Tag Archives: JUSTICE

Not Free (1921)

Edwin Garnett Riley; Poems for Your Scrap Book, Chicago Defender, April 23, 1921

I live upon a blood washed soil,
   Where freedom's sons their rights expound.
'Tis here I breathe and strive and toil,
   And yet, in fact, I still am bound.

'Tis here the eyes of all mankind,
   In search of justice, fondly turn;
Yet they who wield the power are blind;
   The nobler law they rashly spurn.

I am not free while that which cries
   For greater consciousness within.
The boasted claim of cast denies
   To me and others of my kin.

I am not free while I must lie
   Within the pale of grottoes dim
And be accursed--I know not why--
   A victim to each churlish whim.

I am not free while others seek
   To bind me to a menial state,
And strive to prove that I am weak
   And never can be strong or great.

I am not free while hatred reigns,
   While scorn rejects my race and hue,
And sullen prejudice disdains
   To grant me that which is my due.

I am not free nor shall I be
   'Til love has sealed the hearts of men,
And truth, her mighty travail see;
   I shall be free, but not 'til then.

Poem (1899)

A. A. Lott; Richmond Planet, August 26, 1899

Alexandria, Va.–On the recent lynching in this city, Aug. 8th.

________________________

What means this howling, hideous shout,
  "Take him out! Take him out!"
What can be all this noise about,
  "Take him out! Take him out!"
The midnight shriek reaches the sky,
All over town both far and nigh,
The sound shocks every passer-by,
  "Take him out! Take him out!"

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An Appeal to Justice (1918)

Buford F. Gordon; ?? Century Magazine, May 1918

O time, where does thy River Justice Rise!
Is Righteousness a meandering desert stream
That rejuvenates within the verdant lands
But loses itself within the scorching sands?
And must we perish ere that it shall rise?
O Fount, where is thy ceaseless stream to-day?

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Justice (In the South) (1918)

Edna Perry Booth (Brooklyn, NY); Chicago Defender, February 2, 1918

“They have taken my boy a prisoner;
My boy, who is all my pride.
Who when only a little shaver,
Stood close at my knee and cried
Because he had found in the meadow,
Near the edge of the bubbling spring,
A bird, with its breast all crimsoned,
And a pitiful broken wing.

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