Black History
By Olivia Salter
Bound in chains, yet never broken,
Hope still whispered, dreams unspoken.
Dragged through fire, drowned in pain,
Still, they rose and spoke their names.
The ocean swallowed cries unheard,
A people lost, a fate deferred.
Yet through the dark, their spirits swayed,
Their songs of sorrow would not fade.
A woman ran with stars as guides,
Through tangled woods and rivers wide.
Harriet whispered, Follow me,
And led the bound toward destiny.
A boy once learned in stolen light,
Carved his mind in ink at night.
Frederick rose with words like thunder,
Tore through silence, split it asunder.
A pen became a blade for truth,
Ida struck with fearless proof.
She wrote through threats, refused to bend,
And made the world bear witness then.
A builder dreamed, a teacher gave,
A road from dust, a mind to save.
Booker lifted, Mary lit,
A path where knowledge would not quit.
War drums called, and Black hands answered,
Fought for nations, left abandoned.
From Crispus’ fall to Union’s fight,
They stood for freedom, claimed their right.
Yet shackles stayed, though war was won,
Freedom caged, the work undone.
Jim Crow's shadow, twisted, cruel,
Turned justice into iron rule.
A man once dreamed a mountaintop,
Where hatred burned but love did not.
Martin stood, and though he fell,
His echoes rang like gospel bells.
Malcolm’s fire, sharp and bright,
Refused to kneel, refused to white.
With words like steel and eyes unshaken,
He called a people to awaken.
Rosa sat and shook the land,
A quiet stance, a bold demand.
They walked for miles, their bodies burning,
Yet never turned, yet never yielded.
Selma’s bridge ran red with pain,
But still they marched through driving rain.
With hands held tight, with voices high,
They faced the dogs, refused to die.
Langston wrote of rivers deep,
Of dreams deferred, of wounds that weep.
His words still pulse like midnight streams,
A people’s grief, a people's dreams.
Maya rose with voice so golden,
Spoke of birds with spirits stolen.
Yet still they sang, yet still they flew,
A song of old, yet fierce and new.
The blues still hum in southern air,
A cry of loss, a whispered prayer.
Jazz erupts, a trumpet shatters,
Rhythm births what history scatters.
Jesse ran with feet like fire,
Ali fought with fists and ire.
From fields of toil to medals bright,
They claimed their space, reclaimed their light.
Mothers wept and fathers bled,
For doors still locked, for words unsaid.
Yet children rose with fists held high,
Their voices stars against the sky.
The fight still breathes in every street,
In protest chants and marching feet.
From Ferguson to cries today,
The past still burns, the echoes stay.
But history is more than chains,
More than sorrow, more than pain.
It is the architects of change,
The hands that build, the minds that blaze.
So here we stand, with voices bold,
A legacy both new and old.
No fire fades, no story dies,
Black history is endless skies.
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