Friday, February 28, 2014

my people

I love my people.

I'm proud of my heritage.

I like all of our unique features.

I appreciate every flesh tone all the way down from the darkest of the dark to lightest of the light.

No offense to any other culture but being black is out of sight.

We have that inner strength, resilience,and brilliance.

We have preserved through so much.

 We have pioneered, engineered, orchestrated, illustrated, designed, and woven the fabric of this great nation.

Our sacrifices, struggles, and plight illuminate the souls of anyone who is bold enough to learn of us.

Black love.

Black pride.

Black excellence.

We march.

We ride.

We're worth more than 28 calendar days.

We broke the mold of the freshly fired clay.

We are now and forever will be the example of what it means over come all.

Divided or united we still stand tall.
We improvise and dominate through it all.

I don't mean to ruffle any feathers.

I don't mean to boast.

I don't mean to gloat.

When it comes to being influential we shine the most.

I'm just stating fact. 

Being black is where it's at.

I love being black.

Last day of black history Month. Had to make it special.

The poetry corner: Poetry for all occasions. Poetry with a passion.™️ 2/28/14 HLH©️

Monday, February 24, 2014

Momma Rose

Moma Rose.

Momma rose  was always there.

Momma Rose even let her enemies know that she cared

Momma Rose.

You never knew what was coming out of that bag.

  She always had the perfect gift for just the right person.

Momma Rose, was the pinochle of feminism even while cursing.

Momma Rose always brought out the best in those that could not see it in there self.

Momma Rose was quick to let you know what she thought even if you did not ask.

Momma Rose so too strong.

Momma Rose would tell you off and put you in your place

Momma Rose always nurtured and protected those she felt was her own.

 Momma Rose couldn't be tamed.

Momma Rose was the board that would not break.

Momma Rose was the flower that would not wilt.

Momma Rose was forever  boisterous.

Momma Rose was always got the last word not matter what.

Momma Rose loved every last one of us.

Rip Momma Rose "tiger red" Allen.

The poetry corner: all occasions poetry. Poetry with a passion

copyright 2/23/13 HLH