Friday, April 24, 2026

April Is National Poetry Month! 


JUSTICE AND JIVE

(A History Poem of American Justice)

Attribution: CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT ARCHIVE



MARGARET BLOCK

POET X CIVIL RIGHTS ACTIVIST X FORMER MEMBER OF SNCC




Justice wasn't in America's plan when they took away the Indian Nation's land,
Like the Arapahoe, the Apache, the Cherokee, the Choctaw, the Navajo and many more.
Was it a just plan when you banished them to an isolated land
And infected them with smallpox and hives, you just knew that they wouldn't survive
These injustices can never be justified,
You call it Justice, but it's just another word for Jive.
Where was Justice when slavery abounded,
Perhaps she was helping Old Master keep Swobo's nose to the ground.
They took away his children, his culture, his language and his identity
but they could not take his dignity.
Madame Justice, you can't hide, we charge you with genocide.
You call it Justice but it's just another word for Jive.
Justice was nowhere around when all of the lynchings were going down.
The Klan strung us up and didn't try to hide
Because they knew that Justice wasn't on our side,
When Billie Holliday sang "Strange Fruit," she was singing about dead bodies hanging from a poplar tree.
She could have been singing about you or me.
She knew that justice would never preside,
You call it Justice but Billie called it Jive.
Justice comes with a dollar sign although justice is supposed to be blind.
I can't buy Justice and pay my rent. I make minimum wage with no benefits.
It seems to me that Justice is only for the rich.
If you don't have money Justice will be denied.
You call it Justice but it's just another word for Jive.
If Justice is really color blind then why are so many black and brown brothers doing time?
You lock them up on some homemade facts but that was always your plan of attack.
Langston Hughes once said that justice is a blind goddess to whom we blacks are wise,
Her bandage covers two festering sores that once perhaps were eyes.
You call it Justice but Langston called it Jive.
Madame Justice must be really tired.
She's permitting the cops to do black profiles,
they watch us and stop us for no good reason.
We feel like sitting ducks during hunting season.
It's about time for Justice to be on our side.
You call it Justice, but it's just another word for Jive.
Mr. President, if Justice was really intact, then why did you create the Patriot Act?
Your homeland security is an injustice in disguise
but Mr. Bush, unlike Justice, we're not blind. We all have eyes.
You call it justice but it's just another word for Jive.
Now Mrs. Bush, Justice had to have been deaf, mute and blind
when you helped create No Child Left Behind.
You're setting children up for a great big fall.
Mrs. Bush, an injustice to one is an injustice to all.
Justice should be on the children's side.
You call it Justice, but even the children know it's Jive.
Where was Justice when Katrina went down?
Perhaps she was hiding out with the FEMA director, that incompetent Michael Brown.
The people at the Superdome sent up a prayer in hopes that FEMA
would soon be there but Bush and Brown really didn't care.
They wished that they all had just floated away while they plotted and
lied and created an inexcusable delay, but someone once said that
Justice delayed is Justice denied.
You call it Justice, but we can all recognize Jive.

Read more about Civil Rights History and Poems @ CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT ARCHIVE

Thursday, April 23, 2026

April Is National Poetry Month! 


RIGHT ON: WHITE AMERICA

 

SONIA SANCHEZ 

ICONIC POET OF THE BLACK ARTS MOVEMENT X WRITER X 

ESSAYIST PROFESSOR X PLAYWRIGHT



this country might have been a pio

neer land

once.

but. there ain’t

no mo

indians blowing

custer’s mind

with a different

image of america.

this country

might have

needed shoot/

outs/ daily/

once.

but. there ain’t

no mo real/ white allamerican

bad/guys.

just.

u & me

blk/ and un/armed.

this country might have been a

pio

neer land once.

and it still is.

check out

the falling

gun/shell on our blk/ tomorrows.  


Wednesday, April 22, 2026

April Is National Poetry Month! 


AMERICUS, GEORGIA IN SIXTY THREE

PUBLISHED in 1975


LULU WESTBROOK GRIFFIN 

ONE OF 32 GIRLS LOCKED AWAY IN 1963 IN AN OLD 

CIVIL WAR STOCKADE FOR PROTESTING SEGREGATION IN 

HER HOMETOWN OF AMERICUS, GEORGIA.


CIVIL RIGHTS ACTIVIST SPEAKER X POET

Attribution: CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT ARCHIVE




Americus, Georgia in sixty three
There were obvious signs of bigotry,
Laws of Segregation were everywhere
White Supremacist Groups did not care.

The hatred they had for People of colour
Was blantant and vicious,
Toward my little sisters and brothers.

There were perpetrators, spectators,
Instigators, violators, Vigilantes, Agitators,
KKKS and NEGRO haters.

We marched with our Placards
And sang The FREEDOM Songs,
We were beaten and jailed
while making History at home.

Many fought for their freedom
to change the JIM CROW LAWS,
Now AMERICUS has signs of "LIBERTY"
And no more Segregated walls.


Read more about Civil Rights History and Poems @ CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT ARCHIVE


Tuesday, April 21, 2026

April Is National Poetry Month! 


AMERICA BLEEDS

FIRST APPEARED IN "MOTIVE MAGAZINE."

