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Kunama 1971


Collection of Poems

Lorraine Barrow 33


To Discriminate

Do we treat a black man fair?
Or do we whites just not care.
We separate,
That’s their fate.
We steal from them what is their right,
We turn on them our backs in spite.
We fight, we kill,
Of our own free will.
We won’t employ, we just destroy.
Just thing again,
We’re all the same!



Blackman - Deadman

I saw his care-worn face,
I saw his hate-filled eyes,
Now I stand beside the mound
Where this poor blackman lies.
They condemned him for his colour,
They hurled insults at this face,
They murdered him one night
In some deserted place.
He lay there in the darkness,
A pool of blood his head,
One poor ill-treated blackman,
For his colour now lies dead.



Black Dirt

“He’s black, he’s dirt!”
They don’t know how words can hurt.
I try to get away from the rain of heavy blows
They tell me “go to hell,” for that’s where every black man goes
They stand me up, then kick me down,
Then have a beer and grog down town.
If I had the will I’d fight them back,
But they’ve long ago broken that!


Recess

There was movement in the toilets, for the word was passed around,
That the teachers were acoming, to smokers all impound.
Cigarettes were all extinguished, and the crowd it soon diminished.
For what is more provoking, than to be caught at recess smoking?
A shadow falls across the floor as the teachers walk in the door.
All mind’s filled with a single thought,
What’ll we do now we’re caught?



Life

Life is a problem in many a way,
Changing moods from day to day.
Meeting, parting, being sad,
Being sorry, yet happy and glad.
Whatever one’s race,, colour or creed,
To know one’s wanted is what one needs.
Intricate and complicated,
Life’s only as hard as you wish to make it.


Anger

Temper breaks, words abusive,
Anger’s symptoms are not elusive
The sudden desire to inflict pain,
The flight to self-control regain
The actions in temper unthinkingly done,
That lose the friends so newly won.



Death

Sinister figures marching in black
Of solemnity they show no lack.
Death’s slim figures slowly creeping,
Around the necks of victims sleeping.


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