Africa

 

Must I be…

the color of mocha
-- for my heart to ache?
a Superb Starling
-- to sing your song?
or come from your beloved land
-- to cry along?

I have the color that God gave me
-- but with the same soul…
-- I ache.

I am a different type of bird
-- but with the same melody…
-- I sing.

I am a foreign eye
-- but with the same tears…
-- I cry.

Must I be…
…anything, but me?

For you…
to ache…
to sing…
to cry…

Along…

For my love…

…to just belong?

With you.

 

Proud foreigner

 

They call me: “A foreigner,”

In the land of free,

I am their hardest worker,

but they look down upon me.

 

I have build this country

day by day,

--- Stone by stone,

      in the end---

--- to the curb

     I am thrown.

 

This little foreign me,

is a big part of your success,

this under-appreciated me,

dreams the freedom you possess.

 

No, I cannot vote,

no, I cannot speak,

but I have two gifted hands,

and a voice with a peak.

 

You can say, I am “A foreigner.”

I admit, it is a fact,

but I am a proud human,

and I deserve respect.

 

Blu

 

I am white

You see me blu

I see you white

 so do you.

 

I feel white

although my blood is blu

you say your blood is red

but I think

you believe it’s white.

Don’t you?

 

You hand me a business card

brag with what you do.

When you ask my whereabouts

I don’t brag,

I just tell you.

Then you give me that look

And smile.

Phony.

My speech confuses you.

 

Walk away from me

Damned…ignorant…comatose

You.

I am sapphire – blu.

With a heart

Whiter than you.

 

Inattentive.

You.

Filthy-blu.

Substanceless-Blu.

 

CHILD OF HAITI 

 

Monsignor,

I am poor…

…illiterate Haitian child

One you fail to see --

beyond the blackness of me.

 

My eyes are charcoal black,

but like yours; they too, cry

for all you have done

And -- still try.

 

Monsignor,

Did you hear my story

on that Sunday

before the Ash Wednesday

while you celebrated in Kanaval

as I watched, the hut I call home

smolder

and ashes rise above Pic La Selle?

 

Monsignor,

from the world’s first black republic,  I come

I am no beast,

but human; your black chum

Please, please -- don’t treat me dumb

I know the difference

between the right and wrong.

 

You persuade me

to trade my ocean Labadie

for few bread crumbs

while my bluest calm Atlantic

becomes

party to your Marine discard

as I stand guard

-- scarred.

 

Monsignor,

You are my witness

of my stillborn brothers

and sisters.

You know as well as I do

this atrocious voodoo

only you

-- can undue.

 

You export my sweat

Import my dread

You force me to excavate my lands

Until I bury myself

-- with bare hands.

 

Cant’ you hear Monsignor,

the black winged warbler

as his song slowly dies

along with the melodious symphony

it used to orchestrate our skies?

 

Can’t you smell Monsignor,

the carcass of my week old shot   brother --

the stench of my scorched mother --

the bullet smoke from the automatic machine --

Do you even bother?

For I am your sport –

-- and amusing routine.

 

Monsignor,

have you decided to keep me

Out of sight – out of mind

like those before us in Auschwitz --

Armenian Massacres --

Crime after crime…

Genocide --

-- then holocaust

until your sport you exhaust.

 

Monsignor,

Listen to me!

Please, don’t oppress me…

Teach me…

See me…

I am human, your chum…

Just poor --

-- and black

only literacy I lack.

 

Monsignor,

hear my plea

open you eyes

and see --

-- beyond the blackness of me.