Poet Laureate Call

The Global Women's Caucus would like to invite two of the esteemed Global Black Caucus Poet Laureates to participate in the upcoming - GWC Literary Festival - to take place in October. The poets would read a selection of their poetry and be briefly interviewed before taking questions from the audience. 

Event dates are Oct 5 and Oct 12 at 12pm CET. One poet per date. 

It is sure to be a great opportunity to share your talent and introduce your work to new audiences.

Please email [email protected] or [email protected] if you are interested or have questions.

Ain’t it a Crime Story?

Ain’t it a Crime Story?

No, i will not stop telling my story until i’m done.
And i won’t quit searching into the fastened closets
Nor will i leave the old dusty dank library shelves
Until i learn all of my people’s heritage hidden within

i walked past a bus stop yesterday and heard a white man
Muttering racist profanity under his alcohol-ridden breath
His shoes were worn dirty cracked and falling to pieces
i guess what disturbed him the most was that mine weren’t

When slavery wasn’t a crime no one cared about spewing discord
It was certainly normal to burn crosses in front of people’s houses
Or spit on the black kids when they tried to go to school with white kids
And we all know that the lynching’s were sanctified by those in power

When white people get provoked, they say it’s justified indignity
When black people get riled, they call it deplorably primitive
There’s still a black man dying every 21 odd hours from police aggression
But if you mention the words defund the police, you’re a traitorous communist

And now that social media has become the new drug
We get to see all of the paranoid racist Karens in panic
Abusing black folks for walking, talking, eating,
running, golfing, swimming, breathing while black

The we heard of the term micro-aggressions and realized
That is our daily experience and our white friends who show it know it-now
White supremacy leers at us from almost every street corner poster
While white fragility leaves us depleted discouraged dissatisfied depressed

We are then accused by our well-meaning liberal European friends
Of playing the race card, crying wolf, bluffing victim, singing the blues
If the Jewish can forget the atrocious genocide done against them
Then surely, we can grow up and finally forget our decimations? Truly?

Post-traumatic slave disorder is dismissed as a nasty myth
And aren’t all the black men languishing in jail guilty?
Yes, there is black on black crime, but don’t white folk hurt each other?
While European missionaries still frequent Africa bringing bibles and not food

i remember once listening from my bedroom window
As a young white german kid told my black child that he should wash
So that he could be as clean and as white as he was
i have never been so proud of my son as i was on that day

Our stories need the telling and we need to be the ones telling them
Not glorifying, ignoring, denying, not leaving out the good or the bad parts
Rather accepting acknowledging and working through the pain
Perhaps then we would have no need for anger, as we do now.

Camille Elaine Thomas
September 15, 2021
[email protected] All rights reserved




Unrequited Love

   

Unrequited Love

She figured she really should get over it
Let downs, disappointments, broken promises
This was worse than an unrewarding love affair
She had given all of her faith, her inmost dreams
For this one single obstinate purpose
She had cried copious tears of hope, tears of despair
Listened to reason, tried common sense
Endured a roller coaster of ups and simultaneous downs
But when all was honestly said and done
Her ethics ruled the roost and wouldn’t be placated
With soothing words and unproductive excuses
There was an aching pain of resignation lingering
Troubling her neck and her nightly slumbers
She had gone regularly to the local herbalist,
The psychologist, social worker, community advisor
But the results had left her feeling empty, unassuaged
Petitions hadn’t helped the situation much either
She had even written her congressman twenty times
Only to receive polite noncommittal platitudes
But the lives of over a thousand black men
Wasting their existence on death row
Just wouldn’t concede her genuine peace
Wearily, she wondered if she should just call it a day.

Camille Elaine Thomas
September 09,2021
[email protected] All rights reserved


Our Voices Count Too

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Our Voices Count Too
(for Angela Fobbs)

There are many who discredit
Those who follow the call
The fist raised in protest
The lament in the darkness

But even in the light of day
There should be a semblance
Of compassion for the needy
A deterrent to the greedy

Our blackness has a voice
Which was silenced too long
Threatened by the spineless
Desecrated by the narcissists

Our voices intone melodies
That can uplift nations
Inspire to transpose
Leave defamers dumbstruck

Our voices have built bridges
While soothing the fatigued
Our prescience gives America a grace
A reason to need feel honored

Should we now sit mutely by
When we realize that our voices joined
Hold an unfeigned promise
Which underscores much more
Than the rantings of the tyrannical?

 

Camille Elaine Thomas
August 30, 2021
[email protected] All rights reserved

 

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Lost Talent

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As he sat down, with a look of hunger in his
Eyes. As I searched, nothing not evens the lowest.
Sensing, a strange and different personality from
The others.

He glanced up with a gleam in his eyes. Within
Minutes, my face was on the dirty white paper.
Just as quickly as he came. He disappeared for
A long, long time.

Thinking, over the years. A talent, this homeless
And hungry person. Drifting, in a world too busy
To care. As my emotions rose to meet the thoughts.

As quickly as he disappeared, he returned. Looking
Deeply hurt in the eyes. My soul ripped with sorrow
And anger. For I, too was with little.

As I watch him sipping coffee. Knowing the
Thoughts of his mind as thought my own. The
World not known to his talents.

As I gave him my last. Thinking, his need more
Important than mine. As I walked away. Poured
Down the drain, into the sewer, into the sea.
Lost forever.

As the tears, began to seep into my eyes.
I must, I must.

