Poems that Resist Police Brutality & Demand Racial Justice - Post #13

We Who Believe in Freedom Cannot Rest -  Poems that Resist Police Brutality & Demand Racial Justice

Until the killing of Black men, Black mothers' sons, becomes as important to the rest of the country as the killing of a white mother's son -- we who believe in freedom cannot rest.
                    - Ella Baker

Even as our hearts break in rage and anguish over the murder of Black and brown people throughout the land by police who are not held accountable, here at Split This Rock we are heartened by the powerful actions in the streets and the visionary leadership of mostly young people of color in this growing movement for justice.

We are also moved by the poets, who continue to speak out, and especially by BlackPoetsSpeakOut.

In solidarity, Split This Rock offers our blog as a Virtual Open Mic, open to all who respond to our call for Poems that Resist Police Brutality and Demand Racial Justice. The poems below were submitted in response to that call.

Please note poems with complex formatting have been posted as jpegs, as this blog has a limited capacity for properly displaying these poems. We apologize if these poems are not accessible to you.

For more information or questions, feel free to email us at info@splitthisrock.org.

If you are moved by any of the poems below, please contact the Department of Justice and your local representatives to demand for police accountability. Visit Ferguson Action Demands for more information.

****

For Michael Brown

by Donna Katzin

You did not speak

that dark night when the cop

pulled you over for stealing cigarillos,

being black,

or both,

when you struggled

to turn away his weapon

and failed.

You did not speak

when you ran wounded

from his SUV, or when you turned

and staggered back,

hands raised, begging

for your life.

You did not speak,

bullets later, separated

from your sandals that could not run fast enough,

Cardinals cap that could not fly, flapped  

red in the road as if it knew

what was coming --

when you fell face down,

your eighteen years bleeding into asphalt

for four and a half hours.

What would you have said

when the Grand Jury declined

to indict the white man your size,

ten years your senior,

with car, gun and a badge,

so frightened that he had to shoot you

nine times, when you were armed

with nothing but your skin?

From Oakland to Washington

our hands above our heads push back the wind,                                                                              

feet thunder facts drummed into the streets                    

of Ferguson and Staten Island,

bodies lie down on Sunrise Highway.

Michael Brown, and all the other Michael Browns --

we will speak for you.

****

NIGGA

by Slangston Hughes

“powerful people cannot afford to educate the people that they oppress

because once you are truly educated

you will not ask for power.

You will take it.” –John Henrik Clarke

Slave hymn in your stomach

Broken bible verse in your pocket

The watch that watches time while in motion like the redline

Riding towards your heartbeat

The stolen over priced soul that you can’t buy back played back on repeat

The soul beneath our feet screams secrets

Enslaved voices screeching orisha's singing the song of death

There are silent auctions held inside your mothers chest

For the tectonic fetal tissue that will be your offspring’s

Future planting earthquakes in our children’s path

before they can take their first steps

barcodes branded on new born babies birth certificates

there is a price set on your life’s worth

sailing you your self back to your self

before you can download your self worth

there is an app that interacts with your melanin

but you gotta die first

there is dirt in my dialogue

and a “callous on my soul”

scratching at the infection like a mad turntabalist

a bloody crucifix carved into my fingerprints

demonic dogma bleeding from our lips

cause lord knows when the cock crows

they will take hold and cyphen the God out of your dick

Steve Biko’s spirit sits dormant inside the consciousness of black light

Waiting to awake Swotto at night so “I write what I like”

Yea nigga

Hey nigga

Nigga what

My nigga

I am so fucking tired of treating the truth like an apology

Battling desolation with dead platforms and outdated philosophy’s

Fuck you, and fuck them too…

There is no time for holding hands and marching in reverse

At a time when fists should be gripped and raised in righteous rebellion

My cosmic footprint outdates your by billions

Everything you’ve ever thought of we already did first

Had celestial swag before you ever called this place earth

Fuck you Miley Cyrus I hope your ass explodes the next time you try to twerk

We create both commerce and culture but something is fucking wrong

If we are God than how come we still follow slave protocols

Black rappers claim new slave

While white mc’s proclaim to be rap gods

I am Jesus at a peaceful protest fully strapped

I am John Brown posting pics on instagram of freed slaves being sold back

I am Harriet Tubman in the club making it clap

I am Imhotep on crack

I am your worse fucking nightmare cause I don’t know who eye am

But I know how to I.M.

