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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