In my lifetime,
I have seen the Sixties
as a child.
Danced until the sun's brilliance
performed streams of light
into my soul
during the Seventies.
Graduated in the Eighties
with prestige that floated
on the backs of African Kings,
Queens, Princes, Princesses.
Affirming actions
lifted me toward glass ceilings
and corporate strife,
and I fell
a few times.
I found myself staring
socializing into the eyes
of PCs, Androids, and Facebook
that brought me to sadness
one day in 2016,
scarred my dreams,
swallowed my prestige,
nibbled on my success.
Flashed nightmares across my screams
for the souls of
African American
Kings, Queens,
Princes, Princesses,
fighting a demon named
Police Brutality.
It was not my first time.
I woke up crying
on a sun-filled day, for
Philando Castile
Alton Sterling
Sandra Bland
Eric Garner
Freddy Gray
Michael Brown
Tamir Rice
Trayvon Martin
Walter Scott
Sean Bell
Laquan McDonald
Amadou Diallo
Eleanor Bumpers
Thirteen disciples.
There are enough names
to fill one thousand volumes
all titled:
Black Lives Do Not Matter.
I couldn't sleep for two quiet weeks
when thunder slammed into
Louisiana, Minnesota, and Texas
A hot summer/2016.
An inferno of hate
exploded
intensified
trumped my spirit
fell into my heart
and left it weeping behind those
Georgia oak trees
that still protect
my soul.
A swamp of madness
erupted inside me.
It was just like fire
burning in my soul.
I found myself
genuflecting for hours,
asking her
will there be a fire next time?
Will I explode?
In my lifetime,
I have not had much
to complain about.
I was that child
dancing in the brilliance of
Civil Rights
under a stream of
Affirmative Action rainbows,
living the dream
of an African American King.
In my lifetime,
I yearn to dance to the beat of
a chant—
Black Lives Matter--
with no apology to others.
I yearn to dance
in the essence of
gratitude for Obama greatness,
with no apology to others.
I yearn to dance
with no apology,
for the color of my skin,
the texture of my hair,
the slant of my eyes,
the brightness of my teeth,
the swag of my step,
the courage of my ancestors,
the future of my descendants,
the light in hearts of darkness.
No more apologies to others
for honoring the contributions
of African Americans
who shed tears/blood/sweat
in the face of profound horrors,
while speaking an old language
named Gun Violence,
and a creole/patois/pidgin
named Police Brutality,
and an English language
named Racism.
Let America learn
a new language:
Black Lives Matter
without asking why
or adding a modifier!
I have seen the Sixties
as a child.
Danced until the sun's brilliance
performed streams of light
into my soul
during the Seventies.
Graduated in the Eighties
with prestige that floated
on the backs of African Kings,
Queens, Princes, Princesses.
Affirming actions
lifted me toward glass ceilings
and corporate strife,
and I fell
a few times.
I found myself staring
socializing into the eyes
of PCs, Androids, and Facebook
that brought me to sadness
one day in 2016,
scarred my dreams,
swallowed my prestige,
nibbled on my success.
Flashed nightmares across my screams
for the souls of
African American
Kings, Queens,
Princes, Princesses,
fighting a demon named
Police Brutality.
It was not my first time.
I woke up crying
on a sun-filled day, for
Philando Castile
Alton Sterling
Sandra Bland
Eric Garner
Freddy Gray
Michael Brown
Tamir Rice
Trayvon Martin
Walter Scott
Sean Bell
Laquan McDonald
Amadou Diallo
Eleanor Bumpers
Thirteen disciples.
There are enough names
to fill one thousand volumes
all titled:
Black Lives Do Not Matter.
I couldn't sleep for two quiet weeks
when thunder slammed into
Louisiana, Minnesota, and Texas
A hot summer/2016.
An inferno of hate
exploded
intensified
trumped my spirit
fell into my heart
and left it weeping behind those
Georgia oak trees
that still protect
my soul.
A swamp of madness
erupted inside me.
It was just like fire
burning in my soul.
I found myself
genuflecting for hours,
asking her
will there be a fire next time?
Will I explode?
In my lifetime,
I have not had much
to complain about.
I was that child
dancing in the brilliance of
Civil Rights
under a stream of
Affirmative Action rainbows,
living the dream
of an African American King.
In my lifetime,
I yearn to dance to the beat of
a chant—
Black Lives Matter--
with no apology to others.
I yearn to dance
in the essence of
gratitude for Obama greatness,
with no apology to others.
I yearn to dance
with no apology,
for the color of my skin,
the texture of my hair,
the slant of my eyes,
the brightness of my teeth,
the swag of my step,
the courage of my ancestors,
the future of my descendants,
the light in hearts of darkness.
No more apologies to others
for honoring the contributions
of African Americans
who shed tears/blood/sweat
in the face of profound horrors,
while speaking an old language
named Gun Violence,
and a creole/patois/pidgin
named Police Brutality,
and an English language
named Racism.
Let America learn
a new language:
Black Lives Matter
without asking why
or adding a modifier!
