Strange and Stranger Fruit
Strange fruit may no longer hang from poplar trees
Nor do black bodies swing freely in the Southern breeze Yet our blood still flows at the roots
Black folks blood Flows in the streets Flows in the church Flows in the aisles Flows in our homes
Flows from our black bodies Flows
It is my hope that hangs from the poplar trees
It is my safety that swings freely in the American breeze And it is our blood that still flows at the roots
Black folks bodies
Are not safe in the streets Are not safe in the church Are not safe in the aisles Are not safe in the home
I am not safe in my black body Not safe
Strange Fruit Stranger Fruit Grows in my Mind Grows in my Body Grows in my Soul
Stranger Fruit
Grows in the ground between fear and faith Grows both as I hope and holla
Stranger fruit
Grows as I love and hate
It grows from my anger and my angst It grows in the sacred and the scream Grows
Stranger fruit may no longer hang from the polar trees
Nor do black bodies swing freely in the Southern or American breeze Yet the blood of black folk still flows to the roots
Black folks blood
Still waters those trees
Still rises to our noses on the breeze Producing a strange space
For my grief to be planted A stranger space
For another generation to grow Strange
Fruit Stranger
Stranger Fruit
This poem was submitted by the Rev. Dr. Trina Williams-Johnson. She is an ACPE Certified Educator at IU Health in Avon, Indiana.