In celebration of Black History Month, this collection of poems was submitted by Black Griots of Athens, the ones who have stories to share, psalms in their hearts, who are the voices of liberation and revolution. As the poet laureate of Athens, one of the main things I wanted to do was to make poetry more accessible to the community. I had this idea to honor the many voices that are in Athens that should be illuminated and uplifted, as well as in the tradition of Black poets before me, who continued to push the bounds of what is possible for our community. [Mikhayla Smith]
Magnolia
By Mikhayla Smith
Mama said there are
Some of us
Who were born with
Wings
To shape the air
And that
God chose them
For a freedom sky.
They have a special sort
of spirit
That lets you tell apart
Bird and Man and
Glory
From ground,
From Heaven’s angels.
She says that the clouds
Call out to her
When she closes her eyes
And prays to the good Lord
For wings.
I Was Kidnapped From My Mother
By Angela Phinazee
I was kidnapped from my mother therefore I never knew her.
I was told stories, the word used to describe her was savage.
I was kidnapped from my mother, my captors used and abused me
chained, battered and bruised me.
They tormented me, made me feel less than, that feeling present my entire lifespan.
Even when I follow their rules to the letter
they still treat the animals better. Its not my fault that I am here,
I was kidnapped from my mother.
Years of mistreatment, who are they to be filled with resentment?
With smiles on their faces they told me stories, no they told me lies.
With hate in their hearts, disgust in their eyes.
The word they used was savage. They never told me I was royal!
If I had known I wouldn’t have felt less than my entire lifespan.
I would’ve held my head with pride. I didn’t know where I came from,
I didn’t know who I was because I was kidnapped from my mother.
Secretly I learned about my mother, she wasn’t the savage they portrayed her to be
She is queen mother of many nations,
wisdom, riches and beauty flows through her.
I am not satisfied, how could I be? I was kidnapped from my mother
I am far from happy.
My ancestors were neglected and subjected to unbearable pains treatment that was inhumane disconnected from family and bound in chains
there is a day of reckoning and a day of jubilee spirits will soar and spirits will be free.
one day I was set free at least that’s what I thought
so many lives lost, I pay homage to those who stood up and fought.
They didn’t want me to be free.
Once upon a time they would ride at night costumed
by white sheets.
Now they come out in broad daylight disguised as respectful members of society, judges doctors and police.
They kidnapped me from my mother, yet they claim they are afraid.
Afraid of what?
Are they afraid that the oppressed minority
will realize their superiority and crush the captor’s authority.
They are afraid because of their own inferiority.
They are afraid of change.
I learned about my mother, she isn’t the savage they portrayed her to be.
She is queen mother of mothers.
Wisdom, riches and beauty flows through her.
I know who I am, I know where I came from.
I was kidnapped from my mother, I never had the chance to know her but
one day I’m going to meet my mother.
Her name is Africa
My Dear Son
By Mokah-Jasmine Johnson
My dear son
As a mother, I live in fear many days because people don’t see what I see.
I see a handsome, smart, strong young black man who can be anything he wants to be.
I know sometimes it’s hard for you to believe because in this society you are not treated
equally.
Some ladies may cross the street, clutch their purses,
lock their doors when they see you coming their way.
White men may call you a thug, so quick to judge
And the police might approach you merely because of your appearance,
They may shoot first and ask questions later
And I know, under those circumstances,
it’s difficult for you to see your greatness.
I know all this hatred has led you to believe
that you can gain more love and respect from your homies but I need you to see this system
wants you to live a watered-down version of the American Dream (M.O.B.);
ending with death or a life behind bars.
Gang violence, police brutality, mass incarceration has become the norm.
My dear son
God has given you a unique gift, so don’t limit your potential.
Don’t fall victim to stereotypical perceptions.
You are a handsome, smart, strong young black man
You can be anything you want to be.
And it’s time to claim your throne.
I Need To See You
By Renee McDade
As a poet, creative, and agent of change, I need to see you.
And feel the air you breathe,
I need to see you and be impacted by your gifted renderings
Oh what your greatness could bring if you only knew
Allow yourself to be seen and show us what you do.
I need to see you as you believe in yourself, rise, and be not afraid.
Quit fearing whether you will get it wrong or right
It is not serving you to sing background for the rest of your life
When you were born to be in the spotlight.
Many of us need to see you,
Such as the pre-appointed fans, born to be a part of your journey
Because no one can do what you do the way you do it.
