#16 Coloured Skin

Painting by Antiguan Artist Mark Brown, Transformation 2

The colour of copper.

The colour of brown.

The colour of chocolate.

But you colour me down.

Sensuous as the land,

stunning as the light,

I am ebony’s birth

through the still of the night

but my fingers you take

for my richness to hide

cursing it as folly

taking my pride

smearing your hate

independent of me

taking my life

cells dying in me...

I am

your living heritage

your genetic fame

protector of your being

still my dignity you claim

I try not to shout

although you are wrong

I know you only sing

what society has sung for so long;

I am all yours

though
you dislike what you see

failing to comprehend

You hurt you when you hurt me.

The colour of copper.

The colour of brown.

The colour of umber.

Yet you colour me down.

From ages since

cotton first grew

when the colour of milk

meant the privileged few

where the colour of tan

meant poverty’s brew

this concept
 is present in all races

not just unique to you...

My shades are all elegant

not only a few

I celebrate the diversity

of my glorious hues,

 where a positive remark

lends a negative shade

when you’re black but pretty

instead of black and beautiful all the same,

when someone who is

the same race as you

calls you inferior

forgetting they’re shaded too.

Even King Solomon,

suffered you see

when he wrote in his Songs

I am black but comely..

Colour me copper.

Colour me brown.

Colour me chocolate.

But don’t colour me down.

This burden has continued

because we accept

a lie that was forged out

of spite and death.

Is it because we were taught

from the crib to the door

That this God-given tone

was not given to princes
but to the poor?

My shades are all elegant

not only a few

I celebrate the diversity

of my glorious hues.

 

When you look at yourself,

what is it you see?

Do you see just a colour

or the heart that’s beneath?

Do you see the beauty

I’m certain I hold

Or do you just see a colour

offensive because of its tone?

How horrible it is

to cover a gem

that has no idea

of its brilliance outside and within…

If I could only convince you

of your beauty untold,

that mahogany smile

this caramel zone...

There are
emperors and empresses

who are represented through you

lying dormant inside

but you colour them down too!

I can only do so much

I’m just the skin that you wear

that will eventually rebel

from the core of your fear

of being just who you are

a sight to behold

wonderfully fashioned

of copper and gold

So...

silently I'll sit

No crying, no pleas;

waiting patiently for the day

my people choose to proudly wear me

 no doubt
till then I'll suffer

holding on
steadfastly,

trapped in the oppressed

Cages of your
scarred mentality...

The colour of copper.

The colour of brown.

The colour of chocolate.

I am beautiful.

But

You...

You

colour

me

    down…

 My Inspiration: A little girl on a bus ride home. (2014)
 

 Coloured Skin (3rd revision)



© KohylahPiper 2015

#13 Islands, Rise.

The same arms that stretched out of a restful night,

sought to give liberty to aged, wooden shutters,

battered by gale force winds more than twice in their lifetime.

Sensitive, round nostrils still twitched at the residual smell of turpentine,

while fingers,

slower and arthritic, felt for the familiar chill of metal braces.

The rusting steel bolts resisted, but eventually cowered under ginger pressure,

and stiff hinges gave way with each worn creak

to misty rays of light, borne from the east,

that mingled with old friends as they slowly progressed,

poignantly aware of their inevitable demise in the west.

Salty sprays from a rowdy ocean become re-acquainted

with the soft breeze, that lulled sea foam into clandestine coves,

and both, forgetting they had met every single day before,

fell into each other’s beauty once again;

quite gently

and came to finally rest over mahogany cheeks…

lingering,

but for a moment.

The scurry of anxious paws, and scratching feet

both known and unknown began their day

under foliage of green and flaxen tones.

Branches that have danced for generations before,

sway in time to the rhythm of life fluttering above,

below and beside them,

anxious to teach their tribal rhythms to generations to come;

but for the moment, their eclectic beats, ever changing in the easy gusts,

enlighten ears protected by a cotton scarf

tied over thick black plaits, greying ever so lightly.

Bright mauve, burnt orange, sky blue.

Colours have risen out of clay and loam,

dew has bathed them, reaching far and wide over limestone.

Fevergrass and sage have begun to cast their spells,

addictively combined with the scent of freshly baked bread;

and as the globe of fire climbs higher, signalling the hour

for once outstretched arms

to till, to plant, to feed

to carry, to guide, to teach;

a flurry of wings will rest,

and from its perch,

a turtle dove will begin

its haunting morning call.

 My Inspiration: A turtle dove singing outside my window (2014) 

© KohylahPiper 2015