Almost lost in the frenzy of what we call the modern world
Is by far one of the finer specimens, 'the black man'
He is robed in the tapestry of his history,
A legacy that has been bought with blood, sweat and tears,
With determination, uncanny smarts and and his natural ability to lead.
Crafted from the finest clays of Sierra Leone, with skin bronzed by the sun and stained with sweat.
The black man with his noted body, and admired looks
His smile of white and lips as luscious and inviting as the ripened fruit
His smell of strength and looks of resilience as he casts an eye over his own.
The black man with his intelligence who is as gentle as a lamb
And as ferocious as a Lion on the prowl, stooping low and ready to pounce.
And yet we fear, for we see our black men becoming more a rarity than the natural leaders they were meant to be.
The more mondaine and trivial things of life have captured his attention
And he is fast becoming a thing of only stories and history, almost a mystery,
The stories of Cudjoe and Coffy are turning into simple fairytales,
Unreal representations of the balck man,
That which we see today cannot be this same specimen, of the fine black man of whom we've read.
Where has he gone, where is the fine black man?
He is hidden in the shadows of what is an intoxicating, suffocating and paralyzing world
A world that lurks in the distance, waiting for the very opportune time to consume him,
Consume him with thoughts of inferiority and of failure and present a picture of less than who he is.
He is hidden in the young boy who is too afraid to be great for fear of rejection,
Too afraid to stand against the stereotypes presented by a society who almost waits for him to fail,
And then we ask, 'where have our black men gone? '
Black men are of special quality, an exotic breed,
They are fathers, providers, judges, lawyers, teachers and doctors.
They are the first representation of a god to a child, who sees in her daddies eyes
The immeasureable quanties of love that he has for her.
He is protector of the realm in which his son dweals, he is the final hero,
And still to his mate he is lover, romancer and friend.
He is the black man that is willing to jump through hoops of fire in a lions den
Dodge Chinese assassins hurling 8 point stars at him just to know
That the ones he loves are always safe, are always protected.
He fights for what is right, he fights until there is no more fight left in him.
He speaks and all else is silenced, quieted by the very power of his voice,
He speaks and each sound wave tells that story of power,
Never of fear but he commands attention and draws the audience to whom he speaks.
The black man is intelligence embodied, untapped springs of ideas,
He is a wealth of knowledge and yet he is becoming so uncommon.
Don't let our black men become extinct, they are indeed special,
Teach them of their history, teach them that they were made for greatness,
Teach them that to fear and to love and to make mistakes is to live.
Let them know of the threads that made the weaves of their incredible history.
Let them know that they are to be feared but for all the right reasons.
Black man speak and command respect, rather than creating that respect with fear,
Live to learn and learn to live creating new opportunites with each day.
Take up the mantle that you were given to be our leaders, defenders, lovers, friends
Our judges and our patriarchs, be the men that we see in you,
And speak with the intelligence and authority with which you were born.
Step out of the stereotypes created, and live outside their expectations, outside the four corners of their box
Give them not what they expect, but who you are, who you were meant to be,
Greatness embodied, intelligence personified! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
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Comments about this poem (Black Man by Lauricia Henry )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(9 November 1928 – 4 October 1974)
(15 April 1931)
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- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
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- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
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