| Omosun Sylvester Urdeen |
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| Sudan Situation |
(Watching Sudan and other African crisis on TV) Behold the sorry sight of children Of dark circles beneath a child eye Illuminated the secrets buried deep The curses that hunts the African plains A photograph revered and admired That told the reviewers the sources of pain A black mother embracing herself Stare hopelessly at her dead son in a feast of flies The tragedy the shame and the pain and abuse Reviewed as scenes in pictured form of arts Watching the world comments on CNN The deaf poet never had time to sleep It still needed to be made simpler And am telling about the doom again Re composing the decorative media schemes Of a shamefaced heritage in artistic abandon The depressing posture of staged scenes Is truly what the Bible says life is all about? But putting them so movie like on stages Such pitiful imaginary killing inch by inch Funny to think I was the freedman crying for freedom While the brotherhood shows what a shame we dreamed The echoing reality sinking lowly with a continent Veiled the cries of dissidence against my doubt in review From time to time I watch things my fathers could have watched The hardship and abuse and shame The endless plagues of ethics strife Handed down from generation to generation Here accepting a mothers breast A child tried to squeeze an ounce of milk A taste of my own tear falling on my lip With the scenes of every kind Shaping images the media stole my heart Pictures capturing things I cannot deny The black man's shame in each secret place Stinks worse than Noah's ark The scenes of shames I refuse to see Accusing me of deceit against the media The anguished act of torment swelled up tears Calling me a racist against the foreign press Well to be honest I am, in all moment beheld Hoping to capture in my poetry a merciless licking The sound of a house nigger in captured days Unlike me I never fail to do my chores Was it my uselessness that provided legal justification? Or was it the shame that attracted the press Like the hordes of flies in a feast of lust On us the focus of a staged representing I laugh to think of it, I laugh to think of them To think of what the brotherhood in America could think Huddled in typical nigger fashion the past to deride They could jump ten feet in the air and thank God for the slave merchant |
| THE SLAVE MERCHANTS |
| THE STORY WITHIN |
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There was a little black girl Who never asked to ever been born But as fate could have it She was born the perfect masterpiece Put her there in the delicate chair Arrrrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh This is genocide said an attach� Don't wipe it don't weep it Leave the puss clinging to that eye Yes we need to capture it We need the first prize for BBC CNN and CO Photo competitions and captioned news Uh! Oh! Wait a while Put her among the dead niggers And make her look the child who never wished to be born Is her painful countenance visibly evident? Can you see it as you watch her on television? Oh! Uh! Such pitiful beauty found only in dreams Can you, can you? A tear that cling to the child lid Seems to try to write The story of that I am trying to stop Things I knew from a black-poet-induced visions Killing me softly in line with my thoughts Yet I am nothing but a pen and ink and an empty mind A voice from a Nigerian village tribe |
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If you think I am wrong try to give me a yahoo Critique me [email protected] my in box is big enough |
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