A biracial binary baby wit an I phone plugged into his navel

Keeping Africa fully charged

Only to get double charged

The cost for the price of my life back

And catch a charge from those in charge

Charged with no rights

So damm right its within my rights to write back

Nigga… Frederick Douglass aint need twitter

We be revolutionary as shit wit a like and a click on Facebook

But rarely face books

Read the writing on the walls tagged by Babylon

You’ve been marked for extinction

Call it destiny or death

Prophesy or lack of access

Regardless our lives are on the line

But everyday you stay on line everywhere you @

So how the fuck you lack access

searched the engine and highlighted the text

I saw Dubois and Garvey i-pads plugged into Baldwin’s pigment

Downloading Africa’s heartbeat

Langston Hughes laughs at the legacy laid by

Creative cultural capitalists in his name

Trying to corner your organs and gentrify your intestines

Cause the body of god is hardly gOD’S BODY when the God body are just as

Corrupt as the devils be

So do the knowledge b

Or rather Deuteronomy

Universal Laws divine energy and ancient astrology

5th dimension gifted

I channel the jewels in opened wounds

And commune with Countee Cullen’s spirit

When I’m on the number 3

But it seems new slaves are just old slaves with new chains

And from Louie to coogee, fendi and prada

We still pick cotton just the same

2 Chainz goes platinum

while Laruen Hill went to prison

and the dumb deaf and blind don’t even have ears to hear

the in bondage conditions

of their own indignant“Consumerism”

HipHop got butt raped by the platinum incrusted dick of industry snakes

Should of listen to Bambaataa he told you the truth in like 78

Nigga… don’t believe me just watch

Stars all on my clock

Fuck yo trinity I spit divinity

Theology in my watch

Nigga Nigga Nigga Nigga Nigga

We always after the white water cause the white water equates to the good water

The good music the good hair the good skin

The good schools that I’m trying to put my 2 kids in

You could be Travon Martin Delany King

And still not be accustomed to the hood you in

They put Christ in a hood and let the media crucify the spin

But when the zealots was finished yelling

We remain equally

Unaware of the blood spilling in the linen and the linage of the hood you in

So if you “Brown” six shots I’ll put you down for the count

Cause your very skin is seen as a threat to the world you in

We create culture they copy the contents

And sale it back

Extract the black and sale it back

As consumers we carry the weight of what we create on our back

They sale it back

Versace Versace Versace Versace Versace

As consumers we carry the weight of our fate on our back

They sale it back

Africa Africa Africa Africa Africa

I guess the Griot is back with a vengeance

I don’t want to be included and I’m not trying to be intrusive

White guilt had sex with white privilege and produced assimilated niggez

Pork on your fork

Swine killing niggez

Police out in force

Swine killing niggez

Niggez niggez where all my niggez

Niggez be getting paper

Niggez be on the move

Niggez be on YouTube niggez stay on the news

Live in front the camera getting shot with they crew

Niggez be in Paris

Niggez be in Africa too

While the children of Patrice Lumumba remain locked in chains

And the Congo gets raped for all the diamonds, gold and coltan

Niggez will never change aint shit that you can do

A million martyrs slain

Black Jesus got shot to death by a tech loaded with karma cashed

checks

The resurrection never came

You’ve been deceived if you believe anybody gives a fuck if you breathe

Dr Sebi cured cancer,aids and diabetes

Nobody recorded reported or handed out any vaccines

Nigga Please…

Compliance with colonialism only leads to regression

Desegregation deconstructed our best weapons

But we still haven’t learned the lesson

We don’t need progression in exchange for acceptance

But in our minds white still equals wealth

When the true wealth is in your cells

But we still ask for access

To what is already apart of our selves

When really what we need is to access our self

You can’t be in the struggle and not struggle

I found my purpose on purpose

Turned verses into churches

Meditate mold metaphors into meaning

Beat-boxed with out breathing

Spoke with the tongue of a heathen

Cadence crafted from bible pages and the dialect of demons

Until words became flesh

That’s when niggez started eating

Religion became cannibalism

Take the flesh and the blood nigga eat it

Cause babies are birthed by God but niggez are of men

Turned his umbilical cord into a noose and let loose what was within

The Nigga

But God is within my niggez

If David Walker walked right in

In this very instance

He would’ ‘t appeal he’d kill

In the name of the niggez

So every word I’m writing is in the name of every slain nigga

See God is pissed as shit and she wants back her stolen niggez

“there is a railroad of bones at the bottom of the ocean”

