Three Meter Zone | JD's Bunker | Poetry | Chapel | American Journal


Frank Goodman

Flies in the buttermilk, shoo-fly-shoo;
Was a game I played when I was two.

Ole' Mary Mack, Mack, Mack,
All dressed in Black, Black, Black.
Was a song in my Black southern pack.

The vegetable man in his back-filled truck;
Had us fishing for money that had to be tucked.

Argo starch was the pregnant woman's sign;
Sittin' in the front yard in the sunshine.

We played games, like marbles and such.
While our ancestors looked on from the porch.

Two-squares, four-squares, and hot-scotch too.
Created unity in our cultural milieu.

My brother scored 10 purnts in the basketball game;
But that's okay, I turnt left into the wrong lane.

"What's happening" was our cultural slain.
While Curtis Mayfield was doing his vocal thang.

Freddie's Dead,
That's what he said.
Amped loud from the 8-tracks head.

Kicking butts and taking names;
Always kept us battling for fame.

The afro, fishnets, and other fine things;
Flashed into the scene with a gangster lean.

Martin Luther King
Blasted the nation
With "I Have A Dream."
That broke the paradigm of this nation's scheme.

"I'm not going to move!" replied Rosa Parks;
Was enough to ignite a march.

Say It Loud!
I'm Black and I'm Proud!
James Brown sang to the ears of the crowd.

Malcolm X during his prefatory,
Always gave praise to his God and Glory.
He urged the crowd when they were wary;
Defend yourselves "By Any Means Necessary."

Jump Jim Crow, Jump!
Echoes in my mental halls of history.
I must be vigilant and smart to identify covert trickery.

Pioneers of my African heritage;
You are not forgotten.
Without you I would not have been begotten.

So, keep your head up and look down on no one;
Because you are a Creation,
A Prize,
A Gift,
A Someone.

Frank M. Goodman
Copyright 31 December 1996