Poems that Resist Police Brutality & Demand Racial Justice - Post #12

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.

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I Can’t Breathe Either

by Gregory Luce

in this blue-white air

on the white sidewalk.

Time for a white [privilege] sale:

wrap it up in yellow tape

shove it into a chalk outline

use the proceeds to buy up

the bullets and nightsticks

and turn them into buttons

and furniture and toys.

****

The American mythology

by Chandramohan S

After dark

Black boys are perceived as 

danger to society,

like 

the rage of a colorblind

Oxen at the sight of crimson.

****

Animal

by Derick Ebert

Hunters will set up blinds

In woods

So the prey

Being hunted

Will get used to what seems foreign.

I wonder

If they know their getting used to

Their killer

We are accustomed

As ammo aimed

At angels

Assimilating

All around

Us

Cops

Will patrol cities

So the civilians

Feel safe

Within the community,

Although the ones

Protecting you,

Look nothing like you,

I wonder

If they know their getting use to

Their killer

Born beautiful,

Blackness battles back

Bad behavior,

But bloody background

Bottles black bodies

Because bullets blast

Brothers being broken

By beast bearing blue

That’s a lot of B’s

But bear with me

If life is a game,

And we are its game

Then who the hell

Are the hunters?

The ones with guns,

And a disguise

That pledges

Red,

White,

And blue

Wanting to see us bleed red

Our shooter white,

And our hands go blue

African Americans

Assaulted

Altered

As animals

Black boys,

Bruised, by

Brutality

And I know

I said I would stop with the damn B’s

But after B comes C

Like

I C coffins

Carrying colored

Carcasses

Before bodies

Are in them

I guess,

Killing blacks are as

Easy as

A

B

C

See like

Dark fruit is nice

But police

Would rather see the juice

Spilling from your veins

It makes me realize,

That I don’t want to be

Good at math

I don’t want to be good

At making a statistic

But what

Else can

We expect

When the city

Is an equation

And we

Are the problem

They are desperately

Trying to solve

While their son’s backs

Meet beds

In the middle of the night

My brother’s backs

Meet

Pavement

So don’t ask me

How’s it feel to paint the town red

Cause I know souls

That can tell you

You dream of Freddy

Or Jason chasing you

I dream of running

From cops

To stay alive

The only difference

Is that

When I wake up

Those dreams

Still follow

Me

Down dark streets,

Into gated communities,

And even to my own front porch

PETA loves protecting endangered animals

So when will

Someone protect

Endangered

Black children

When will

I

Be given

My rights

Instead of having

Them read to me

Instead of tattooing pieces

Of paper

To write poems

About problems

You know exist

We use ink

To draw

Legislation

Because you can find peace in heart

By making pieces of art

The word unity

Has been replaced by prison

So the community

Has no value

Just common

Traits of jails

And no

I have never been there

Nor has Eric Garner,

Or Michael Brown

Or Jonathan Garret

Names,

Lost in translation

Because police

Don’t speak

English

When we say innocent

With hands pointed towards the sky

Like we want God to take us

Before the bullet does

But it’s bigger than that,

Bigger than a few names.

We make profit off these prophecies

Like we did with Trayvon

When will we be with the movement

And not the moment

Like when I leave my house,

It’s like I’m going to another cell block,

Constantly being watched

When did looking like a criminal

And being one

Become the exact same thing

Cause if I stray too far

From my boundaries

You’ll find-these

Eyes

Closed

In a casket

I don’t know when I will die

But Take a picture

It’ll last longer than

The life expectancy

Of black children

In the city

So when you hold the barrel

Of your lens at their face

Like the crater

You are aiming at can

Swallow bullets just like

It swallows

Air

Ever second sirens

Blare

Just remind them

To smile

Cause if they gunned me down,

What picture would they use of me?

Would they make me look like an animal?

Or who I actually am?

