A Thank You Note

I just wanted to use this opportunity to thank those who showed thier support by purchasing my poetry book. Thanks for putting those CRARN kids in mind with your purchase. God bless!

I dream of Africa

I dream of Africa
Gold dust carried
By winds with
Ancient secrets
Against my skin
Nubian heat
Darkens my neck
In a land of legendary Queens
And skyscrapers made
Of the same dust
Beneath my sandaled feet

I dream of Africa
Riding on a camel's back
Me in a shawl
A man in turban
Handsome as the desert
My companion
In a never ending
Journey on sand

I dream of
Places like Zanzibar
A land as beautiful
As its name
Were black men and women
Stand tall and lean
Unlike in other places
I’ve been
Except maybe Ethiopia
And Burundi

The best names are in Africa

I dream of
Crowded spaces
And bargaining customers
Market women
And area-boys
Places where inscriptions
On buses are common

A typical west-side story

In my dreams
I am in a South African
Safari
And the animals are with me
There is no invasion
Of territory
For here
Man and beast
Is evolved in unity

The cries of freedom rings strong here
The joys of freedom ring true here

When I envision
A dream-a goal-a destination
I end up in Africa

Untitled

Do you hear the quiver?
Listen intently
It emanates from land and rivers
It’s in the cracked earth
And unceremonious rain
It’s in the eyes that speak of shattered dreams

To the highly sensitized
It’s a bellowing groan
From the depths of the belly
Where all the memories are kept
From the depths of the belly
Where all the assets are stored
For the children of the sun
And for all through whom they came

They hate mother
They spew on her Oil spills and raging fires
They place chains on the minds of her children
On the backs of her children
On her traditions, they show contempt
Motherland has become a dumping ground
For guns and diseases

So I ask:

Why destroy the hands that feed you?
Take a good look at a map
Do you not see that Africa
Is the heart of the world?

The Wind Of Change

We are waiting for
The healing winds of peace
In places ravaged by war
We are waiting for the impersonal groans
Of mother earth to cease
Her abundant provisions
To no longer be a thing
Worth dying but living for
We are waiting for
True leaders to emerge
In places were minds are held hostage by terror
For leaders to be servants
Upholding a sacred mission
We are awaiting a revolution
Not of guns and steels
But of the mind
Revolutionary ideas that spin
The wheel of time
Making a dark age a thing
Of the past

We are Waiting

We are waiting for our children to
Be warriors of the truth
Pursuers of a higher calling
Not dead materiality
They are the hope
They are the targets of our prayers
They are the wind that blows
Like a ghost, through space
Silently but surely along inanimate and living structures
To reveal how far we've come
-If we did a good job
-If they learned anything
From the horrors and struggles
Due to the selling our souls
Our people_ our traditions

We continue to wait until we realize
Hopefully, in the nick of time
We are they and they are us-
The wind-what type of wind-that changes

Children Of The Sun

We were the children of Ra /living breathing temples
that housed the god-man/the true man
now subjugated/reduced to ashes
we've become the outskirts/barely making it in-land
our accomplishments stolen
robbed of its brown skin prints /given a new name
We were the children of Asis_Chukwu_Sango_
dancing to the tempo of spirit within us and all things
until categorized by the categorizers
with no attempt at understanding certain truths of existence
we became "pagan" which is just another
term for the reveries of nature who happens to be a she
chained and shipped we went from
god-man /to no-man/to his-man
We were the children of the rising sun
the breaking free from the constraints
of white hands on millenia of black traditions
we were the forerunners of the liberty promised us
only to discover /the hands that held the chains were merely switched
we are fists raised in the air/pens swinging
words coming out as slices /pricking at the brainwashed minds
that dare stifle our natural expressions
we've become a chosen exile /who unite and combine our strenghts
when we sing_dance and make love /when we say,"brother"_"sister"
wear afros and dashikis/braid our hair /speak our language
with its sweet intonations /and no it's not vernacular when it comes out ARTICULATED
_when we proudly display the god suffix in our names
read and write books on ancient kings_queens_pyramids
proper civilizations _ancestors_dieties_ the feminine principle
we become everything they don't want us to be
everything they say we aren't and more /in just being who we are

Be who you are solar beam---shine_shine_shine gods and goddesses
you originators_colorful_vibrant_ surviving expression of life itself