Can we please see YOU?
Dollar And Some Change
By Dedric Knowles
Loyalty sways like the wind,
Seize the ceiling for dollars and fans,
Draft picks,
But I see every investment,
The strain of trynna pretend I can’t see you’re estranged, trade man for collars
While praising your numb brain before we can ask where your back bone and chest went, are you feeling?
For every manner and lesson in etiquette,
There’s seeds of self loathing in your rhetoric and a siege on our hollering needs,
Are you restin’?
Even motionless and at peace at risk of revision and upheaval,
The devil’s reprise peeks through your achievement,
I see sixes in every rainbow, deliver me from this evil,
And love me just because, we’ve been grievin’,
The toes stepped on that become fallen foot soldiers
And the version of me that dies with it,
Just for you to be told I’m an angel,
knowing we’re forever clawing at the soil and meeting hell,
Primes always built for efficient shipping,
Greeting sails and hoping for prophets,
Are you reeling?
The perversion of the skies limits,
With a God that would sink this raft quick before you blow me away,
Are you healing?
If I’m always my best when you have to throw me away.
But oh the freedom I feel underground,
Trying to make change with a friend.
I was always rich,
So I don’t have to ask if you are stealing.
Georgia Peach
By Ce’toura Neal
Magnolia, maple, pine and pecan be my kin,
My dearest ancestors blood shed on their skin.
Roots run as deep as sequoias you see
Ms. Simone reiterates our bitter sweet history.
Aside from struggle and strife
Adjacent to strength and life
After all the rain and sunny days, I’m wisdom ripe.
Call me hand picked, chosen one, perfect plight.
Fight or Flight
By Squallé
We own the right to fight or flight,
In logic, it is a basic human right.
Given that it’s an inevitable choice we all have to make at some point in life,
How’d we get to this point I ponder
Where even in flight we are still fighting life?
And fighting hype,
Not to mention the Societal, cultural stereotypes,
And fighting the urge to flight away from becoming fallen soldiers who have sleepless nights.
In the streets tho…
Flighting,
Could add up to a less inviting price,
A price that is paid with the expense of life,
Aside from that fighting,
Could also ultimately result in losing your life.
So what is the stigma when you have no choice and no voice, just the option to fight or flight?
Fight to live Or
Flight for the chance to fight again,
Regardless of the choice for US it seems there isn’t a choice for it to end!
Being Stuck in between a rock and hard place,
Between hell and a dark place,
Between fighting to be free from fighting
Being black in a world that we are fighting to be seen in
My Skin on display everyday I am robbed with the choice of hiding.
So I wonder…?
When born into a life where 90% of it you’ll be fighting for your place,
do we ever even earn God’s grace?
Fall Time Calls
By Tasia Williams
In the garden, flowers disintegrate
A calm scent calms the room
When every petal fall, Fall time calls
Nature’s canvas
So pure and delight
We stroll up and down the hills
Hand in hand
Memory making
Together we’ll find our way
When fall time calls
MUTHA
By Celest Ngeve King
She wore rubies
And danced to music
Only she could hear
And smiled bright like
Sunshine with a light blue sky canvas
And when she spoke
It seemed like dandelions
Were blossoming for the first time
In spring
Her hips were powerful
And wide enough to have
Given birth to humanity
And her tone made you rise up
Put your right fist up
And speak of revolution
Because she embodied
BLACK
Women standing on the front line
BLACK
Artists, physicians and healers
Saving lives just in time
BLACK
Owned book stores with open mics at night
BLACK
Entrepreneurs leaping over buildings with
Dirty politics and secrets kept air tight
BLACK
WOMAN
Wore yellow when everyone wore gray
And she made you notice
That even with all the lies they told
Her truth would stand tall on the lightest day
See, she wore rubies
And danced majestically to music
Only she could hear
Made people pause in their tracks
To watch her move… imperial highness
In person, blessing onlookers
With her magic and
They were mesmerized
She owned her power like
BLACK grandmamas & mamas’ recipes
No measurements needed
Yet elaborately creating
Dishes like the ingredients
Came directly from Heaven
This astonishing BLACK WOMAN
Sought no asylum
Because she was stolen
And taken though her soul & mind
Were consistently in tact
This is why she never
Raised her voice nor plead
When the enemy had her under attack
She stood tall and kept dancing
Making even her opponents get back
Because they couldn’t control her
With their divisive tactics
No…
Because she wore rubies
And danced majestically to music
Only she could hear
And without trying she made
The universe shift from neutral pallets
To bold bright beams of color
Because she reminded every
Woman, man & baby
That she was love manifested
And home to the homeless
And hope to those that dared to dream
She elevated the atmosphere
By unapologetically practicing
Self-love, Self-care, Self-acceptance
And not one did this miraculous being
Seek a permit
She just did it.