 

Copyright © 1993 Paul S Hickman All Rights Reserved

 

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In Your Face

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Just because you smiled at me this morning on the bus
Doesn’t change the fact that so many others didn’t
Just because you claim that there are no races
Doesn’t mean that I don’t experience racism
Just because you have a few black acquaintances
Doesn’t mean that you can interpret my black culture
Just because you attended a Black Lives Matter protest
Doesn’t prove that you don’t harbor prejudices
Just because you believe black people need a chance
Doesn’t help them get one
Just because you appropriate black culture
Doesn’t make you unique
Just because you acknowledge white fragility
Doesn’t absolve you from suffering from it
Just because you claim to be a good Christian
Doesn’t make you of necessity spiritually evolved
So, just because you’re in my face boring me with whitesplain
Doesn’t mean that I have to get affronted
But what if I do?

 

Camille Elaine Thomas
August 18, 2021
[email protected] All rights reserved

 

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A Black Woman Thinking Out Loud

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If we had justice for all
Human Rights Movements would die out
If cops stopped targeting black men and women
People wouldn’t have to fight racial profiling
If we had equality for all
Why need affirmative action?
If we gave black artist appreciation
No need for cultural appropriation
If we had true freedom of speech
Wouldn’t have to deal with white fragility
If we had no racial murders
Black Lives Matter would be a thing of the past
If we had reparations
No need for white supremacy
Do you feel me?
If we had cultural acceptance
No sufferers of post traumatic slave disorder
Do you feel me?
If we had unbiased history books
No need for cultural race theory
Do you feel me?
No need for anger
Do you feel me?
No need for paranoia
Do you feel me?
No need for defenses
Do you feel me?
No need for fear
Do you feel me?
Right the wrongs
Before the day is long
Do you feel me?
Time to transcend
Do you feel me?
Before it’s too late
Do you feel me?
We shall not be moved
There's a train a coming
And the Revolution will not be on TikTok

 

Camille Elaine Thomas
August 14, 2021
[email protected] All rights reserved

 

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A Song For the Lonely

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There are times when life seems to get you down
You look for friends but none can be found
Your hope is low, nowhere to go
Nothing to do, don’t have a clue

What do you do when you’re feeling bad
Where are the clowns when you’re feeling sad
Where are the arms to hold you tight
Where is the strength when things aren’t right

It’s in the tingle in your feet
It’s in the rhythm of your heart beat
It’s in your ear all day long
It’s in the melody of your song

There are times when life seems too tough
The path is rocky the road much too rough
People seem to want to use you
The system seems out to abuse too

Times when all you want to do is hide
None there to share the ride
Only rain on your window pane
One step further to going insane

It’s in the tingle in your feet
It’s in the rhythm of your heart beat
It’s in your ear all day long
It’s in the melody of your song

it’s the joy in just being alive
like a dance with a little Jive
like the leaves on a new tree
only there for you to see

if you just refuse to resign
very soon the pieces will align
there is a rainbow just for you
don’t give up, that’s what you do
never give up on your dreams
life ain’t as bad as it seems
soon laughter will fill the air
Give a care, it’s still there
Love yourself and you will see
The door of new opportunities

It’s in the tingle in your feet
It’s in the rhythm of your heart beat
It’s in your ear all day long
It’s in the melody of your song

 

Camille Elaine Thomas
27.07,2021
[email protected] All rights reserved

 

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Self-Evident Truth

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Our nation was conceived in the minds of men, who felt that tyranny was the greatest threat to liberty. But the self-evident truth of equality they wrote about did not include all.

And thus, was born a divided and unequal nation.

A nation bathed in the blood of Indigenous people, built on the backs of black posterity, and sustained by women seen only as the lesser sex.

So, they marched.

They marched a tear-stained trail to a desolate and now seemingly forgotten refuge. They marched through showers of bullets, bombs, and cannons. They marched against the wills of people who were undermining their worth.

This nation owes a debt.

It owes of the promise of freedom for our bravery. It owes citizens the protection each amendment provides. It owes all of us the opportunity to forge any path we want.

So we vote!

We vote to ensure that our history is included and thus not repeated. We vote to create a system that works for us instead of against us. We vote to guarantee our voice is always there.

We vote to be heard.

We vote to be seen.

We vote to be equal.

Because this land is our land, too. And we will never stop fighting for our right to be a part of it.

 


A Coach and a Player

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The dedication and bonding of both permeates the barriers of age and life.
The transplanting of knowledge into the player with the grace and skill of
An eagle in a hunt.

The bonding overgrows the years current and past to an unknown level of
Continuous dialogue of both is truth and understanding. As the player goes into the
Realm of being a “Basketball Jones” as his coach had been for so many years.

His coach's love of that 'round pill' supersedes all other sports on this planet.
As the player watches like a hawk on the prowl for a victim. Seeing through all
Of the side noise and distractions with the focus of a shark. He embraces all of the
Coaches style and techniques honing them into a grace likeness of a track star in
A 'poetry in motion' likeness with a pure desire to win and win every time.

As he embraces- his players with a cocoon of love and respect instilling in them the need
To be the very best for themselves in each and every challenge.

The days-weeks-months and years pass with grace and the emerging of a coach- not
A player as the cocoon dropped away. All that was ingrained in his soul and heart became
As granite to be the best and the best is just around the corner.

Now -as the epitome of his former coach no longer a player- but a coach. As the
Crowd roars and his players push to be as he was with his coach in high school.
Polishing their skills in a diamond like way revealing the inner beauty of perfection of
Them as their coach - not a player for his former coach in high school.

As the years pass, the coach and his coach continue their bond as though it is yesterday.
As the crowd roars and his players smile with love for their coach as he did to his
Coach in his high school days.

With a championship as their target and bound with a steel like bond between the players
and their coach -they take to the floor-and the clock starts...

 

© 2021 “The Coach and the Player”- Paul S Hickman- All Rights Reserved

 

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