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Faith is the black person's federal reserve system.

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The Black Man

Ive seen so many thing about racism on the T.V and in the newspaper, I thought I would write about it. This is the poem that flowed so freely from my hands

I walk down the street
There is no one I can meet
For I am not wanted
Like a cat in your flowers
A mosquito on you
People wish I wasn’t here
And yet I will never leave
I am, the black man.

I respect all
Even those who hate me
I wouldn’t hurt a person
And yet they want to hurt me
I stand out in a crowd
No one wants to walk beside me
I am, the black man

I can’t sit at the front of the bus
I must walk by
But every time I do
I get kicked by many shoes
So I decided to stop
Stand up for me
Live for my people.
For I am, the black man.

I refuse to listen to them
I get attack relentlessly
I still don’t listen
I shall never give up
Never fall in
For I am, the black man

I get taken away
But my spirit and soul stay
They will continue to fight
Continue to disobey
I won’t stop until we are free
To live life fully
For I am, the black man

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Reeducating by any means necessary to achieve the revitalization and realignment of the black soul

Consorting with the enemy
Needless to say it is painful
To speak of some blacks people as the enemy
But it is necessary to dispel
The well meaning harm within the good wishes
And good book
Of the church
Each Sunday the bells rings out
Calling the faithful dressed in their finest
With hats tipped to the side they strive
With a pride of self that belies
The dream deferred.
The young Richard Allen and Absalom Jones
Were not misguided in so far
As their shared vision was authentic and so on
July 17,1794 a new kind of bondage
Of oppression was forged into the chain of slavery
And worship to be used in the service of colonization
Of the black mind and spirituality,
Francis Scott Key who wrote
The Star Spangled Banner is spoken of
favorably as a foundering father of the American spirit.
And if the American spirit is/or was
At once racistly bent on the subjugation
Of black self knowledge to the long
Held belief in white supremacy
Then it is worth knowing that Key’s role
Was deliberate toward maintaining
His and others beliefs in
Making sure that white supremacy was
The all pervading rule by which the country
Was to be guided by.
Key was by all accounts a deeply religions
Man and lay reader in the Episcopal Church
And at one time had considered becoming a
Clergyman but apparently his devotion to the church
And an all knowing God was not strong enough
To overcome his beliefs in the justness of
Of slavery and with the laws on his side by his foot
He held down a race of people dark of skin
And by his action gained the respect of his peers.
It has been said by some that the black church
Is the most perverse institution within the
Black community.
I will add that if the
Preacher was able or indeed willing to
Take off his collar he will find it as heavy
As a chin around his neck
It is the black women and not the male preachers
Who are the back bones of the black church
The preacher would do best
To come down from his pulpit and go out
Into the back black streets of East St. Louis
And take some black male youths under his wings
To reeducate them to what is at stake
Not only for them but our race as a whole
It is no longer necessary to become Baptists,
Or Methodists or episcopes because the whites
Have taught us that it is necessary for the
Salvation of our black souls as if the white way of
Knowledge was the one true way by which
Knowledge can be attained.
Black preachers seem not to know that the black way
Of knowledge is just as worthy as any that the small mind
Of man can conceive of if not more so then any others
After all all human knowledge sprung from the first man
And woman dark of skin in the cradle of Africa.
The belief in one God that is at the foundation
Of the Christian faith is an Africa concept.
We still say Aman today and RA sings ever bright in our lives.
Our Christian slave ancestors were well meaning
But it is debatable as to rather
The first priority of the church is to
Witness to Jesus Christ
At the expense of speaking out against
Governmental discrimination or any other
Type of discrimination
And people like Creflo Dollar
Sees only dollar signs to fuel his
Atlanta-based church
The troubling trend toward individualism
And materialism as being necessary
Means to attain prosperity and keep up with
Tithing while poverty, homicides,
Illiteracy and child abuse are
Perpetrated against us most times by us
While the church chose to sing not we shall overcome
But the Star Spangle Banner
While the nefarious front man as preacher
Believe that he needs to preach
The need of don’t ask, don’t tell
Over the truth of the streets.
Blacks continual to make up 40
percent of the prison populations
I have a nephew tangled up
in the judicial system
It is not just enough to say that this is
The way of this capitalistic culture.
The black church has turned inward
As if to gather the wagons
Solely in perpetuating inself.
So why do I still consort with the enemy
Because I will be heard above the
Sermon that brings hallujalls
In a fault ring ringing out all over St. Louis
Calling the dire believers of a way of
Spiritual life that eats at the soul
Of black folks because I am not blinded
By the light of the cross and I will not kiss the foot
Of any Pope nor will I get down on my knees
And worship the image of a white God
Who have lost his black skin in the white washing
Of the black mind.
So why do I still consort with the enemy
I hold out hope that in time blacks will
Think that there is for them to worship
A black God divine who look like us and smells
Like us and teachers us the black way of knowledge

