the tales.

It's our Tyme to shine through from da past maze of slavery!

STOLEN DREAMS

In the 1400's slavery abound
stolen African screammin sounds
crossin the tides to american land
out of Africa sweet mother hand

Upon the ship of Jesus
where slaves died by seasons
one , two million in a tight squeeze
little room and air to breathe

Slave trade killing dreams
by the numbers it seems
with hubs of European
in the middle passage
slaves died upon this voyage

Traded off by west africa
to europe down to america
they died by cargo loads
a stolen dream was impose'd .
:SuN025:
 
VOID......submission
Mystical adorn in a golden glow
exhilarating, anticipating afirm'd
something missing a big void deep in me !

Standing apath hungry & cold
filthy laced in sorrow rags
decay of disease and cry of plea

Suppression lingers deeper mentally
physical weaken my body raped
mind stolen ,heart broken from dispair
search for shelter from depression

Da Struggling wondering soul
lost in fold full existence and hopeless
destitution afraid within as no food 2 eat

No money,no garments, no home
no job, no life yet i see hope
none en-void

lost job habor the endless task
how long will blacks struggle last
Poverty reflects poison eyez
dis mazed to life suprize
born into da depth of slavery, struggle
and full of greed from da lost long
a dream of deed i cry in da path
left behind

my body maybe held in this captivity
my heart may hurt a lifetime
I may even be da prey of conviction

but i have holyness a mindset so free
A depth of soul to let my spirit fly freely
open the wind gates as i rise from within
through prayer and faith on hope

I see the mission through tears of ponds and reflect
and reflect from da sons of sun in da passing light
i fear not the darkness of what comes at night
i have a place in da hollows of my billows
i shall rise , i shall rise , i shell rise high in depth
and know i will not bowdown unto man
forth thou master not of this earth nor land
mirror image is me i see for i am him of his mold
and i shall rise in da mission task at hand
i will take as many along side me that will
reach back unto another black soul.

my people our people our struggle my struggle
this life time ....i live , i live
NONE~ EN~VOID

:SuN025:
 
Brother Rich and Brother Info...Simply Phenomenal!

Her Passing Made Me...Pause

God rest her soul, and much respect
Coretta Scott King's passing made me...pause
It's like the end of an era, made me reflect on when
so many were down for the cause.
Dr. King's voice would thunder across the airwaves.
Not only a dream, but he had a mission,
that all would be treated equal, joining hands
and sharing in this, our human condition.
Strangers would smile at me and say, "Hey little sister!"
Negro was slowly being changed into Black.
Hair once straightened, now worn in natural puffs of pride,
and Sly's "Dance to the Music" played on the jukebox in the back
Mohammed Speaks spoke to many, my aunt would bring that
newspaper by, while wearing a dashiki and smelling of incense.
You were either down with the revolution or not, those Black Panthers
didn't even ponder the possibilities of sitting on the fence.
I'm not saying that all was perfect back then,
but there was no time to perpetuate any pretense.
and then, it happened...
Such a courageous leader, assassinated for trying to realize his dream
Everyone I knew was heart broken...I'll never forget
the piercing sound of my teenaged neighbor's scream
My God, how she screamed, and my mother tried to explain
the reason, the significance, and why I should never ever forget...
As "We Shall Overcome" echoed across the land...
Even though we haven't overcome yet,
the belief remains, as I remember Mrs.King sitting
there, with her children in that pew,
Saddened, but not broken, such an unbreakable faith
in what our merciful God can do...
And with that faith, she remained steadfast in keeping
her husbands dream, his mission, alive.
His mission became her mission, a dream many have reflected
upon, one that still gives us the strength to survive.
Much respect Sister Coretta Scott King
God rest her soul...
 

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