 

ANGELO LEWIS 

POET



it does, it does, i have seen it

bleeding brothers & sisters, 

i have seen it, i have seen it,

come rushing, walk crippled,

fall flatly on tears of sad streets

where creatures fall onward with

cold eyes over them, armies on

streets over them, police on

pavements over them, tear gas

in faces over them, fires &

minds, living dreams living,

all of them innocents, yes,

yes, i have seen it, it bleeds,

it bleeds, have seen it bleed,

spill blood at my brothers,

cough no at our dignity,

i tell you, i tell you, we must,

kick on this monster, till it

dies, till it dies, dies, dies,

dies, dies, lies in the dirt

with its blood & its sickness,

head fall rolling in gutter,

red, white, & blue, flow freely,

flow freely, move over, fall down,

down, down, be finished at

last.


Monday, April 20, 2026

April Is National Poetry Month! 


ARSON AND COLD LACE

(or how i yearn to burn baby burn)

"ARSON AND COLD LACE," FIRST APPEARED IN "UMBRA."


WORTH LONG

POET FORMER STAFF COORDINATOR OF SNCC




We have found you out

Falsed face America

We have found you out

We have found you out

False farmers

We have found you out

The sparks of suspicion

Are melting your waters

and water can’t drown them

These fires a-burning

and firemen can’t calm them

With falsely appeasing

and preachers can’t pray

with hopes for deceiving

Nor leaders deliver

A lecture on losing

Nor teachers inform them

The chosen are choosing

For now is the fire

And fires won’t answer

To logic and listening

and hopefully seeming

Hot flames must devour

The kneeling and fleeing

and torture the masters

Whose idiot pleading

Gits lost in the echoes

Of dancing and bleeding

We have found you out

False farmers

We have found you out

We have found you out

False faced America

We have found you out

Sunday, April 19, 2026

 April Is National Poetry Month! 


AMERICA 

APPEARED IN "AN ANTHOLOGY OF MODERN POEMS BY BLACK 

AMERICANS."


BOBB HAMILTON

POET X SCULPTOR X EDITOR




America

Is a fairyland fraud

Where democracy is pronounced

Dippty-Do

Ten Times on a T.V. commercial -----

insulting my

Black mother,

My black sister

My black wife,

My black self.


Saturday, April 18, 2026

April Is National Poetry Month! 


I WANT TO HEAR AN AMERICAN POEM

DEF JAM POETRY EDITION


RAS BARAKA

POET X AUTHOR X EDUCATOR X SOCIAL ACTIVIST X POLITICAN 

MAYOR OF NEWARK





Are there any American poets in here?

I wanna hear an American poem
Something American
South Carolina slave shouter
Alabama backwoods church shack call and response

I wanna hear an American poem
An American poem about
Share croppers on the side of the road
Of families in cardboard boxes
Not about kings or majestic lands
Or how beautiful ugly can be

I wanna hear some American Poetry
About projects
And lead poison
And poverty
And children in jail

I wanna hear a poem about a picket line
In a Joe Hill legend
Struggle for an 8 hour day
Hey you
Hey you
Where are all the American poems
About Harlem number runners
And barbershop conversations about
Colored faces on colored TVS

I wanna hear an American poem
Something American
As American as jazz
Or a South Bronx burner brandished on abandoned buildings
A scratch tune
A breakbeat
A backspin
A beatboxer
A rap song
In congo square
Niggas beating on buckets on broad street
As American as the Zulu Nation
And Latin Kings

I wanna hear an American poem
About a dead girl on Chadwick Avenue
With a bullet in her neck
From a cop doing his job
Ordered by Fascism
And crack cocaine

You know
Something made in the USA
Something American
And Afro-Cuban
New Yorican
Latin tinge
Beaten boom by and playna
Spiralling out of the wide open tenement windows
In the middle of winter
On the verge of East Harlem or North Newark
Palms of brown colonies
Of Albizu being tortured for breathing TaĆ­no blood
Screaming African tongues
Dialoguing in Spanish for being him
Puerto Rican self, and
Worst of all
Loving it

My God where is all the American poetry
Just death marches
And stoic laughter
Niggas being funny
No more American poets
No I won't boost your morale
Or play your songs
Or make you feel comfortable
Or build your ego
Or Play my part

I just wanna hear an American poem
Something native
Like Trail of Tears
Wounded Knee
Like smallpox
And blankets

You know, American
Something that represents us
A colored rainbow
A big bright fist
An uncorrected sentence
Improper English

As American as COINTELPRO
As Peekskill, New York
As Robeson singing out the back of his truck
Like Nina Simone playing at the Village Gate
With Baldwin next to her on a piano stool
And Amiri and Amina Baraka in the audience
Air filled with Cognac
And Mississippi goddamn
Capture that moment!
Write Something about that

An American masterpiece
You know
An American poem
Something, strictly American
Like Red Summer
Strange fruit
pomarades

Hey you! Yeah you! Yeah you!
You, you!
Something American!
USA! America!
USA! America!
USA!
As American as the KKK

A poem about Emmett Till will do
The Tallahatchie River
Church bombings
Or child murders
About Alabama red dirt
And boycotts in Montgomery
About families migrating North
With dignity and shotguns

I wanna hear a poem,
A poem about a beautiful black boy
Can't you see him?
A beautiful black boy colored into the night
His eyes, the stars, his hands, our will
About a beautiful black boy in the middle of a project
Playing checkers with glass and stones
Who beat buckets or drums
And play the horn in his sleep

I wanna hear a poem
A poem about a beautiful brown girl
An incredibly beautiful brown girl
With an age, mahogany, smile, and
Flower pedals for her lips
And a beautiful brown girl with a poem in her eyes
A poem in her eyes
And a gun in her hand
Sitting in a puddle of tears
In Clinton’s women's facility
In the garden state
In the land of the free

You know something American
Something that represents me