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Patrick White

First Yellow Leaves On The Black Walnut Trees

First yellow leaves on the black walnut trees.
The original digits on the wristwatch of the sun.
Waterproof to any depth you want to drown in.
The trees are homesick.
You can tell by the way they’re giving up.
Comes the season of the dead in harvest time.
The dark abundance of the light
inspired by the muse of the earth
to write poetry
that touchs everyone
like water and wine
whether the apples are gathered or not.
The mystic grape finds enlightenment
in the mouth of a human
when it breaks like a koan
that tastes of something older than the truth.
It’s good to walk through an open field by yourself
as if home were just over the next hill
as the night comes on.
It’s good to feel fulfilled
without knowing much about why
as if some subtle stratagem of the sky
had worked out a truce with life for awhile
and everywhere the armies of the grass
were surrendering their shields like flowers.
It’s late August
and the cedars gather on the hillside
like old testament prophets
come down to the river
to baptize their roots in fire.
Chicory in the eyesocket
of a baby muskrat’s skull
half-buried in the earth like a small moon
that returned to its mother’s breast
several autumns ago.
If the medium is the message
then the message of life
is its timing
and the whole of its content is now.
The dead don’t walk among the living
squawking about things
they’re missing in paradise.
Ten commandments might be good advice
but there’s one bit of wisdom
that wasn’t written on a gravestone
that threatened to bury you
in the valley of the shadow of death
like an avalanche down the world mountain
for ever and ever and ever
should you ever wander off the beaten path
by as much as one black sheep away from the flock:
It’s not your door if you have to knock.
Your life’s the key to your own lock.
You can ask the flowers.
Beauty isn’t enslaved by its own powers.
Clarity sees through the brave
as easily as the cowards
as two sides of the same fear
and no river’s flowing the wrong way to the sea.
Autumn is a lonely voice
that sadly rejoices in what it must be
but what mad wonders
it hides under everyone’s breath
like marvels it keeps to itself.
The best place to hide
is out in the open
like being and seeing and thinking.
And if you smell the wind
at this time of year
you can tell that it’s been drinking
to drown its wanderlust in words
heading south with the birds
who carry the souls of the dead away
like fires that ascended to heaven
on a ladder of bones
and a spinal cord
threaded through the eye of a needle.
A snake sheds its skin and vertebrae at last
and turns its scales into wings
to become a dragon
that burns its bridges behind it
like waterbirds without directions
disappearing from their own reflections
before the first ice.
I reach the top of an old hill
and I can see what I look like
a long way off from here
as Venus breaks like a mirror
low on the horizon
through the black mascara
on the eyelashes of the backlit pines.
And there are spirits of the air
summoned by the darkness
with eyes that glow
like charcoal on the fires
of yesterday’s myth of origins
to look up at the stars
and make up some kind of a story
about what they’re doing there in the first place
like the afterlife of the mystery
of the night before time and space
as if the history of our prophetic skulls
could still foretell the future
of an advanced race of cannibals.
You are what you eat.
But the time is long past
when I could tear my heart out
and offer it up to the unappeasable gods
like the fruit of a human
who has wandered the earth
like a rootless tree
true to his own homelessness
like a fire that kept faith with a heretic
who made the ultimate sacrifice.
Who would be there to receive it?
If I wrapped it up like a foundling
and laid it on the stairs of the abyss
late at night when no one was watching
or sent it down the river
in a basket I wove from cattails
like a baby in an empty lifeboat
drifting down its bloodstream
on its way to something better
than a promised land it couldn’t enter
what life on what distant star
would bend down and pick it up
like a message in a bottle
from life stranded on an island galaxy
waiting to hear the likeness of its own echo
in the voice of the light that answered
help is on the way?
And that sword’s been long drawn
out of the barren stone of the moon
that gave it back to the waters
like the blade of an old perfection
it once fell upon
like the reflection of a man
with a noble calling
in the absence of volunteers.
I haven’t sacrificed my innocence
to that invincible agony in years.
And there’s more than one crown
I’ve thrown off a bridge
like a trinket of my powers
to self-destruct
as if I knew somehow
you can’t keep
what you won’t give away.
You can run deliberately straight as a highway
or weave spontaneously like a river
but if the first
just regard the extreme chaos
of conditioned conciousness
and if the latter
you’ll shed many lives
like skies and skin you’ve grown out of
following the long journey of yourself
all the way from your tail to your head
passing like a serpent through the grass
as if you had a secret
you keep to yourself
that were better left unsaid.
But there’s a third extreme
that just as intense as the others
which is the way I stay the course.
I put wings on a horse
that’s never known a saddle
or been bruised by the stars like spurs
and we’re up up and away
as if we’d never heard of the Medusa.
The Great Square of Pegasus
going down behind the pines
like a card up my sleeve.
I don’t want to turn anyone into stone
or blind them with my shield
as if the light knew judo
and how to use my enemy’s strengths
against it.
I don’t want to decapitate anyone
who was once the priestess
who fed sweetcakes and honey
to the oracular pythons of Delphi
and long before that
along with her two Gorgonic sisters
was the virgin wife crone phase of the moon
shedding her graces like skin.
I’ve jumped into enough snakepits
for one lifetime
to know how easy it is to get in
and how nearly impossible it is to get out.
One fang of the moon kills you.
The other heals you.
But you’re never the same after that
and there are scars that hurt worse than the wound.
But you can see things before the arising of signs
and there’s a crazy wisdom that embodies you
like a candle in the darkness
talking to itself.
And I can hear what the serpent said
quietly to Eve
just before it offered her the apple
from the forbidden tree:
Don’t lie to anyone you’re trying to believe.