Do Not Judge Those Who Fight Back

Do not judge those who fight back
pick up the sword of steel, iron & blazing truth
Who advocate righteous wrath towards
the destroyers of the sacred
Wasn't it Jesus who cleared the temple
with a whip at those who dare exploit
the people's longing for redemption?
Check out Mattew chapter 10 verse 34
I did not come to bring peace but a sword
the master said
Not everyone can be still in the sight of
blatant exploitation, discrimination, misinformation
of the masses
You can push some against the wall
and they remain silent as a mute
but you push those they were sent for
be it family, neighbors, a group of souls several miles away
and they roarrr
They are whom the bible calls the judges
The Samsons, the Davids in the battlefield
against the Philistines
The Queen Nzingha of Matamba pushing the Anglo invaders
out the way!
The Prophet Muhammed in the jihad to defend
freedom of worship
They are the Malcom X's
"by any means necessary" brothers of the
civil rights movement
The black panthers, the Che's, the Miribal sisters
...in the time of the butterflies
The instigators of the revolution that spin the wheel of time
Do not judge those who fight back
They give the movement fire and passion
They are the loudest voices screaming for change
They bear the vindictive consciousness of the oppressed
We venerate
Those who hold the spiritual balance for the earth
The mother theresas who work in silent action
Being love in embodiment and feeding needy souls
They are the gandhis who do not fight back
The martin luther kings with peaceful protests
We are taught to be like them
Some of us even pray to be like them
They are the saints of our time
And they deserve a place in the sacred
texts of the book of history
But no matter what you've been taught to think
Do not judge those who fight back
For they reveal in the smallest degree to the rest of the world:
How the conquered by disease
The landless due to oil spills
The suffering who buy into the
subjugate your I AM precense to get saved
Would react upon awakening
Let's pray they reach enligtenment first!

How the worst case pawns of
elitist control - "the real wickedness in high places"
would respond if they were to
thump thier warrior chests, perform the battle cry and roarrr.

Untitled

Dedicated to Ken Saro Wiwa Human\Environmental Activist And Others Like Him Executed For The Cause.

He spoke
Said they deserved better
They mobilized
Chanted slogans
Of freedom
Equality
Justice
Basic type things…
Their land
Was being pillaged
For black gold
A curse for the
plenty of black folk
...That fed the nations
Empowered governments
Destroyed lives
Of the weak
It tore away the land
Made oil flow between soil
And water
-To be thier
Hunger & thirst quenchers

They spoke
In thousands
Chanting:
“Is this not genocide
When the source
Of our livelihood
Is violently ripped
From our hands,
In front of our eyes?”
Being a minority
Doesn’t make me a micro-organism
An unimportant entity
I am
Woman
Man, just like you
We that honor the land
Deserve to benefit
From the soil of our birth
The riches of mother earth
Intended for all-including
Her die-hard enemies.

In response
They silenced him
Together with his comrades
Our warrior
Our freedom fighter
With a good ol’ fashioned lynching

“how long shall they kill our prophets
While we stand aside and look?”

I’m jamming to that song
Feeling like a rasta-woman
Pondering
They silenced him,
Dang, they silenced him…
Until I hear voices
At first murmurs
That eventually take shape
in the form of inscriptions
And as poignant as the
Truth that awakens
It hit me
They may lynch,
Gun down execution style
Use the silent method
Of biological warfare
-to bodies
But as for Words?

They are the creative engines
The unmovable movers
The catalyst that incites the revolution

They swerve through the air
Emerge from rocks
Belt through rivers
Become collective consciousness

Circulating as
Redemption songs
Famous quotes
Speech intros
Book intros
Mass movements
Forces
That bring about
Change

Heroes

Heroes are born
In times like these
Voices become swings
At the enemy

The road to perdition
Was the soundtrack of their lives
Reduced to microscopic significance
Due to neglect by the masses

Neglect to object
At the subtle signs of oppression
First emerging from the collective mind
Then trickling down to performances
It takes a while
Even as one person is extinguished
A dozen- a score-a hundred
Perhaps equivalent to a quiver of protest
Maybe just ripe enough for the next redemption song

Heroes emerge
In times like these
In times of genocide-war-disease
In times when hell ceases to be a state of mind

Time is on our side
God is on our side
Who is on the side of the sacrificial lambs?
In another place in time
An uprising-and a hero
To be born.

My Response To The Classification Of Exotic

He said I was fly
Swingin’ hips
Several shades away from standard type skin
-exotic
reminded him of wild remote places
didn’t mention it
but I assumed
it came with juicy fruits, heightened tropicana
thought I was a good dancer
even before learning my name
said rhythm was in my blood
buried beneath my veins
deeper than my self-awareness

Must admit
I love the sound of drums
It’s primodial quality
It’s heightened pulsating capability
I find it
Almost spiritually exhilarating
And in certain moments
I become one with its message
It becomes me ...
That's when I move...
But then they say:
“She had to be a good dancer”
Like I had no choice in the matter

The words tumbled in my head
eager to project from my lips
the fact that:
I’ve actually never encountered a jungle
My parents, parents lived in African-type cities
And I inherited that love for the city
Even though once in a while a touch of village life inspires me.