there is a chamber of souls in the guns our sons are holding

there is a loud graveyard planted underneath every American city

there are a billion black bodies coming back to the living

you thought the zombie apocalypse was some shit

just wait until you get a hold of my niggez

see this is the dispensation of truth in the nu age

and there are so many slain ancestors coming back for revenge

that it I’ll make reparations look like minimum wage

but they control the water the air and the planes

the radioactive rays that rearrange your thought waves

so a 12 gage held to every hybrids brain

is the only way we ever going see any true change

we don’t need you if you trying to be them

we don’t need you if you trying to be in their skin

more than the skin you in

the time tic is over

rearrange your circuitry

with keylontic synergy

stretch memory with Kemetic yoga

the hermetic soul controller of meta and matter

at the center of the galaxy inside the hue-man heart beat

just trying with all our might to relight a dead sun (son)

no justice to peace

but i will scream justice in this piece

cause it is just us in this piece

but don't expect a just us

once we take to the streets

black lives don't matter

black lives are matter

you know black

like space

like stars and shit

like melanin, matter, nigga

but sometimes I wonder if it all really matters

when I hear the devils laughter

and if dreams are just nightmares that haven’t shattered

a wise man once told me

that the Blackman is God

if God looked into a mirror

and the mirror shattered

****

Tankas for the Mamas and our sons

by JP Howard

Trigger: Black boys walk

off the street into our hearts.

Before burial

her baby had that same spark,

same laugh, a place to call home.

Trigger: call Mama

before the burial ground

becomes your new home.

Beautiful black boys beware

your walk home on a warm night.

  

****

Saving Our Sons

by Sashay Butler

let’s start a movement called “saving our sons”

because our sons have been setting prematurely

their destiny sealed with the hard horizon of concrete.

the illegitimate children of the constitution

let’s rewrite the narrative of their stories from the burgeoning beginning

molding mentors out of the church, school, me and the community,

society,the streets: their nemesis

whether it be white man or Magneto

gravitating to their magnetic fields

stripping them of everything they own

covering them with inevitable endings

meeting death before their due-- process

or in jail cells where justice is owed

grab every brother you know

and tell them their life matters

and no matter what dream they are after,

what ever ambition,

you are the center, the core

the rising of tides-- low and high

the conductor of all emotion

because suns are the greatest source of light

burning ferociously and fearlessly

a threat to everything society has ingrained in our cognition

an educated black man is dangerous to the system.

if you see one in training or one straying away

feed him faith through your motivation

smother him in love with your embraces

and tell him he comes from a culture that has endured

black people have stared pain in it’s eyes before.

black people know change

whether its chains on their ancestors ankles

through a triangular trade

to chains around their necks

a nuisance to nousses

you can bet

you are everything they never expected you to be.

you are the sequel to a story with an unfinished script

you are hulk hogan strong dodging stereotypes like bullets in Missouri

you are blind fury with God gifted vision

you are a black mother’s christmas gift

every time you make curfew

you are 40 acres and a mule plus interest

you are a generation of gladiators

making arenas of wherever your feet land

you are reincarnated civil rights activist

their blood runs through your veins like slaves evacuating the south

you are tough like bare feet fleeting to freedom

you are the greatest oral tradition told by word of mouth

you are your grandmother’s whispering wisdom

you are fire without an extinguisher

you the black diamond of systematic oppression

you are the answer to unanswered questions

you are Job

you are free

you are nothing like what they EVER expected

but everything they feared you could be.

so let’s start a movement called saving our sons

because you are a wildfire the whole world is watching

don’t throw water when you’ve just learned to set yourself ablaze.

****

Fight the prejudice

by Chandramohan S

There are many beards of the 

Kind picked out at

Airport terminals,

Hidden in my mustache.

