Still—We Knock

Some moments are personal. Others belong to something larger—a shared struggle, a long effort carried quietly by many. This poem honors those whose work often goes unseen, yet whose presence shapes what continues. It is not about a single event or voice, but about those who remain, who persevere, who keep pushing against doors that resist opening.

---

Still—We Knock

By Kerry Ann Wiley

Black fabric—
not for mourning,
but to be seen.
Worn when
the moment
demands witness.
Still—we knock.

A name was spoken,
yet the moment
stretched beyond it.
As the words quieted,
the room shifted—
not toward applause,
but toward recognition
that more had entered
than one voice alone.

It was history carried,
effort layered,
work done quietly
over time.
Still—we knock.

Some lead
by stepping back.
Some shape
what endures.
Change builds
in places
rarely visible.

One open door
is never enough.
Behind each threshold
waits another—
sometimes locked,
sometimes guarded
by silence or custom.
Still—we knock.

The path is made
not by those
who walk first,
but by those
who keep walking,
even when
the way ahead
is uncertain.

Footsteps sharpen,
shoulders rise,
a pulse gathers
from everything
once held back.
Still—we knock.

Forward becomes fire—
not blazing,
but steady,
certain,
undaunted—
a truth refusing
to recede.

Something long-muted
flares awake—
hard, bright.

What rises now
won’t vanish.
It holds its ground,
quiet and unshakeable,
the kind of truth
that alters
what follows.
Still—we knock.

---

“Still we knock” is more than a line; it captures the persistence of generations who refused to step aside. It echoes the resolve of those who kept moving forward without applause, trusting that their effort, whether witnessed or not, propelled the cause beyond the limits of any single moment.

It speaks to labor that is routinely overlooked: the work that happens offstage, outside the spotlight, behind the moments history later declares decisive. This is the force that shifts what once seemed fixed.

There is no final knock that concludes the struggle, only the steady rise of voices pushing back against silence and resistance. The poem gives shape to a presence that refuses to disappear.

The door stands heavy with the imprint of what it once denied. Yet, still—we knock, because the work remains unfinished. Even as progress takes form, what remains undone reminds us of the distance still ahead.

The poem ends, but the motion continues: a quiet insistence, a shared resolve, a history not merely remembered but continuously shaped. It leaves the moment open, urging us to stay present with its call. In the spaces where names go unspoken and effort goes unseen, a force moves forward—quiet, steady, and still demanding to be heard.