Orville Lloyd Douglas

Africville

Off the tip of Halifax
Standing at the edge of apartheid
By the periphery
At the ravaged coast
Was peace
As the leaves bloomed and died life thrived here
For decades there was the rolling waves of contentment
Until Lester B. Pearson
Watched
Where was that motherfucker?
Where was he?
Yet this place had pride as thunderous as the Bay of Fundy
It was nourishment to stare at the slick green lawns, the pulchritudinous gardens
Wooden homes clean as a whistle, smell sweet as the dew
Knowledge had a base here
An oral tradition
Just like Zora's Eatonville
Hurston would of loved this place
She would talk up a storm here
Walking with her pen and paper and joyous life
You can see the singing, dancing, hollering, hard working
Skin of folks
It had a name
It had a game
It had a home
It had a sound
A soul
Yet no voice
Democracy is the Maple Leaf
It is red and white
Yes white
Bright white
Creme colored white
Just plain
White
Some say
Is that so?
A binding world of settlement, thought, expression
Yet the sewer system of the red tape plowed through
Crackling like a bolt of destruction
Pouring all the dreams into the sink
Flushing away all remnants of thought
Gouging through excess is destruction
The rippling razor sharp waves crash against a
Split mind like the Loyalists
The revolution of 1812
To what?
For what?
Blood..sweat..tears...
Bulldozed off for a penance
Less then a fucking grand
Cleared, uprooted, shipped off
To where they think blacks should be
Hell you know
The projects Where were you?
Where was I?
Why?
Why?
Why?
If blood is blood
And sweat is sweat
Where were we
My brothers, my sisters?
What?
Had a civil fight right here
In the 60s here everyday
But this isn't Birmingham or Little Rock or New York
No Scout, Harper Lee, or Mr. Finch
No King, Kennedy, Nixon, or Johnson
No Jackson, No Nobel Prize, no Baldwin
They say
Snowflakes are daggers and sickles definitely
stakes that strike the spirit of this abode
Splinters that are jagged, malleable, prickling
On the horizon
To some its like a cemetery
Its gates once closed
Now it's a decrepit park
Soil was rich you could eat off of it
Now it is buried
Six feet under yet never forgotten

Alberta

The hockey game is an illusion
It is a roulette this charade
A facade
It spins again and again
Circumvents our existence
He shoots he scores
Yells the jubilant announcer
The knockout goal gives the visitors a one point lead
Youth stealth bodies race across the sheet of ice
Their sticks are knives carving out territory
Except land is precious just like space
The national anthem blasts on the loud speaker
We are summoned to stand tall with our backs straight
Voices layering on top of each other like a poisonous cake
Homicidal messages diverting the attention from the hockey pucks and sticks
Sniggering, snickering, snarling faced children munch on popcorn
Only one Cree man is on the team
He stands out like a sore thumb
Gets the shit kicked out of him on the rink
The slashing of tongues, bickering crowd roared into a frenzy
The mob laughsSputtering the blood of his ancestors
The marauders spit on him
Where is his treaty?
Does humanity exist?
The promise of being a Canadian
In an oil drenched place to the west
Soaked with billions upon billions
of surplus
Guess its only for certain people of a certain shade
No one moves
No one cares

Good Black Man

I have been told that I speak good English
With a clear accent
White pressed shirt as white bleach white
Trousers are pressed
No mud between my teeth
Or Ebonics speech
No grits or soul food or chicken
On my so called clean fingers
I have been told
I don't open my mouth
Forgot to close it back
They want ignorance
Compliance
Servitude
Assimilation
Degradation
Would it be better to be dead than to believe?
To run through the thorns and branches of tautology?
To navigate and rise above deleterious pusillanimous hypocrisy?
Walk the tightrope of polished professionalism and assertiveness
As disgruntled glares, fury of jagged eyes gather venom on the bus
The driver's words bleeds like knives stabbing the neck while asking for a transfer
Yet the eighty year old crows feet gets front row?
But I am good they say
If I follow the cannon
Learn it well
Live it
Feel it
Die
From it