Tears of Rage

I have cried in rage, remembering the age

when a black man’s every bone was legally owned – by white men.

Taken for greed across the sea to grow sugarcane, tobacco and cotton –

the weak and diseased tossed into the sea –

they built a trade so inhuman and rotten.

Supported and justified by profit,

their buyers, their suppliers, their prophets,

and their pure white God smiled on their plantations,

gave them slaves, for unholy trade.

The legacy of such abominations seen to this day:

colour blinded goodness that still devalues,

kneel down integration,

bleached education,

Ruby Bridges lost among white determined virtues.

Blackened panthers slain for blackness,

carnival ghettos running red,

“Seize the Time” Bobby said.

So we did.

And we sung the blues for brave Fred. Shot dead. In his bed.

And Jimi, Bob and Fela sang their blues; now they too are dead.

And yet their voices ring afire,

and still they sing with Zephania,

“I am a revolutionary.” And I cry for Biko and brothers.

I cried out so much fury for Malcolm and all the others.

I continue to cry and think.

Every April I cry for MLK and think.

I hope my tears assuage,

though I fear I may as well drink these tears of rage.