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The Ballad Of The Black Fox Skin


There was Claw-fingered Kitty and Windy Ike living the life of shame,
When unto them in the Long, Long Night came the man-who-had-no-name;
Bearing his prize of a black fox pelt, out of the Wild he came.

His cheeks were blanched as the flume-head foam when the brown spring freshets flow;
Deep in their dark, sin-calcined pits were his sombre eyes aglow;
They knew him far for the fitful man who spat forth blood on the snow.

"Did ever you see such a skin?" quoth he; "there's nought in the world so fine--
Such fullness of fur as black as the night, such lustre, such size, such shine;
It's life to a one-lunged man like me; it's London, it's women, it's wine.

"The Moose-hides called it the devil-fox, and swore that no man could kill;
That he who hunted it, soon or late, must surely suffer some ill;
But I laughed at them and their old squaw-tales. Ha! Ha! I'm laughing still.

"For look ye, the skin--it's as smooth as sin, and black as the core of the Pit.
By gun or by trap, whatever the hap, I swore I would capture it;
By star and by star afield and afar, I hunted and would not quit.

"For the devil-fox, it was swift and sly, and it seemed to fleer at me;
I would wake in fright by the camp-fire light, hearing its evil glee;
Into my dream its eyes would gleam, and its shadow would I see.

"It sniffed and ran from the ptarmigan I had poisoned to excess;
Unharmed it sped from my wrathful lead ('twas as if I shot by guess);
Yet it came by night in the stark moonlight to mock at my weariness.

"I tracked it up where the mountains hunch like the vertebrae of the world;
I tracked it down to the death-still pits where the avalanche is hurled;
From the glooms to the sacerdotal snows, where the carded clouds are curled.

"From the vastitudes where the world protrudes through clouds like seas up-shoaled,
I held its track till it led me back to the land I had left of old--
The land I had looted many moons. I was weary and sick and cold.

"I was sick, soul-sick, of the futile chase, and there and then I swore
The foul fiend fox might scathless go, for I would hunt no more;
Then I rubbed mine eyes in a vast surprise--it stood by my cabin door.

