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Poems On / About RACISM  2/6/2016 11:41:06 PM
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Best Poems About / On RACISM
 
 
 
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  201.     

Who Knew Too Few Would Be Found To Qualify

The comments made on racism,
Are as ridiculous as the denials.
Anyone within distance,
Of an urban area wherever it is.
Would witness the existence of it.
Unless those riding on tour buses are told,
How laziness results in hunger...
And homelessness.

And those that are subjected to this point of view,
Have had choices to control their own destinies.
But who knew too few would be found to qualify.
Leaving the majority to self inflict their own wounds.
And choosing to be victims.

The comments made on racism,
Are as ridiculous as the denials.
Anyone within distance,
Of an urban area wherever it is.
Would witness the existence of it.
Unless those riding on tour buses are told,
How laziness results in hunger...
And homelessness.

And those that are subjected to this point of view,
Have had choices to control their own destinies.
But who knew too few would be found to qualify.
Leaving the majority to self inflict their own wounds.
And choosing to be victims.
 
Lawrence S. Pertillar

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  202.     

Without An Intervention To Prevent

The novelty of hatred,
Has arrived to dominate public opinion.
And treated openly,
To give it a forum of free speech.
As if racism is okay,
To be invited to display an incitement of division...
In messages clearly sent.

Is there a freedom to have an entire world incensed?
Is there a freedom to have humanity demised,
At the expense of those innocent?
Is there a freedom to give those irresponsible,
A public stage for these events?
So those with purposes to create havoc...
Could have it without an intervention to prevent,
Civil disobedience intentionally meant?

The novelty of hatred,
Has arrived to dominate public opinion.
And treated openly,
To give it a forum of free speech.
As if racism is okay,
To be invited to display an incitement of division...
In messages clearly sent.

A reality check is needed by all,
And soon.
Those voicing insecurities on the rise,
Are looming to balloon.
There is no one who lives,
That should be caught by surprise...
If one day they should awaken,
To witness the world in turmoil...
And blood drenched skies at Sunrise!
 
Lawrence S. Pertillar

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  203.     

Complexion

The motherland fought and purged-
But finally merged-
Across an axiom of segregation,
To a present of sophistication,
A present filled with integration,

In spite, racism is an entity,
Of true colour calamity,
It is a historic war of doom,
Fought from the morning brume,
A rout that leaves the world in a gloom.

Today is filled with colour rift,
A door that inhibits a youthful dream,
And with it-
Black becomes a victim,
And severence dances to the rythm,
The rythm of racism.

Colour of skin is a trim of hate,
That makes a paradox of fate-
As passive wars come in a spate.
A war which blacks have lost,
As whites went for a checkmate.

It is a defier of human kind,
A perpetrator of a young black mind.
The world claims to love,
But jealousy is written in the skies above,
And Hidden in the wings of a dove.
 
choppa Muleba

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  204.     

More Than Race

More Than Race
By Curtis L. Johnson, Sr.

In spite of the day by day signs of man’s bitter degradation, there were many in the South who somehow still failed to see the endless pain of segregation. From the viewpoint of those who never lived there as well as from those who did reside there, for a long period the South was a very inhumane place for African Americans to live.

With that being the case, one would think that the mind set of blacks were consumed by matters of race, and any notions of happiness and success were best put to rest. One would think that surely many blacks were frozen stiff by the monstrous southern social order, with family life rendered hopeless. One would think that the weak, the weary, and the worn would be stalled by their frustrations.

In many respects, they would not be completely wrong in their assumptions and observations. For far too many, raising an African American family and keeping life and limb intact were not a cake walk or just another day in the park. The southern social order was challenging to say the least.

I do not imply nor suggest any notion that the reality of segregation’s stench should be dismissed. If I even alluded or hinted that all were blessed and bliss, I would certainly be remiss. Nevertheless, if one failed to realize that there was indeed a life well worth the living, something would be greatly missed.

As a native Mississippian, I survived the stormy sixties in America’s windy wilderness. The times were hard, and liberties were limited. But in spite of all the blatant racism, black families grew and strived. As God opened their way, their kids played, had fun, worked hard, went to school, and prepared themselves for a brighter day.

No amount of terror and injustice could immobilize democracy’s demand for decency, the heart’s search for sanity and civility, or the human spirit’s march for meaning. Those who desired and studied hard finished high school and went on to college. They dared the demons of ignorance and beat back the odds against success. For many years, they faithfully fought off their fears and wiped away their tears. Every conceivable effort was constantly made to strip away their self esteem. But, duty bound, they charged forward, full of faith, and never ceased to hope and dream.

I remember a father who took me and my brothers to the New Roxy movie house in Clarksdale, Mississippi, on many a Monday night.
I remember the hamburger cafι across the street where we went after the movie for a bite.
I remember the many rides my father took us along the country sides.
I remember after church on many a Sunday afternoon, my father took us all to visit our relatives.
I remember going to community baseball games, jumping ropes, swinging high in the air, and playing on merry-go-rounds at forbidden playgrounds.
I remember Mama’s patience, Mama’s sweetness, and Mama’s sweet blackberry, peach, and apple pies.
I remember Grandma’s courage, Grandma’s commitment, and Grandma’s unmatched love.
I remember Daddy’s business ability, Daddy’s boldness, and Daddy’s barbecue

Being southern born and raised, I well remember the southern system of apartheid. Given such a segregated way of life, one could easily feel victimized and become preoccupied. On the subject of the racism I experienced growing up, I suppose I could easily get preoccupied and forget about some of the beauty of my childhood that I have learned to treasure. On the subject of victimization, I suppose I could build a very strong case.

In my view, being preoccupied with all the nation’s negativity would be the perfect portrait of a massive ride along a dead end street. In my humble opinion, victimization is pure personalized pain and powerless passion on display. Given such choices, I choose neither.
I do solemnly choose to never forget the pains of my past, lest I be condemned to repeat them. But also, I do happily choose to remember my most sacred heritage and pass along its joys and beauty.

As I pause to recall my family life, my relatives, my friends, my teachers, and my pastors; as I reflect on the joys of picking up pecans after a long and windy fall’s night; as I reminisce a skillful walk on the railroad tracks, picking blackberries along its banks; and as I so pleasantly remember so much more that filled the hearts and minds of even poor black kids like me, I rediscover that my life and the lives of my peers even back then and there, were about far more than race.
 
Curtisj Johnson

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Poems On / About RACISM