DAY 23...Remember the good times!

Sometimes it is hard to remember that in the midst of all the horrific things that were done to us of the diaspora we survived, and became better and God helped us to find a way where their was no way...so we go on and go up and refuse to give up or live in silent graves...

So today and for the remainder of the days I am celebrating our greatness and the 

wonder of it all that we are still here...

SOULMATE

In this land of the purple twilight
 eyes entrance;
 lips enthrall.
Where spells of potent magic
Cause all men
to quickly fall.

In this house of wistful longings
A look can cause
new hope to flare.
Palpitating heart a quaking
Love's music soothe's
my mounting fear.

In this heart of sweet surrender
I pine for just
a glimpse of you.
Dreams cannot my spirit nourish
Your heart is cold
your love untrue.

Then  slowly  now discerning
Comprehension
dawning clear
fire, this unwanted burning
Consumes my soul
for you are near.

 you are my destined SOULMATE
My  fire, my love, 

my ice, my hate.

I am waiting for love to come rescue me...

Oleta Adams

DAY 22...A Lament

A LAMENT

I don't have a name
Who saw me?
Then knew me?
Watched in my steps
away
the hope to be
In my stooped back
and gnarled hands
purpose for being
not living though
here come
here stay
merely going along
the worn and wearied way
picking the cotton
cleaning the house
the big house on the hill
with its darkened pulse

Who looked?
when i went by
and saw in slide
of liquid sun
down black marbled slabs
of muscle at work
no pay or reward
to gain
just labor
for them that
stand easy in plantation shade
as soiled roots
bore strange fruit
and mother's pride
in blood was steeped

Who wept?
when i slid down
into the dusty depths
and lay
as one asleep in the sun
after a weary day

Who sang?
A mournful dirge
to acknowledge my passage
here
on the other side
from diaspora way
where no drums called
or mother cried
or crashing waves
bore me in rocking tempo
to the swaying memory
of my grandmothers hips...

Who laid flowers?
to show that I was
brought colored lights
red and blue
yellow and white
to grow where I lie
for as slave I live
As man I die.

Nina's rendition of this song is evocative...she calls it an ugly song and it is truly ugly, but a necessary image to keep. So we do not forget that we are not too far removed either by time or space from this sordid truth.

Strange Fruit...

DAY 21...Hands to the plow always...

You are the Potter I am the clay!

HANDS

The rock on which I stand
is solid
built by soft mulatto hands

strong supple hands
that knead the bread
and tie the knots
and smooth the hair

and stir the air

hands raised up 

to sky's above 

give praise

give thanks

and dance their groove
spread out fingers
in easy love

hands that clasp

in earnest heat
at stones stands
while all weep

hands that paint my moods
arousing
the ire of my blood

imploring

hands that cradle 

my delicate need
for peace
to be known

as real.  

Fix Me Jesus...Revelations from Alvin Ailey...

DAY 20...Torn in two

I am a slave...to my past
Since men have always being greedy
and remain greedy still
I am now a slave to my present.
I am at war for my freedom and
like Bob Marley encourages
I must find my Redemption Song
and Sing it!

A TORTURED SLAVE (circa 1890 / A TORTURED MAN (circa 2008)

(don't be deceived ...There is no new thing under the sun)

TORN AND TWISTED

To have my being,
actualized,
pensive always

In potent passions.

Bittersweet taste
In action,

Still..
Ambivalent choices

calling

will...

The one within
wants without
In depth of mind

Clouded with doubt

cravings shout
but light restrains
and pain remains

fires burn

and cracks appear

the facade

is in disrepair.

How did this come
into being?

How was I
found at the scene?

In blood and sweat,
and tears and slime,

I was thrust forth
to this life of crime.
 

I got the part
"I want to be ..."

Practiced day
and night 'til three.

Till I knew it well
then I was told

You have too much heat
This part is cold.

My agent

found me

a brand new part
but we

are yet in conflict

He wants God
I want man
Torn in two

and twisted.

DAY 19...The Journey: The Second Coming

INSTIGATING EVENT...

A FLARE_UP...

NOW, HERE WE ARE...

The Journey

From Africa to South Central or Gibnut Street, Belize City

This is how we came!

The Second Coming

I was a ‘crack’ baby

Born after six and a half months

3 lbs 10 ounces

My mother was high

Two days after my birth

I never tasted her milk

I was too busy

Going through withdrawal

On my birthday...

I never knew my father

Some nameless, faceless

Bringer of death

To my hungry mother

My grandmother raised me

She was tired

Tried and tried

She gave up on me

He turned away from me

And I learned to live free

Free of a conscience

Or of an interest in life

I gave in to the call

To the seething angry clamor of me

And I dressed for the part

And my hand spat fire

And a red river flowed wherever I went

Like Moses made the river red

I am a mad, bad

Interminably sad

Black Sambo

Ready to implode

And scatter my guts and dreams

All over this land

I am…

Right beside you.

You can't ask for forgiveness...while it is mine to give and I may choose to give it freely I can't forget. We are not okay. I do not trust you. I am not your friend. We will exist from here in a disquieting truce. A silence burdened with the promise of unresolved things. Things while unmentioned are equally apparent. The elephant in the room that is always present, about which we cannot speak.