As the years drain away from all of us, poems too pass into the past. Sometimes you just have to grab them by the scruff of the neck and drag them back into the limelight. Welcome to my new weekly bit, ‘Old Poems Die Hard’ – reblogging a forgotten poem. Enjoy.
RACIST
I hear it start, feed off itself and tumble
into something gross- I seen it coming
miles off and God
I’m tired,
straining with my silence,
moulding it like potter’ clay-
take me,
I need a hand to hold in all this hate-
memory of rain,
thoughts of my stroller-
no, this is the world:
heat, crack, ice-
ink, blood, war-
pig iron, tanks, japs-
a finger in my face
like a spear-tip and
IT IS POLITE TO RESPOND-
I was brought up right
but reason washed away last winter,
and I’m old enough
to stare right into the eyes of the beast
and say nothing,
nothing at all.
MY TROUBLED MIND 
When you are silenced by courtesy yet your screaming internally for justice. I abhors racism and the vocal ignorance it projects. Thank you for projecting your voice for equality.
LUKES MY BROTHER lukey:))))))))))))))))))))))))
Pingback: RACIST | uni cunningham
I one shouted “Amandla” at a white South African policeman and got eight weeks in a State Mental Institution. Fact.
Wow, thank you for sharing a spectacular glimmer of your experience. That’s quite something
It was quite foolish, but there we go.
I love the lines ” I am old enough to stare in to the eyes of a beast and say nothing . Absolutely nothing”
Intelligence and violence do not make good bedfellows.
You are so right. Salute.