a poem about the resilience of black people

Sound of the African Spirit

Ain’t I a woman?

I am a Man.

I am the greatest.

Black is beautiful.

Fists in the air,

Natural hair,

Nothing to hide,

Glowing with pride.

They can’t block

The twinkling light

Of a God-made Star

At home in the night.

Pleasant dreams, little Queen,

Little King,

Little Spirit Beings in between,

Tomorrow you rise,

Day after,

You rise.

Like a Violet –

African, of course –

Broken leaves,

Placed in cool water,


Always rise,

Sprout a little,

Teeny, tiny vines,

Tiny mouths

That shout –

Our Lives Still Matter.

Keep shouting, little ones.

That whisper they fear?

Means they’re starting to hear.


Stay close to Stem,

Dear ones,

This isn’t for them.

African Violet’s

Outer leaves

Wither and die when separate.

Hang tight.


Through those roots

Shimmy and move

The ancient drum beats from

A Darker Soil.

It’s for them that we speak,

Their bloodied toil

Will never cease

To sing

Through our cries,

As songs so sweet,

As the air we breathe.

With fists in the air

And natural hair,

Flowers replanted,

No worse for wear.

Special flowers

Who refuse to die,

No matter what they do.

Keep growing, little Sprouts,

We did this all for you.


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