Hush
By Zipporah Reeds
[Shut up]
The slap to the mouth did not shut the little one down from speaking colors.
It was the voice of grey matter that the blow birthed. The voice of a hunter. Predator.
Colors and life living in the mouth now secretly hiding within silence
Illegal on the tongue. Illegal on the lips. Illegal to the ears. Prohibited from the page.
An abomination to the divine, so the voice says.
[For Now On]
The Catcher and his dogs caught the mere utterance and threw them down the pit
Screaming, crying, clawing at the walls, they plummeted down to never be surely said again.
“Swallowed to the pits they go,” Chimed the Catcher. The grey matter.
Crowding in the throat. Where grey matter told all bold and even meek sentiments to go.
In the pits may be where they belong.
[Big]
With the little black one growing big, there has been more to swallow.
The stomach has grown big, the chest becomes heavy, the head sulks low, and the throat
burns with thoughts of many moments. Big or small, they are all adding up and pleading
to be known. To be heard is not necessary, but to be seen is everything.
Speak with the eyes, scream with fists, and cry with the departure of legs. Grey matter’s words.
[The Obstacle]
A very talkative being it is. Running miles around its dome but never going past the lips.
Running forever and always, only resting when desperately needed.
A real beast it is. A real killer. It shut up the child that could speak colors, and now the
baby hasn’t been able to speak since. The hollowed voice trapped behind teeth
Guarded by anxiety? Rejection? Snickers and glowing eyes cutting their way.
[Hi]
The little big black one gets permission to fantasize about what it would be like to have a throat
that did not burn and a mind that only policed its impulses. They wondered who they could
reach
if they allowed their words to breach. In the fantasy, colorful words can be seen breaking out at
full speed, indiscriminately hurling, twirling, and spiraling at any receiver.
There are some in their audience they want to knock out, amaze, and draw tears from.
[Obedience]
The little big black one has suddenly become the little big black old one. Silver strands peep
through their bun, and their glossy eyes gleamed with a mouthful of lessons ready to be shared
with those willing to listen. Their teeth are withered down to the gums, granting the surviving
lyrics a view of the space it never ever rang in before.
However, generations of words have been trained to stay put.
[Wither]
The big little old black one has eons of life swelling within their neck. The pit has grown full, and
decades of poor, lost ideas are about to spill out.
The big little old black one’s words have never existed within their heaviest potential.
Nothing uttered will ever have the chance to burrow deep into someone else’s chest.
All proof of essence has withered away within their throat into dust and soon into the dirt.
[Last Words]
With the grey matter deteriorated over time, the voice of colors can screech its last breath.
If only it would overcome training. Surrounding listeners yearned for the voice rumored to speak
colors. Again, the glossy eyes bounced, but the lips remained sealed. Surely they can not
expect their beloved listeners to receive words holding more weight than the ocean through
saggy eyelids. Those outlets do not last forever. We have run out of time.
[It’s Just Not Worth The Pain]
Do not swallow your voice. It is too coarse. You will choke.
You will suffocate and shut down. Unattainable to anyone but the grey matter.
Speak colors and speak life into the air you breathe so it will taste like honey
and not burn your throat to the point of meekness.
Although the meek may inherit the world…
[Rainbow]
What are the colors of my dreams, hopes, and wishes?
My dreams are pastel
My hopes are bright. Maybe neon
My wishes are bold, primary colors
Speak your colors. Do not swallow them. Don’t let them shut you up.
By William Wright
Poetry as brings out as the best
Of words as to phrases as to the heart
It as breathes as into the soul
Giveth the positive light as well
As to the energy as in the realm
Of sympathy as amassed in the correlation
As to stimulation as to the inner mind
Pouring as in vain as treasure as
In the memory banks as to the
Shear ranks as to the confidence
Inward the plight as to the sight
Of the art as to the literature that
As soars to the length above the
Mark as stems as the dream of stardom.
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