The Obama Portraits Teen Poetry Competition Winners

Omnipotent Ornate Seat

As if it was painted in a garden
Where butterflies soar across watering cans

Barack Obama rests his feet after eight years of power

Ornate seat foundation
stands amidst leaves and plants spreading, flourishing constantly

I think of a nourishing place where people converse jubilantly like my Grandma’s house

We rest in her good wooden chairs
share savory Sunday brunch

Grandma worships her god faithfully
I wonder how god shaped my Grandma’s future
from facing the segregated Birmingham to leading Cleveland classrooms

As I look at the flowers, I wonder if Barack Obama sat in his Grandma’s chairs to eat Sunday brunch

I wonder if he received his wisdom from her

Barack Obama works with those who’d rather see him dead
Than face a reality where a black man
has a right to this paramount office

Observe this chair and ponder its purpose
Detailed, wooden, shining

Reminiscent of a leader who ravages through societies
caring only about the preeminent and not the common
Valuing destruction over life

Barack Obama claimed this seat
transformed the image of authority

He brought the margins to the center
contended with a senate that blocked him from altering lives

Right now America is a garden slowly rotting
waiting for an arborist to come secure the roots,
tend the soil, and make way for blossoms

Oh what bright flowers in a world full of constant chaos
But through those bright flowers you see my dark skin, right?
Same color as dirt that produces the growth for those bright flowers, right?
We’re laid on the ground and drowned in water but to rise up a great piece of art, right?
No? Oh I thought so.
I’m not meant to be here
look down the line
I’m the first of my kind to reside where the world didn’t want me too
and to the world I will oblige to the cries and the judgement drooping over me but from where?
Oh. you. Yeah you.
I see you trying to yank away the way I paved
Throwing every piece of mud there is to make me sink
But I am from the earth, the mud, the dirt. How can that harm me?
In the thoughts that I think that might be one that say “ I can’t do this anymore ”
This fierce look is not a facade to respond to your ignorance
Far from it
I give this look to show the strength in my face
Why does that scare you, offend you, or mark me as aggressive
Now I’m sitting in a chair far from the ones we were put in
Looking at you with these eyes that’s created from the soil
Blossomed to the earth’s core, brighter than before
Seeing more, being more therefore I am
Brightly colored in brown, melanin, yes!
From earth I’ve come and from the ground I was made
Into that melanin dark flower

America’s Canvas Colored Bright

Descriptions are divergent
For each pair of eyes
See differently,
There’s no right answer.

Each view is unique
Similar to leaves
That change with time
Yet opinions always vary.

Personal pupils dilate with joy
To see a black man
Surrounded by vibrance,
Colors that speak jubilation.

History painted my people
With colors of melancholy
Our achievements,
Documented black and white
Each came with a price.

Imbedded in history forever
A black man
Who added colors to a canvas
Texture to my people.

Gave me ambition
To run towards a vivid future,
Break out of inky patterns
Painted by America.

blooming in blue

shadow shifting across pastures.
here, where windblown wildflowers cast waving
silhouettes. the spring blossoming, rife with hope,
where blue sky was home to the robin, with its
round eggs of smooth sapphire, cradling the seeds
of a future in its fragile shell. where blue sky was
the background to the beauty, where greatness was
not found in shadows and the hollow clang of a
tolling clocktower, but in rippling pools of black and
white fabric, a monochrome memory of a woman
dressed for timeless remembrance, where all the
girls who wished to dream of greener pastures
could make their homage and say I could be here
too.

a spring florescence for every girl who stood before
her, and remembered that strength could come in
different shades, that power could be found in
Color. that Her own potential energy was endless,
bound only by Her convictions and ambitions, a
quiet promise that Her worth was greater than the
spaces between words and a serif font. that blue,
which was the wisdom and the unwavering whisper
that one day It could be me too. (I could be great
too.)