I fight prejudice

Like eye drops

That cleanse the

Conjunctivitis of bigotry 

In the hieroglyphics hidden in the 

Exposed optic nerves of your cornea.

I fight prejudice 

By refusing to be the worm

In the hole in an apple,

Rotting the entire apple cart,

Like vaccinating a generation

With the dreaded fear of 

the other.

****

Do not go to war

by Nicole Goodwin

Do not go to war.

Do not go to war, in the name of the dead.

Do not go to war in the dawn of an Old flame,

Its embers draped in the rains of blood, blessed by fear.

The fear of mothers and fathers,

The fear of children,

Yours and mine.

We are all taught in this modern world now,

To fear such gifts. The darkness, the unknowable.

The silent clicks and pauses of tongues,

Eruptions of emotions, buildings collapsing.

Walls crumbling. We are all taught to fear.

We are taught to believe in fear,

Worship in fear, parade and praise in boasts

To be greater conquerors and concur with the

Domination, the brave besting of fear.

But we never win. Fear wins. It concurs us,

When instead of extending hands,

We exchange arms. Instead of realizing that,

In all that armor we are still afraid.

Aye…I.

I know the sound of drums.

I still hear the wail of sorrow. Mothers, young, old

It matters not. They all bury their sons in the end.

Hopes, dreams. It’s funny how all these things become superfluous,

Once you are dead.

Fathers, sisters we are left with the sanity of the insane.

Those victims we march in the name of we all executed.

Black lives, white cops. It doesn’t matter to them anymore.

They are all dead. I suppose that is true equality.

They have all come to me,

The ask of me to tell the world,

One thing.

They say, “Tell them, tell them not to duel in our names.”

I will say: “The world will not listen. Most will curse me for saying,

The slain black children, and those murdered cops are the same now and forever the same.”

They say, tell them anyway.

TELL THEM ANYWAY.

I sigh.

Do not use their names.

They do not care for it, even if, especially if you cry justice.

Our vengeance will not make us immortal.

We will not be saints.

Our rage,

Their rage.

We are two bulls clashing, in the end.

For what?

Bloodshed comforts no one.

Only remembrance.

****

Bullet Points:

by J. Barrett Wolf

1)        I have never breathed the aroma of Bhopal,

            Cancer Alley or Love Canal.

            For I choose where I live.

            Never lost a thumb to the lathe or

            A nail to the sewing machine.

            For I choose where I work.

            Never owned another human being

            Or bought a woman for pleasure,

            For I choose whom I love.

2)        I chose not to accept the sparkling signs,

            And trappings of prodigious wealth

            I gave up selling things I had no hand in making,

            Selling things made by indentured hands

           

            Hands that worked for crust and rice and dahl,

            Hands that worked in dark and stink and fear.

            Sweatshop hands, factory hands,

            Women's hands, children's hands.

3)        I have these choices because

            I have the order of protection

            That cannot be rescinded.

           

            I have the voter ID

            That is never questioned.

           

            I have the license

            To walk down the street.

           

            Unmolested.

            Uncontested.

            Unarrested...

                                   

            Because I am a white man.

****

| The Joys of Motherhood |

by FreeQuency

I’ve always wanted to be a mother.

Growing up,

I heard all about the ‘Joys of Motherhood’.

From the first day of school

to watching my kids graduate,

I even looked forward to the apprehension of having them go on their first dates,

I knew I was young,

but I figured it couldn’t hurt to start planning for something

so big

so early.

But now,

I’m 23 years old,

and I don’t know if I have what it takes

to stomach motherhood in this country.

Over the years,

America has taught me more about parenting

than any book on the subject,

has taught me how some women give birth to babies

and others to suspects,

has taught me that this body will birth kin

who are more likely to be held in prison cells

than to hold college degrees,

there is something about being black in America that has made motherhood seem…

c o m p l i c a t e d.

           

Seem like

I don’t know what to do to raise my kids right

and keep them alive.

Do I tell my son not to steal because it is wrong

or because they will use it to justify his death?

Do I tell him

that even if he pays for his skittles and tea

there will still be those who will watch him and see

criminal before child,

who will call the police

and not wait for them to come.

…do I even want the police to come?

