single white woman raising a little black boy

Actually, I think they both already left
but still there for the little black boy
with fair skin.
Whose hair and lips tell the world who his daddy is

I hope someone is there to hold her
when her sons eyes go to a place she won’t be able to reach.
a depth she can’t fathom one humanly possible to survive
cause, she’s gonna’ leave the father.
he works sporadically
nothing reminiscent of her father
who bought home the steak and potatoes
he says / it kills his spirit
and she don’t understand that.
call him lazy.
they yell through the walls
she’s gonna’ leave
and live life as a single white woman raising a little black boy

he’ll / only believe the world stares at him
cause he looks exotic for so long
then he’ll feel cornered
and she’ll beat at the walls and tell him he’s free
until she’s blue in the face,
with coruscate eyes
he’ll look at her and tell her
something is killing his spirit
…she just don’t understand that
but she’ll dare not call him lazy or leave his side
so she yell at the walls

I hope someone is there to hold her
when her sons eyes go to a place she won’t be able to reach.


35 thoughts on “single white woman raising a little black boy”

        1. Hi Bella! I remember the art work of flowers on your blog… and the colorful words that accompanied them…YES! I enjoy your work as well 🙂

    1. Thank you Von Simeon! I wrote this for my neighbor when I lived in California. They yelled through the walls, She left… and I hope someone is there for her when her mother/son relationship reaches “that place”…

      1. You narrated her grief without letting it overwhelm you. This is a tricky balance for poets and you demonstrate it well. It’s not easy for a woman to raise a black child, of any race.

  1. Beautifully written, my question and I actually did a “funny”post on this, how do mothers do it?, it was quite funny though, specially moms got a kick out of it. What are you superwoman or what´s wrong with you mothers…. gonna ask mine since whe still loves me after all the screw ups in my life, hell and I´m 32, go figure how this woman does it

    1. That’s what us artists do! When I would hear the yells through the wall, the baby crying, then her moving out… I was moved, so I wrote for her.

      1. I like how you wrote that “I wrote for her.” I had that feeling a couple of years ago, when I found out that a young woman, whom I only knew from our chats at the petfood store and then facebook, had taken her life. I was so filled with compassion for her that I needed to write down something for her, and a poem worked its way out of me. And in my heart I dedicated it to her.

    1. I’m glad you felt this. This was my neighbor… I heard the yelling, the baby crying and I remember the day her parents came and moved her out. I’ve never forgotten her…

  2. Beautiful, Nikki, and so well said. Back in 1952 I made friends with one of the black students on campus. We were good friends for many years. One evening as I was giving him a ride home from dinner at a friend’s house, I asked him this question: “Claude, why did we become such good friends so long ago?” His answer, delivered softly, was: “Because you didn’t treat me as different.” Fact was and still is, I liked him, and still do. I’ve never understood treating people different because they “look” that way to some folks. We are what we are, and that is family.

  3. My apologies for tormenting you with my comments this morning… but you have left me little choice in the matter… Your posts are magnificent. This one is absolutely amazing… “Coruscate eyes?”… brilliance on the parchment…

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