Hoped he would find even more fascinating
that:
I’m curious about every book I encounter
Question everything I hear
Write as a substitute for breathing
Dream of saving the world
Enjoy crotcheting
Karaoke
Madonna
Flamingos
Walking barefoot everywhere;
And not for any primitive tendencies
Crave cereal three times a day
An independent woman by choice
Deeply spiritual
Though not always saintly
Still as the river Niger of my birth
And yes, beautiful
For the simple reason
The I am that I am
Self contained in a divine spark
Is me.

Untitled

This poem was inspired by Harriet Washington's book "Medical aparthied: The dark history of medical experimentation on black Americans from colonial times to the present". For more information on abusive medical experimentation on minorities currently taking place in NYC's foster care system, visit.
http://www.guineapigkids.com/

guinea pigs
thought they was
someone's
child
brother
sister
muse

guinea pigs
is what the headlines say
didn't know
guinea pigs
equal
exploration
dissection
mutilation
pill popping
placebo jumbos

it's no surprise
it had to be a pig
it's always dear ol' hog

...yea
and dear ol' blackie
brownie
pauper
sickler

today it's
children in foster care
substance invading
symptom swingin'
no protest or else
will take precious
Kisha, Jumal, Jose
_you breakin' the law
_you should be grateful
we gave you this child
in the first place, &*...

it's slavery
history
medicine
HIV
fact
distortion
exploitation

exportation

just another
chapter
in
medical aparthied.

The Judgment

They falling! falling! falling!
high and mighty men, they falling
all over the world
by the weight of accumulated karma

The cries of the proletariat have been answered
the sweat of their brows
the bitterness of their sighs
the death of their children from man made diseases and war
these shall be accounted and spoken for!

It's the second coming and messiahs are being born
outnumbering execution stands, swinging swords
and lynchings of all sorts...
truth becomes the weapon
that separates the real from the unreal

The belly crawling third world shall become two legged giants
the whole earth will pay homage to motherland
at the unset of the judgement
heralding the golden age.

Africa I Recollect

Africa I recollect
Swirling, dry winds in harmattan
Playing ten-ten in dusty playgrounds
Throwing stones to pull down mangos behind fences
Escaping with the trail of neighbors' curses.

Dancing atilogu at recess
Pulling grass stems, making fans
on hot days filled with charcoal smoke
filling our nostrils
making us hungry for corn and ube

Telling tales by moonlight
Chanting: "rain, rain go away"
on days of persistent drops on zinc roofs-tap tap tap
until in glee we rush outside
and get soaked continuing:
"rain, rain go away. Come again another day, little children want to play"
Gathering locusts sent from the rainy sky
Roasting them in hot oil
Relish much deeper than any icecream or cake

Peering down dirt roads on village trips
to watch engugu parade with his raffia skin
A fall to the left, then to the right, body collapses-flat as the ground
"There's a spirit in there, not a man in the costume!"
...as mother warns us

We run with explosive heartbeats, breathing heavily
until out of sight
only to find the nearest window to peer again at engugu
who is now dancing, shuffling his feet, producing dust
Shirtless men singing its praise, taming its emotions
Women not allowed
Neither are children
This is a man thing

The Africa I recall was protective as a mother's embrace
Stern as a father's discipline
But as I watch the screen
I am fed an Africa who constantly needs to be saved
-a poor, defenseless, child...

"They are wrong!" I insist
until after years of programming I arrive
obstinately at the conclusion
that maybe we are both wrong to think it's either one or the other.

The Village Bird

A long time ago
in a land far, far away
I arose to distant hills
in trasculent shades of blue
In the backdrop
Black birds soared
flapping thier wings to the rythm of thier coos
They spread gossip about other towns
Grandma heard, nodded and suddenly went:
"okay!"

I only got the part about Emekuku
What happened at Emekuku?
Grandma's lips were sealed
It was older people's business

I long for the days when birds could talk
and we took the time to decipher
When chickens and goats co-existed with humans
on the front porch
Swearing away the heat
each in its own tongue
Longing for harmattan...

Sitting under moonlit skies
Listening to tales of duality
as corn roasts with crackling sounds under the fire

The chanting part begins:
"udara mu cha nda cha cha cha nda..."
Some of us sniffle at the girl whose stepmother starved her
and who prays for the udara to ripe so she can eat

In a famine Udara dwarfs itself to feed girl
and grows infinitum when step mother sings to it
We cheer!

It's bedtime
And with a belly filled with corn and ube
I move lathargically towards my mat
determined to rise early
to decode what the bird from Emekuku had said.