History Poems

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
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The night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.
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One heavy day I ran away from the grim face of society and the dizzying clamor of the city and directed my weary step to the spacious alley. I pursued the beckoning course of the rivulet and the musical sounds of the birds until I reached a lonely spot where the flowing branches of the trees prevented the sun from the touching the earth.

I stood there, and it was entertaining to my soul - my thirsty soul who had seen naught but the mirage of life instead of its sweetness.
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I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very
own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops
down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
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'My teacher wasn't half as nice as yours seems to be.
His name was Mister Unsworth and he taught us history.
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I said unto myself, if I were dead,
What would befall these children? What would be
Their fate, who now are looking up to me
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Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that gray vault. The sea. The sea
has locked them up. The sea is History.
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i am accused of tending to the past
as if i made it,
as if i sculpted it
with my own hands. i did not.
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Density of the room
Filled with gloom
Ahead, nothing emerges
The four walls
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History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
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The Greek word is Historia…we call it history…it's the seeking of knowledge and the knowledge gained from that inquiry.

It has been mostly men who have transcribed history…as a general rule…which has allowed their version of history to be the one we learn in school.
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The Poet will publish my poem, "My Mother's History" in an upcoming anthology on Cultural Identity. My ethnic background is a bit complicated. Depending upon how I look at it, I have 18 to 20 nationalities in my tangled family DNA.

From my father's side of the family, I inherited a German family name, Scandinavian blue eyes, with ancestors coming from France, Germany, Finland, Denmark, Lapland, Norway, Netherlands, Russia, Sweden, Ukraine, and somehow the Basque region. I also have some Jewish ancestry and a trace of Mongolian ancestry as do most people of Eastern European background. And my DNA test also claims that there is some Italian ancestry somewhere and perhaps Spanish ancestry.
From my mother's side of the family, I am part Scot, part Irish, part French, part Dutch, part Cherokee and part Nigerian. Since she was part of the lost tribe of the Cherokee Indians, her story is particularly complicated as her ancestors fled before being enrolled in a tribe and lived in the Ozarks intermarrying with other Indian tribes, Scot and Irish settlers, and escaped slaves. In any event, there are so few people in her ethnic group -perhaps 25,000 that they don't show in DNA tests. Since her parents show Cherokee that means I am anywhere from 1/8 to 1/8 Cherokee. I met my uncle once and he looked Cherokee to me.
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Latest Poems (My WhatsApp Poems & Others)
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The history of time I could never know it.
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Some poets question my philosophy.
I'm a poet with thinking skills.
They ask me, "What do you mean from this? "
Let me explain.
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Some poets question my philosophy.
I'm a poet with thinking skills.
They ask me, "What do you mean from this? "
Let me explain.
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"I don't want history."
I'm afraid you're mistaken.

There's "history" for internet.
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Everyday mews after sometime becomes a history;
Even some functions create history to remember;
Incidences happening in the world are history;
In the same way can Nature also create history?
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Now Look to the Left and Look to the right you've realized you've reached your full poetic potential that is out of sight.

Now Look to the left and Look to the right everyone noticed that it's my mind conscious that matters tonight as I write.
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…What an abandoned brave bequest! ! !
The oozing mighty cry of Soweto uprising-
The 1976'sof Mbuyisa Makhubouproar courage -
The June 16 of Antoinette Sithole stand as ferments -
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