"A rifle raised in the wraith-like gloom, and a vengeful shot that sped;
A howl that would thrill a cream-faced corpse-- and the demon fox lay dead. . . .
Yet there was never a sign of wound, and never a drop he bled.

"So that was the end of the great black fox, and here is the prize I've won;
And now for a drink to cheer me up--I've mushed since the early sun;
We'll drink a toast to the sorry ghost of the fox whose race is run."


Now Claw-fingered Kitty and Windy Ike, bad as the worst were they;
In their road-house down by the river-trail they waited and watched for prey;
With wine and song they joyed night long, and they slept like swine by day.

For things were done in the Midnight Sun that no tongue will ever tell;
And men there be who walk earth-free, but whose names are writ in hell--
Are writ in flames with the guilty names of Fournier and Labelle.

Put not your trust in a poke of dust would ye sleep the sleep of sin;
For there be those who would rob your clothes ere yet the dawn comes in;
And a prize likewise in a woman's eyes is a peerless black fox skin.

Put your faith in the mountain cat if you lie within his lair;
Trust the fangs of the mother-wolf, and the claws of the lead-ripped bear;
But oh, of the wiles and the gold-tooth smiles of a dance-hall wench beware!

Wherefore it was beyond all laws that lusts of man restrain,
A man drank deep and sank to sleep never to wake again;
And the Yukon swallowed through a hole the cold corpse of the slain.


The black fox skin a shadow cast from the roof nigh to the floor;
And sleek it seemed and soft it gleamed, and the woman stroked it o'er;
And the man stood by with a brooding eye, and gnashed his teeth and swore.

When thieves and thugs fall out and fight there's fell arrears to pay;
And soon or late sin meets its fate, and so it fell one day
That Claw-fingered Kitty and Windy Ike fanged up like dogs at bay.

"The skin is mine, all mine," she cried; "I did the deed alone."
"It's share and share with a guilt-yoked pair", he hissed in a pregnant tone;
And so they snarled like malamutes over a mildewed bone.

And so they fought, by fear untaught, till haply it befell
One dawn of day she slipped away to Dawson town to sell
The fruit of sin, this black fox skin that had made their lives a hell.

She slipped away as still he lay, she clutched the wondrous fur;
Her pulses beat, her foot was fleet, her fear was as a spur;
She laughed with glee, she did not see him rise and follow her.

The bluffs uprear and grimly peer far over Dawson town;
They see its lights a blaze o' nights and harshly they look down;
They mock the plan and plot of man with grim, ironic frown.

The trail was steep; 'twas at the time when swiftly sinks the snow;
All honey-combed, the river ice was rotting down below;
The river chafed beneath its rind with many a mighty throe.

And up the swift and oozy drift a woman climbed in fear,
Clutching to her a black fox fur as if she held it dear;
And hard she pressed it to her breast--then Windy Ike drew near.

She made no moan--her heart was stone--she read his smiling face,
And like a dream flashed all her life's dark horror and disgrace;
A moment only--with a snarl he hurled her into space.

She rolled for nigh an hundred feet; she bounded like a ball;
From crag to crag she carromed down through snow and timber fall; . . .
A hole gaped in the river ice; the spray flashed--that was all.

A bird sang for the joy of spring, so piercing sweet and frail;
And blinding bright the land was dight in gay and glittering mail;
And with a wondrous black fox skin a man slid down the trail.


A wedge-faced man there was who ran along the river bank,
Who stumbled through each drift and slough, and ever slipped and sank,
And ever cursed his Maker's name, and ever "hooch" he drank.

He travelled like a hunted thing, hard harried, sore distrest;
The old grandmother moon crept out from her cloud-quilted nest;
The aged mountains mocked at him in their primeval rest.

Grim shadows diapered the snow; the air was strangely mild;
The valley's girth was dumb with mirth, the laughter of the wild;
The still, sardonic laughter of an ogre o'er a child.

The river writhed beneath the ice; it groaned like one in pain,
And yawning chasms opened wide, and closed and yawned again;
And sheets of silver heaved on high until they split in twain.

