Black and Beautiful

Beauty doesn't come in any one-skin color. It comes in all. But I prefer the black girl. Ebony child of the Negro grace. Songbird of sweetness and soulfulness. Princess of artful movement. Black and mysterious as the night. Catlike as the wind. Sturdy as the earth. So full of spiritual loveliness, revealed in the elegance of song rising from deep within the magnificence of her breast. Giving us blessings. Songs of the spirit. Songs of hope. Songs of truth. Songs of yearning. Songs of freedom. Down-home spiritual blues composed in the fields of labor. The inexhaustible pain removing itself.

Brought forth from Africa, the homeland, the motherland, to be heard in the ghettos, after the chains had been removed, there still lie the chains. Still she burst forth with song, emancipating herself, her people, her existence. Singing of indignity. Singing of poverty. And singing of unity. Singing still for freedom. Singing with style and beauty. Always in key. Always in perfect harmony. Laden with rhythm. Earth-shattering soulful sounds.

Tried and tested. Beaten and raped. Yet forever inside her heart, a heavenly melody proudly vibrates, soulfully arranging, illuminating her charm. And she’s forever aflame with immeasurable amounts of courage and dignity, resourcefulness and hope. Unrelenting in her drive, in her desire, in her beauty-----------too wonderful, to describe. Almost too much to behold. She’s my girl, my woman, my lady, my honey, black and beautiful.
She moves with a rhythm. Talks with a sweet sound singing from her full-lipped lips. Laughs, spiritually, enthusiastically, displacing the sadness, the pain. Shakes sexiness from her tangled yarn of hair-black and beautiful to her numbered toes, but nowhere does sexuality exude more than from her well-defined roundness of hips. Round as the earth. Black as the soil. Black and beautiful.

I watch her dance the dance she dances. She makes me proud. She makes me long for her touch, her love, her soul, her all. And with her dance, she sings with those full-lipped lips, her colorful notes painting the sounds of the universe. Her soul echoes upon and kisses my own, and I give my love to the graceful creature, all of my heart and soul. She’s my queen, black and beautiful.

Her long, slender, black fingers caress mine own. Hypnotized by her mystique, I search her countenance, for traces of vulnerability. Her noble forehead and charcoal eyes hold deep secrets, secrets of generations before, 400 years of before. Breaking the calm, she cries out in anguish, reaching for something, something I cannot give. She searches my spirit, my soul, my eyes, my very essence. “What’s in me,” she asks? She listens. She perceives. She kisses me through the wind with her soulful passion, like the summer sun bakes me, warmly, comfortably. I long to hold her, hold her tightly, as tightly as the womb holds her child. Again she kisses me. Our lips as one bring us together, together filled with hope, yearning. Dreaming and believing that our togetherness is foreverness. I hold my Cleopatra, black and beautiful.


Remember this is poetry, an art form. There are redundancies, a lot of punctuation problems but this is my creation and since I know the rules, I choose to break them, just as I choose to do so in my own way in this thing we call life.