Isn’t it amazing?
Not all colored boys can sing
You know why?
Colored boys ain’t colored
They just boys
Yeah, they momma’s black
And yes, they dark like that
But that don’t mean all colored boys can sing
Cause them boys ain’t colored
They upward leaning
Listen, singing ain’t everything
Uh, well, in church it does mean something
And yeah, lots of choir boys can really sing
But that ain’t got nothing to do with them
being called colored and things
Even the three Hebrew boys didn’t have to sing
Neither were they called colored and things
Even though they faced a very wicked king
Never once did Nebakenezzer ever demand
That them boys sing
Old men use to call my granddaddy colored boy
To him it was more of the same old white noise
They’d holler at him and his friends
“Go on now colored boys, ya’ll sing”
He wanted to say “Go on now, tell yo’ momma tuh sing”
But no sooner said would a rope be swinging
Isn’t it amazing?
Not all colored boys can sing
You know why?
Colored boys ain’t colored
They just boys upward leaning
Copyright 2009 Emmett Wheatfall
All rights reserved
www.emmettwheatfall.com
Audio Recording CD“I Speak”, Emmett Wheatfall, Peterson Entertainment, LLC, April 2010
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
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emmett wheatfall
Scalding sunlight on a winter Wednesday
A crown of thorn and leaves; my rage on this day
A whirl of ice and snow soak through my skin
My mouth a spoon half-filled; my thoughts of kin
A tree’s silent reproach; my mind on kin
The stones and air cathedrals to my sin
His face my face our faces strain and reach
He came to take me home but not to teach
He sought me out to school but not to teach
My empty mouth is set against his preach
The snow and sky engraved upon my skin
The light is colder here; I think of kin.
* * * * *
DL Minor writes poetry and fiction.
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
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dl minor
making love to a black woman
is like…
slow dancing
sweating
as she melts on your chest
and drips down your thighs
whipped cream & cherries
sliding down your leg
too fast to lick
her afro/disiac
lips, teeth, tongues
touching, tasting, teasing
in love, in motion
stroking a kitten
purring
stroking
an angel at dawn
skinny dipping
in a pool of icecubes
listening to Duke on the piano
bumping, grinding, singing
imagination music
in the dark
listening to Coltrane
playing his horn on his knees
horn on his knees
horn/knees
horn/y
feeling her body
dripping down your cheek
around your neck
into your soul
feeling her body
merging into your soul
plugging into her
rhythm
planting a rose in heaven
oooooooooooooooh
making love to a black woman
is like…
being born again
* * * * *
Gino Ramone is a musician and writer.
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
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gino ramone
Suddenly, everything stops.
An all-consuming silence
Envelops the living room.
The sound of his hand
Slicing through the stagnant air
Is all that remains.
She winces, cowering underneath
The black lacquer coffee table.
Her spirit, cracked like ice; her body,
A crumpled heap of sullen flesh.
His thick, leathery fingers
Slide across his weathered face
Leaving a trail of heartbreaks,
Disappointments, fears.
He stands a broken man.
Her shriveled body
Crawls across the carpet,
Through the broken glass.
In the dark, she brushes
Past his dingy pantleg.
He stares into the shadows.
Gin and sweat permeate the air.
He reaches out and touches her hand.
The crackle of bones
Jars the clock into motion.
* * * * *
Leslie Duran is writer who has published work in the Katmandu Journal, Poetry and Prose, and Gospel Weekly.
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
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leslie duran
Phot oby Zen
I used to destroy white babydolls
because they destroyed me
with their overlong palomino hair
their glassy arctic eyes
their shirley temple complexions
their putrid plastic skin
they’re s’pose to be so pretty
ooooh soooo cu-ute
they made me ugly for no reason
with their strawberry smiles
and canyon-like dimples that echoed:
Niggers ain’t shit!
* * * * *
Tonya Michaels is writer and a nurse who lives in Houston, TX.
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
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tonya michaels
Sometimes I feel as if I need to die
To make the world a better place to live.
I am not asking to be crucified.
I have only one life to give.
I do not want to be a Messiah.
I do not want to save anyone’s soul.
I’d rather be spit on like a pariah.
Eternal life has never been my goal.
I do not profess to be the only Son
My blood will not guarantee salvation.
Touching my garment’s hem will heal no one.
A black man’s death is no revelation.
Sometimes I feel as if I need to die
To save the world from the pain I hold inside.
* * * * *
Antonio Parker is a poet and a philosopher.
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
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Antonio Parker
Standing at the edge of bliss
Hanging in the thickest mist
Infinity dropping out below
And in the distance sits our goal
Mocking from the other side
Fear between us and our prize
If we fall, we may not rise
Who can know if we can fly?
Some of us just wait and see
Something will happen, hopefully
“Possibly, they’ll build a bridge”
“I’ll learn a trick to conquer this”
But others seem to know the deal
They see their goal and know it’s real
Without a pause. Without a break.
They step right out and stand on faith
* * * * *
Rahsheen Porter is a musician, social media and new media enthusiast, health & fitness coach, consultant, early adopter, and father.
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
It sparkles through the stained glass windows,
through the dawn, through angel’s hearts.
It rises through the dark habits of flying nuns
and descends through the gallows of thieves.
It swells in the morning air like a blouse on a clothesline
breathing the crisp aroma of the lingering night,
conveying its nakedness to the virgin sky.
It acknowledges bitter love
and colors it with the waking voices of yawning men.
Like bloomed night spring, it brings drooping love –
washed rich blossoms that rise to pointed pillars.
It remembers the days that steam from heaven.
It drips from the rugged cross to rinse away all the wrong
and echoes through the midnight hills like the green recesses of a song.
It withdraws into the settlement of a song…
* * * * *
Dexter Montrose is a writer who lives in Kingston, Jamaica
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
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Dexter Montrose
Photo by Kevin Pratt.
I.
When skies are dark,
Black men don’t wish for rainbows.
They weather the storm.
II.
Like an unskilled thespian on the stage,
The black man lives a life of stumbled lines.
He wears a humble smile to hide his rage
While being embarrassed and undermined.
And if such agony is not enough,
He must face condemnation from his kin
Who do not compliment but rebuff
Tearing his battered spirit from within.
But he keeps trudging through the mire of life
Holding his head high despite the abuse.
He conjures up joy to battle the strife
Still, his burdens squeeze his neck like a noose.
And when the pain becomes too much to bear,
His smile will turn into a deadly glare
III.
There’s ire in his soul,
Yet his heart is filled with peace.
He’s an enigma.
Living the paradox
of being black and proud.
IV.
He wears blackness like an ebony shroud.
V.
Smooth nightstick rhythm
Draws blood from the black man’s skull.
Death seeps into the pavement.
VI.
The black man sleeps beneath the neon moon.
His soul is at ease, his heart beats slowly.
The streets are quiet; there’s no bloodshed tonight.
All that remains is the peace that forgiveness brings.
* * * * *
F.J. Goodall is the editor of Soul Portrait Magazine. He also writes the blogs Mocha Dad and Making It Last Forever.
This poem is a part of Soul Portrait Magazine’s “30 Days of Poetry” to celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’d like to participate, please submit a poem.
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fj goodall
