Black Lives Inspirationals – Poetry

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Introduction:

I felt inclined this month of October to commemorate and pay homage to the enduring, persevering and often Christ-filled  race of people called “black” who reside all over the world and have a rich redemptive history in the face of great adversity.

This inclination was not consciously enacted because in the U.K. where I reside October (this month in which I wrote them) is Black History month, however I am glad it coincidences with Black History Month.

I have written four poems, I place under the specific category of writings called   “Black lives inspirationals” one is personal or autobiographical and entitled “The Me I Know” click here to read.

The other three are below:

(I) Blacks

(II) Black is not

(III) He Never Left His Own

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(I) Blacks

Blacks, a people of relevance and durability through centuries
of difficulty. A people stretched in their faith in self, in man and
God befitting a yearly award for the race most malleable,
but not gullible, the race most disrespected but  introspective.

Inspecting within for a speck of light in a world that works to
extinguish the equality flame for reasons that are insane and lame.

Blacks, a race with a civilisation that’s rich in Africa and across
the seas in lands of settlement and captivity.
A  people of my motherland, stolen, beaten, lynched and fed to
alligators across the seas with a brokenness and wounds many
choose not to see, as those of the Messiah who hang on a tree.

Blacks, gifted with a creative flow and it shows as they are
pioneers and birthers among the greats and ministers to their
God who for generations has cradled them in their messianic
battered realms.

I pay homage to blacks, a people with hope and aspirations as
any race, but with more tears and toil to become accepted members
of the human race.
©Deborah E. Nyamekye 10/10/2016

(II)  Black is not.

Black is not slack,
or equal to muck,
nor confined to a life
of lack in a status quo
that’s a dead end track.
Black is not.

©Deborah E. Nyamekye 10/10/2016

(III) He Never Left His Own

A broken form as a dark shadow walks in broad daylight
but sees it as night.
Hardened by traumas of repeated taunts
and lies he is as a black board sprawled with painful words.

Words like daggers embedded in his dejected form hurled
in generations past that scream from ancient gates
“inferior!” “useless!”.

The blood drenched wiper of ordinances against a people
enslaved never left.
He came with vengeance, settling
forever amid tears and chants of the blues in homes as prisons
in a strange land.

By his blood and the power of his might he blots out iniquities,
curses, the power of words that sting.
Every wipe is a swipe at
death, that says “where is your sting?” so that the once dejected
now healed people can sing a new song to Christ the King.
©Deborah E. Nyamekye 9/10/2016

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