Too many Sean Bells go off in my head

when I consider calling 9-1-1.

I will not take it for Oscar Granted

that they will not come and kill my son.

We may have gotten ride of the nooses

but I still consider it lynching

when they murder black boys

and leave their bodies to rot in the sun,

as a historical reminder, that

there is something about being black in America that has made motherhood sound like…

m o u r n i n g

Sound like

one morning I could wake up

and see my son

as a repeat of last week’s story.

Sound like

I could wake up

and realize the death of my daughter wouldn’t even be newsworthy.

You can’t tell me Renisha McBride is the only black woman

whose violence deserved more than our silence,

what about our other dark skinned daughters in distress

whose deaths

we have yet to remember?

Apparently

gender is not that great of a protector

if you come out of a body that looks like this,

there is something about being black in America that has made motherhood sound like…

s o m e t h i n g    I ’ m   n o t   s u r e   I   l o o k   f o r w a r d   t o.

I have written too many poems about

dead

Black

children

to be naïve,

about the fact

that there could one day be a poem

written about my kids.

But I do not want to be a mother who gave birth

to poems.

I do not want a stanza

for a son,

nor a line,

for a little girl,

I do not want children

who will live forever in the pages of poetry,

yet can’t seem to outlive

me.

****

It Is Still Alive! Open letter to Mr. Raymell Ray Mourice Rice

by James Sears

Chivalry is not dead; but it is in the intensive care ward.  Clearly my young brother, I have failed to set a better example of how a King treats his Queen.  Furthermore, I failed to be a more visible role model for you to emulate.

The plight of the black man in America causes him to wake up three steps behind his competition.  It also forces him daily to avoid multiple militarized local police departments and subjects him to wide spread sophisticated and professional racism propelled expertly by local and national media outlets.  These issues and several others have caused many of us to misalign our priorities.  Survival has been and continues to be our primary focus.  We have systematically neglected families, education, social standing, and our moral accountabilities.  My apologies to you young man, because these failures come to light every time you make a misstep. 

I should have taught you to help her put on and take off her coat and I should have shown you that a King open all doors for ladies.  By ladies, I mean, your mother, sisters, cousins, daughters, acquaintances, friends, and especially your wife.    

I should have made sure you knew to always walk on the outside closer to traffic while allowing your female companion to walk in a more protected position.  Even while sleeping with your significant other, you should rest in the spot closest to the door in order to better protect her.   

If I would have been on my job, I would have taught you to never sit with your back to the door, so you may be better positioned to spot and react to threats to your loved ones.  If we spent more time together, you would have learned to lead her down an escalator, but follow her up and I would have taught you to always lead your family in prayer.  

Additionally, you should order her meal while out on the town.  Never go out on a date if you are not prepared to pay for both meals.  It is important that you say what you mean, mean what you say, and always keep your word.      

Leaders never walk by a mistake without correcting it and real men bring home the bacon or they at least should keep a clean and secure home.  Always put the toilet seat down and be ready to kill all bugs or spiders.  Take out the trash, cut the grass, pump the gas, do your job, and it is very important that you know and speak her love language. 

We cannot make up for all of this lost time in one letter, but this is a start.  There are many things you need to learn, and I am ready to teach and to do my part.  These things alone would not have prevented you from hitting your Queen, but we need to fix and build a solid foundation of mutual respect if you want your house to prosper into a home.  

Remember, you are her protector, sounding board, best friend, companion, but never her attacker.  Chivalry is not dead; it is in your hands young man, so please handle with care.  

****

Hands up, Don’t Shoot

(in memory of Tamir Rice)
by Dan Wilcox

A cop pulled a gun on Tamir Rice

a young black boy in a playground

with a play gun — the cop

fired without waiting for Tamir

to put his hands up.

A cop pulled a gun on my son

a teenager someplace he

should not have been, with friends

with a pellet gun.  The cop didn’t shoot.

My son put the gun down, stopped

being stupid.  The cop put my son

on the ground, took him in. 

A cop pulled a gun on Tamir Rice

shot him.  A cop pulled a gun

on my son, didn’t shoot.

My son is white.

****

 Between the State Sanctioned Murder of Your Son and Mine

by Tafisha Edwards