Hands that Fold Empty

when impossibilities

yield lives without reason,

God will find an

opportunity;



and turns clocks’ hands askew

to filter time;

doves perch precarious

on branches hung for trees;



a force steers bullets’ paths

when they strafe to spray;

death’s bones are lined

with marrow that says



life’s moments are altered

to spin history,

and find heels that

bruise so He might see;



it selects weary saints,

those who surmise

the helpless abused

martyrs He can spare;



hands drag the oceans, they

find fields where death lives;

like trains that stop

can jolt suns to rise;



in doldrums plaintive

angels fear to sing;

a whispered call

steers the albatross

to feed the dying;





it upsets man’s plan,

it brings mustard stains;

it plants the seeds in minds

and trains eyes too blind

to see pockets in the sun;



the weakest link barbs

wire that fences shake—

so meek voices matter

when grounds begin to quake



God picks randomly,

and ticks timelessly,

it weaves tapestries

from the silk caskets

worms can never find.



MP Amram
United States Of America

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My great grandfather was a Slave

My grandfather was a Native

My grandmother was a Bantu

My mother was a kaffir, Nigga, Negro

Names imposed by shackles

But an Afrakan I am

An identity my forefathers were deprived of

 

An identity I am now polluting with the fumes of cigarettes

In dope I am giving it another face

In ecstasy I am giving it a comical image

My drunken stupor gives it an unstable belonging

My borrowed accent contradicts what it represents

My imitated dress code conceals its beauty

My adopted religion undermines my intellectual prowess

My language deafens my ancestors

My values are valueless

My mind is discriminatory

It repels anything indigenous

Whilst absorbing all that is alien

None can identify with me

Even those I am emulating

Patriotism I reserve for my kind

I look down at my patriots

If I were xenophobic

I could have been my own victim

I pride myself in my slanted inferior education

An education promptly deleting my true history

Ignorance is my custom

I am dreaming dreams my forefathers cannot interpret

I am singing praise songs for my dying culture

I am branding a heritage

I cannot inherit

Knowledge of freedom is embedded in my subconscious

But suppressed by fear

Fear to develop my culture and identity

Fear to be rejected by the world

Fear to be different and still love myself

Yet with no identity I remain

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