CROWS IN SNOW
Crows soaring over a snowfield.
Their wings black as night.
The fields blinding white, like the sun stood constant
And suppressed the night.
The trees grow from the earth
And grow like ivy’s vines;
Catching the crooks of the crow’s feet,
Heaving the weight above its head,
And stopping it from soaring any higher.
Baby crows caught in flightless flight.
Taken down before their feet leaves the ground.
Their aspirations are like ghosts of passing dreams,
Dead before their fruition.
The snow storms cause hurt.
Hang them like scarecrows.
The sky reflects the pain near the virgin Virgo,
And snow falls once again to bide the crows.
Black bird on water again.
It searches for a flock of the same feather,
But food is scarce,
So it succumbs to the turmoil of the weather.
It eats its own,
Swallows its own,
And drowns its own.
The snow is stained red,
But more falls and covers it like a shed.
Crows under the snowfield.
Silenced of their troubles.
I am the dark fruit, but I shall not be a strange fruit. Lynched upon a stake, crucified, demoralised.
I do not need the colours from your sight to be gone. Monochromacy, hypocrisy.
I do not wish you to go, “oh, I am green. I wish to help those who are blue. Raise them and elevate them to my hue”
Lighter, paler, skin of the degrader.
Mother’s skin lighter than mine. Yet the great providence eye states that when she looks in the mirror, she’ll sigh and have a great rot inside.
So no, I do want you to be colour blind.
I want you to see me as I am. See me as man.
I do not want your women to rape.
Even though you took ours and brainwash our children that you are the man in the cape. But the dark one is the evil one, the pitiful one.
I am the dark star. Polaris my name, the North Star. Ursula in her womb.
Yet my two sides, Gemini, frightens you, disgusts you.
But all that I am is what you want. Plump lips. Brown for melanin is my friend.
The origin of man is black.
Black roots, black core. Black on everything you adore.
Dark bodies slain, yet asked to be quiet.
Keeping freedom and speech on a diet.
Equality is disquiet.
Stating the equality of all lives is the disquality of lives owned, you are a bigot.
My tree will sprout the right fruit. It will not be conformed and caged by its peel.
Keep the ignorance in a seal.
They tried to kill us by the roots, but no, the shackles no longer on my foot.
I am a dark fruit, the darkest fruit with nurtured roots. History runs through my stem.
I am the dark fruit; let my different shades follow me in suit.
Monsters are we that look through the looking Glass,
Painting the world a mixture of ghastly shadows.
Mighty are we for we see them as they are; witches,
Whether that’s true or untrue.
Poems © E.J. Simeon