Majestic

empowered, beautiful and serene
I own my truth
Confident is my last name
Look into my eyes of flame
Look into the windows of my soul
you’ll see the fiery phoenix that was once tamed Once upon a time it escaped its cage
Breaking the chains of limitation
It flew and lit the night sky
Starting a spark for other caged birds to see That hope is never lost and magic can never be tamed My legacy continues
Look into me now
empowered, beautiful and serene

Black & blue

The identity of a Black woman is often
skewed
Never allowed to be just one thing, always
to be a woman of many hats
It’s never enough for a Black woman to be
just that
A Black woman
Instead it’s often proceeded with “strong”
or “independent”
Which sounds good until realizing how
those titles are earned
To be strong is to be stronger than what
tried to hurt you
To be independent is to be left alone,
helpless with your bruises from proving
just how strong you are
It is not enough for a Black woman to be
just that…a Black woman
She has to be Black & blue
From the pain she has to endure by simply
living
To use those colors to paint a clearer
picture
To wear as a badge of honor against the
White America that tries to out shine her
And to wear as a sign of respect for those
not as strong as her
In order for a Black woman to be enough
they have to become something more
Many spend their life Becoming just that
Becoming college graduates
Becoming activists
Becoming revolutionaries
Becoming mothers
Always racing to come in first, ladies don’t
even slow down to realize
No, it’s not enough for a Black woman to
be just that… a Black woman
It’s more than enough

May Flower Child

For a year I have wondered what the truth is
I’ve searched in every garden that bares fruits of knowledge
Looked at their white picket fences’ painted with promises of a bright future I traced
my steps to a mirage of the yellow brick road
And wound up at a cemetery filled with black bodies
I read their tombstones till my mind was filled with too many
I learned why the weeping willows weep
As I listened to the voices’ of people I loved debate life

Both of its creation and its expiration
I grew tired so I sat in a chair built from the roots of a tree that bares my ancestors names
Planted my feet in the soil lying beneath me
And looked forward at the paths that lay before me
One with my own memorial and another filled with roadblocks meant to make me stumble I continued to sit with tears swelling in my eyes until I was drowning in a sea of my own creation I didn’t fight back in fear of what I would see when I came up for air
Then I heard the voices’ of lost souls say to me

Calm the roaring seas that send waves crashing into the crevices’ of your mind
Sit back and try to keep your head above the water
Let the waves hear the unwavering resilience in the stillness of your voice
And command them to stop
Then guide your eyes towards the horizon that awaits you
Deliver yourself from somber thoughts that cloud your mind
guide yourself back to shore
And when you feel the tides calling you back
Almost close enough to pull you under them again
Remind yourself that

Success is not found, it is grown like the flowers that spring in May after April showers
It is tended to like the land we walk on
Nurtured in the garden of life
Cultivated by extraordinary hands that are willing to get dirt on them
Its roots are buried beneath soil as dark as our skin
Providing the necessary nutrients to sustain life
Success is created with intention, love, and dedication
It does not knock at your door
But rather waits for you to sit and lend an ear to its whispering willows
Who speak words of peace and guidance

So open your eyes child and take a seat in your garden
Make it bloom with flowers that remind you of summer sunsets
Take in the elements of the earth and create a life that feels as touching as a cool breeze under
a blue sky
As lovely as the vision of sitting in a field of blooming flowers
And as joyous as kisses on your legs from tall grass

THIS TIME

Roses are red,
Orchids are violet,
Shall these flowers bloom in Silence?

A geometric dress housed
Sitting In a fleet of showers,

Him, he sits in a sea of flowers,
An ocean, waves on the ready,
A pale blue beneath the shapes ever so steady, The colors dashing and prancing around, Dancing emotions with frowns upside down, He may sit on a throne but he has no crown, He sits one with his people,
Alongside the vessels of Freedom,
A physical embodiment of Independence Dependant on each other,
And one another exclusively.

Colorless albeit is she?
The reds mixing with the pinks and limes, Blacks and Whites Checkerpatched in a line, Circles, Squares, and Triangles,
Only what we need is shown this time
Our time to shine.

