Poet's Corner: "K.O.M."

I raised my black fist high ...
and punched a bird
outta the sky.
It nosedived,
landed lifeless in
the mud behind my feet.
But I had to
keep on marching.
A throng of followers,
from crawling babies
to slow moving grandfathers,
depend on me ...
to pump my black fist
in the air,
to step through grime
and over dead birds.
What I do presently
will one day be Black History.
Keep on marching ...
KEEP ON MARCHING ...
the ancestors are with you.

By A. Jarrell Hayes

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