Posts Tagged ‘hate’


Night has plunged
my sky so terrifying,
fractured into infernos
of fear, dread so deep
my freedom shivers,
it waits for the chains,
to scrape and bleed
my wrists raw,
my voice screams
even as white-hot
bullets tear through
vocal cords, to force
my silence, my compliance,

I will not.

Silence was enforced
as manifest destiny
as Native People died
for gold, land, conquest.

Minds were colonized
as White-Man’s-Burden
to ensure the status quo
at the cost of culture,
of language.

Lives were lost
in Selma
by southern white devils
demanding racist-policies,
revenge against a King,
an X, a Chavez.

Night has plunged
my earth into sorrow
so full, the oceans
turn emerald, jade, olive,
in sweet aspiration,
we drown,
gasp for the reasons
this horrid jester
rapes us, kills us,
laughs at our folly.

We MUST light
this night,
dispel its death
upon the sky, the ground,
the air we all breathe.

Embrace dissent,
fracture the jester’s
smile, pour
the soul of justice
down its throat!


We will not be

ever. again.

Rod Carlos Rodriguez


A Place to Call Home by Rod C. Stryker
…to hold my light-skinned grandson
without suspicion or police presence,

…to give my light-skinned wife a kiss without
public eyes that caress their hate all over me

…to stride on a sidewalk
without fearful glances or mistrust

…to return home without
being interrogated because of my dark skin

…where dark skin is celebrated and not
treated with a nightstick or a bullet to the head

…I can look to with pride and love
and peace and joy and and and…
no more war

…Some where,


Rod C. Stryker

Late for the Protest

Late for the Protest

I was late
for the revolution,
damn thing started
without me,
protests and the water cannons,
mass killings and the bloody streets.

I hated being late
to the Sandy Bland rally,
the Eric Garner march,
with bullhorns and the indignation,
evidence tampering and the corrupt,
murdering cops.

I remained late
to Cecil’s murder,
the dentist and his white insular
privilege, the pain
of lions, rhinos, elephants,
losing the fight before
it starts.

Far too late
to save those nine souls
in Charleston’s church,
to stop the hate of race,
color, history,
of the Klan.

I will be late
to my own funeral,
catching up
on all the other things
I’m late for,
must get done,
before jumping
in that urn,
ashes singed and content.

And late.

Rod C. Stryker