Both, star shining,
Starring the sun rising,
Setting an example for those who climb, From dusk till dawn they age like wine,
Time is Time, Time this Time,

This time we move as one,
In this time we run as one,
Whether we have two feet each,
Or two eyes one nose,
No matter how different we look or different we see, We shall be one this time,
This time whether we’re the flowers fallen behind, Or we’re the flowers carrying the one in the chair, We will sit as one, here, outside, everywhere.
This time whether the blue is a solid color,
Or the dress is mostly addressed as white,
We will stand knowing the same reds inside of us are in sight,

We are one within,
The same color, The same Kin,
Albeit different color,
We are all humans embedded in flowers and skin,

Whether you do good…
Or whether you sin…
You and Me…
Him and Her…
Belong in this Grand City of Winds.

Beauty of Black

Anyone ever told you, you’re beautiful
Anyone ever tell you, you’re bright
A sea full of stamina
And a star full of fight
People don’t understand your blackness
They frown, and scrunch up their nose
Don’t let their words depict you
Only you yourself know
Only you know your strengths
Only you know your limits
That’s the beauty of black
We’ve fought in this battle for ages
We are far from backing down
That’s the beauty of black
Show the world what you can do
Take charge, be bold
The art of being you is what you hold.
Harriet, Rosa, Martin
Barack, Michelle, and more
No one can stop you from dreaming
From walking through that door.
Go out there and make a difference
Show the world you’re not scared
because deep down you know
You are black excellence.
We make our own rules
We band together as one
Because the work of being us is never
done. I said it once and I’ll say it
again.
Beauty is black,
that is that

the ghost.

and why does she pale in comparison?
his skin: vibrant and stunning against the wall of flowers
like a tree bursting through a meadow and demanding the space
to be its own.
hers: like the dusty mantle of a fireplace, soot rubbed over
like a protection from the world unknown.
what about her must be protected?

and his Blackness, his beauty, the centre of his power
the reason time pauses when he speaks and the reason we all
crane forward to listen
and her Blackness, regrettable & forgettable
overlooked and unseen.
just because she wears her hair straight does not mean that her fist
does not curl up, type 3, wielded like a spear.

but they gave her humanness, if you can look beyond
the ash of her skin. the compassion in her eyes must not be mistaken
for gentleness; no, she has lived too long of a life, surrounded
by saber-tooth tigers screaming for blood, to give
her heart to a world that will not follow suit.
when i look into his face, i remember the words of frank b. wilderson.

and the Black body is dead. and her eyes are the only spark left.
and i wonder why the potency of a Black woman must
always pale in comparison to a man. she is a force of nature, power
unknown to those who have not lived in the same colony as she.
because power and pain can be synonyms, but she is more than her suffering.
to see her, we must allow ourselves to be free of air
without knowing any other source of breath.

Color in the man is…
hatred in the woman but…
envied by others because…
They want to look like us…
Even though…
They can’t stand us.

The praises of the man are…
Muted in the woman when…
She speaks her mind although…
Her words…
Raised us.

Strength in a man will…
Push the chair under a woman like…
Politics bloom a new era until…
Winter comes and…
Grays out progress …
Leaving behind a trail…
Of the hard work…
They put on us.

Man needs a woman how…
Barack had Michelle despite…
A country built off our backs…
Had no faith us.

America had a man that…
Got his all from a woman who…
Gave birth to a nation the way…
They delivered…
A faulty promise…
About us.

In Hawaiian Sun

There is a lei hanging loosely round your mother’s neck, the petals green wings fluttering flightlessly,
as a gale trots down the Hawaiian shore.

Ask her to kneel there in the sand.

Take the lei from her neck;
I will untie the knots of these flower stems and lay them out behind you
that you may burst from this greenness and return life to us as it gives life to you,

as you loosely cross your large, long arms as if to catch my falling words,

as you lean forward, your ears swollen and silent with listening,

as you are brown like fallow soil, like wooden chairs in midafternoon, like palmate fronds as they reach toward the sky here in Hawaiian sun.