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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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