From out the road-house by the trail they saw a man afar
Make for the narrow river-reach where the swift cross-currents are;
Where, frail and worn, the ice is torn and the angry waters jar.

But they did not see him crash and sink into the icy flow;
They did not see him clinging there, gripped by the undertow,
Clawing with bleeding finger-nails at the jagged ice and snow.

They found a note beside the hole where he had stumbled in:
"Here met his fate by evil luck a man who lived in sin,
And to the one who loves me least I leave this black fox skin."

And strange it is; for, though they searched the river all around,
No trace or sign of black fox skin was ever after found;
Though one man said he saw the tread of HOOFS deep in the ground.

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The Black Chesnut Tree

What lies past this plain I don't know,
but i'm sure the black chestnut tree does so.

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The Black Crow Flies Away

From a leafless siniguelas tree
The black crow flies away
Then the swaying ends
As the rain begins to fall

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The Black Star!

The Black Star!
Red, gold and green;
And, all the rest are noted with your muse! !
However, the Black Star is always around you.

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The Last Person

The last person
Had walked away from me
When I told her that I have depression
And I felt that she tought that she was going to catch it

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The Black Hooded Man

the black hooded man sometimes
comes and you face him with a stare
he nods down and looks at the list

your name is not yet there
and you ask

he says it is simply written

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The Black Swan

I am the Black Swan swimming in your river,
I am the Black Swan swimming along side your boat;
And like a typical man and a typical woman in love,
But very wise and useful is the muse of your love.

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Red Ocean And The Black Energy

Red Ocean and the Black Energy,
The taste of the soup is all that matters;
And like the joy of your muse in the land of love,
But try to understand the systems around you! !
For, Rome was not built in a day.

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Faith Of The Sky

I need some faith of the sky
But in order for me to get
Some faith of the sky
I have to belong to the sky
And for me to do that
I must join the family members of the sky
And also become one of the family members of the sky

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Through the Black and White

Through the black and white,
The dark and the light,
There always is a gray,
When the colors fade away.
But me and you,
With a love so true,
Can restore them just as bright,
As the sun in day,
And the stars at night.

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Red Hill and the black ants

I climb the Volcano
And the bag rests on my oblique shoulder
Full of grain sugar for the bitter journey.
Who knows about the hole?
And when I turned at the peak
Saw the black ants like a pilgrimage.
I said; ' Hope lava give us lavishly a drink
To pacify our thirst? '

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The black box

The black box
We found on the sea
What will this be

There it is sited
At the door corner
Neither the fire

Nor the water
Could be it destroyer
Shinny like the star

I wish we can unlock
To see inner
For what it contains
Everybody wonder

Is it a curse
Or a treasure
That we wish
To find out sooner
Or later

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The Black Bird

the black bird flies
and loses itself in the darkness of
the night
not stopping going beyond
wanting to find the star

tired it stops for rest on top
of the highest cliff
looking the plains below
house like dots

and lonely perhaps but strong and
tonight it starts again
its journey
to nowhere

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The Red Man with the Black Shadow

The Red Man with the Black Shadow
by Alex Lewis

The Red Man wore a black shadow.
As he grew high, he sunk low.
The Red Man is not a man at all.
He is as short as he is tall.
An elephant is the Red Man.
It is less than greater than.
The elephant is mad because he is tame.
The Red Man is gone, but the shadow will remain.

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The Only Person

Dog, god, bog, hog, log, cog, fog, jog, tog, wog;
But it begins with you and me!
And the only person you can change first is yourself,
For life is all about changes.

The deciding factor,
Base your love on the truth always!
And let the birds fly above the earth;
For the seed-bearing plants and trees are always around us.

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The Black Dog

early morning when
the door of the house is finally opened
the black dog enters
missing his master
the owner of the door of the house
it wants to speak
but since it has no power over the words
it simply wags its tail
puts his head on the lap of the master
and from this gesture
one can see
that everything is well said
by it...

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Quatrain #131 - The stupid person says and does.....

The stupid person says and does whatever he or she thinks or feels is right,
but their own stupidity they're not able to see properly at all in its true light.
It takes a special wisdom and intelligence to help them see the error of their ways
with compassion, love and patience one should strive to instruct them in their days.

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