****

Police Raid the Show Under the Bridge, May 2012

by Karen Lillis

From high ground, I watched you surrender to a ladycop
while two young women were pushed to the asphalt
and roughly cuffed, hands behind their backs.
More uniforms were chasing the guitar player across Liberty Ave
while some copper shoved the comedian towards the paddy wagon
and the accordionist was folded into the back of the squad car
with his squeezebox still strapped across his ribcage.

Moments before,
we’d been folk dancing
among the bike punx and the straight edge
and I wondered what was more perfectly Pittsburgh:
shimmying to a Balkan brass band under a midnight bridge
in a full moon glow on May Day
or the VU cover band we’d seen the previous evening
Andy Warhol smirking down from his grave
How does it feeeel
to be loooooved?

Three songs into Balkan gypsy,
bright headlights flashed on, and I knew.
Cops, baby, let’s GO. I thought you were right
behind me, but I was mistaken. Instead,
the cops had cops behind them. Quick on the heels
of the first car, two more cars drove up, then two more, then two
more, then two more, so fast and so many that I could no longer count.
I wondered what terrible crime they thought
they were responding to. I wondered
what actual crime they were missing
by raining down on the music lovers
after park curfew.

It looked like a scene
out of West Side Story or Jungleland–
a cliché decades out of date.
Only, the Sharks were the cops and their K9s
and the Jets weren’t fighting back.
The Sharks said: WALK AWAY. Walk Away Faster.
You’re Coming With Us. Who’s in Charge Here?
You Fucking Idiots Are Going to Jail. I Don’t Have
to Give A Fucking Warning. Everybody Stay Here.
GO. GO NOW. Back Up or Get Pepper Sprayed. Tell
Your Friends I Could Shoot Them All If I Wanted To.
I’m Going to Bash Her Fucking Head In. WALK AWAY,
MISTER. Sit down on the curb and put your hands up.
What the Jets said to land themselves 26 hours in county jail:
Stop, You’re Hitting My Friend Too Rough.

Before I left you for the night
I yelled, “I LOVE YOUUUUUU!”
from up high on the bridge behind the chain link
to you breathless below on the sidewalk
and then I really felt like Maria
or Marlon Brando.
Sirens continued screaming in your direction
as I ran uphill to our house
to sleep alone.

Nine arrests, 31 citations, and a few weeks later
the Zone Commander invited us
for a de-escalating chat at the Precinct.
He told us he grew up in the South Hills, a young thug
turning over cars, finding trouble, trading fisticuffs
with the local police.
Tent said it as we drove away: The cops and the criminals,
they’re just two sides of the same rotten coin. But us freaks,
we’re the ones they really hate—people who still think
for themselves, people who don’t play their games, people
who keep asking the persistent questions.

****

The Muse is Marvin

by Rebecca Villarreal

with gratitude to Marvin Gaye

What’s going on?

What’s going on?

Marvin serenaded the mothers

too many of us crying

last words separated by six degrees

open palms

manos arriba

these are suns

these are our sons

Om Shanti

feel it at the base of your spine

Sanskrit

Iyanla invites

forgive everyone for everything

undo angels

undo hairs on end

fashion forward fear

ask the family for a bowl of soup

in it read your fortune

someone gave birth to him

someone gave birth to you

only your mama’s not crying

brother, brother, brother

there’s far too many of you dying

we’ve got to find a way.

****

Know Justice, Know Peace

by Anna Laura Grant

“No justice, no peace!”

“No justice, no peace!”

I join the chorus of protest marching down DC’s streets,    

surrounded by others who are angry, ashamed and awakened

by the heartbreak, hurt and hatred

choking our country.  

I look at a mother’s eyes,

I hear her cries and empathize.

What can we do to save these lives?

So many victims of brutality,

children being killed  ‘cause they don’t look like me.

I breathe deep. I pray for an answer.

And it comes.

I think if there’s hope for our society,   

the change must start individually.

We’ve got to k-n-know justice  

for peace to be a possibility.

So what does it mean, this justice?

It was time for an exploration, seeking a philosophical explanation.

and I knew just who to ask…

My intellectual curiosity

led me to a fellow teacher who explained to me,

“You see, Ms. Grant the ancients believed

true justice existed in the midst of harmony,

creating foundations of our morality.

-wisdom

-courage

-self-control

Pillars forever outside of man,

yet inside of man,

architecture for our humanity.”

So, if these are balanced within us, there is hope for peace.

It starts with you.

Make it right within,

then look around and see.

There’s more that connects us than you thought originally.

So instead of referring to an Other,

I call you sister, neighbor, brother.

I honor your history.     

I respect your religion.

I admire your age.

I learn your language.

I celebrate your skin.

Your heart still beats like mine.

You’ve got a soul divine.

And so I see how you are me,

and I am you.

Injustice to you affects my harmony,

an intimately intertwined human destiny.

Though at times we may disagree,       

what happens to you matters to me.

Because sister,            

neighbor,

brother,

we are one.

Now if the police could think like me,       

would there be a more peaceful society?      

Then justice would “roll down

like mighty waters,”

taking over hearts.

We’d become humanized,

with human eyes.

You see?

Change the individual and you change the world.    

So in this season of love and contemplation,

Become the hope in the face of tribulation.

I challenge you…

to see each other as connected human souls.

to find beauty, truth and goodness inside us all,

hidden as it may be.     

Then you’ll KNOW justice and KNOW peace,  

allowing human love to release       

inside of you,

inside of me,

filling our hearts and

twisting separations into coexisting fate.

And when a heart is full of Love,

there is not room for hate.       

****

Reverse Garland Cinquain for Trayvon

by JP Howard

Trayvon

I wish I didn't have to write

about you in past tense

once again, so

unfair

Trayvon

your story is too familiar

we keep returning here

this pain should not

recur

Trayvon

Today you should be in your school

Your parents’ next visit

should not be your

gravestone

Trayvon

Until there is justice I will

wrap you in my stanzas

cradle your name

Trayvon

Trayvon

we will not forget your trip home

beautiful son man-child

let us repeat

your name

Trayvon

Your story is so familiar

When your parents’ visit

let them cradle

your name.

*Reverse Garland Cinquain for Trayvon was initially published The Best American Poetry Blog in February 2013: http://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2013/02/in-memoriam-a-reverse-garland-for-trayvon-martin.html

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Pantoum Chant For Ferguson:  20 Miles a Day
by Angela Consolo Mankiewicz

The marchers march on, twenty miles a day

to Jefferson City, the latest Selma.

They trudge through the years, they know the way

from fifty years past, twenty more miles

to Jefferson City, the latest Selma.

Where will we be - who will we be

in fifty more years? After twenty more miles,

child of today, what will you see?

Where will we be? Who will we be?

Dreamers redeemed? Roads without lives without sticks without stones?

Or, child of today, is what you will see 

the night chanting names on slicked over roads

trudging through years, knowing the way;

still dreaming and marching, twenty miles a day.

****

Black Lives Matter

by Papi Kymone Freeman

Black lives matter when we shopping, in other people's stores
Black lives matter when we singing and dancing
Black lives matter on the basketball court
Black lives matter on the football field, until you get carried off the field
Black lives matter when they in uniform
Black lives matter in private prisons
Black lives matter in the boxing ring
Black lives matter when slaves were sold
But it don’t mean a thing at the wrong end of a white cop’s gun
Or choke hold
Cause then, black lives don’t matter
Forensic pathologist expert testimony don’t matter
Unconstitutional statues hand fed to hand picked grand jury don’t matter
A community of witnesses don’t matter
Being unarmed don’t matter
Videotaped murder don’t matter
A Black attorney general don’t matter
A Black president don’t matter
No justice no indictment no remorse no revenge In a system that pretends that #BlackLivesMatter