in praise of memory(NPM2017 13)

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i remember to remember

i remember born knowing

i remember knowing

before knowing

i remember

sankofa bird on my doorstep

singing the ocean for me

every step i take

every breath i take

wind and dirt instruct me

i remember the language

it is the language of creation

it is my first language

i remember to know i know

the dead refuse to let me forget

my gifts are their presence

in the present flowing freely

whirling in the whirlwind

making a path for i in the storm

creating vision in the valley of

the blind  so space may

be cleared for

the lame to dance the invisible

to be made visible

i remember the reason

for the rhymes the ways

the means out of no way

without means i count

abundance in the valley of

shadow gifted overflowing

prosperity all that’s required

of me is stay the path

remember to remember

chart the way

tell the story

trust in the godz

but tie your camel

keep your powder dry

your machetes sharp

hands open

like heart open

one direction

forward

i remember

to bide time

to bank fire

to stoke embers

to cut cleanly

to bleed for myself

that i was born

with dignity & everything

that my path is cleared

that i am blessed

not with perfection

but potential overflowing

running over cups full

no empty plates

praying with hands moving

manifesting what’s

been promised at the

end of the day full of

honest labor unafraid of

work i am rewarded

i manifest

clearing roads

like they were cleared for me

i remember to remember

to burn brightly

uphill is a direction

i am here til it’s done

i got instructions

i been here before

that’s why it looks easy

but it took generations

to stand in self again

seeing clearly the way

the roads been barred

how to jump the hurdles

how to say the truth

& maybe live to see the

sun rise knowing is not

just the destination it is

also the journey there

is a duty to life

you owe it living

you owe it memory

forgetting is a drug

enjoyed by those who

refuse to see the paint

does not go up to the ceiling

the emperor is naked

the deadly effects of

invisible nooses over

hidden pits

the smell

of cotton laced with a taste

for sugar wafting in the wake

of chasing the empty

things destined for landfills

amnesisa is not on the menu

for those anchored to north

stars and dreams of movement

much older than locomotives

not the place of those

in brick houses

with Calalilies growing in

the yard filled with

the smell of fried chicken

harboring

hope and fresh fruit

both kept in

brown bags

 

 

 

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dream still (NPM2017 12)

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I still dream

flying free

I dream the rising

after free-falling

 

after the ocean

after seasoned

breaking shattered

into a million pieces

blown like dry

thistle into the whirlwind

circling reality not

able to land no

resting place the purge

after the hunger

after the trees grew flesh

silent scream after silent scream

I still dream

 

in the deep stillness

between breaths

coalesced of what’s left

the indelible

the unforgettable

little more than the

sound of the wind

though blood soaked leaves

fed on dreams of dead people

unfulfilled prophecy

unspent potential

wounded but unbroken

I still dream

 

I still dream

flying free

I dream the rising

after free-falling

 

holding my breath

hands moving

praying to pass over

answering the call

serving a higher purpose

seeking grace in battle

firmly on the path

machetes sharp

eyes open unafraid

knowing it’s always a good day

to be free seeking the sun

into the storm intrepid

I still dream

 

of even ground

tall children who are dreamers

born of dreams free

wild like a forest

filled with forever love

of life overflowing with

abundance growing straight

not bent nor broken whole

uncaged not scarred never bound

promise whispering in

every breath eyes

open tomorrow promised

I still dream

 

I still dream

flying free

I dream the rising

after free-falling

 

 

 

 

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neither wolf nor sheep (NPM2017 11 )

wolf in sheep clothing

prophets are often thrown into the lion’s den

not knowing true lions are friends

to guerilla’s in your midst

seeking higher paths

upholding righteousness

invested in the movement

of the pendulum

that signifies the moral arc

go ask Daniel

go ask WolfHawkJaguar

come ask me

King said he believed the arc

leaned towards good

then they murdered King

Before Robert Chrisman died

he said the arc is always

moving tugged one way

then another

I have said it’s direction

depends on the works of human

hands those willing to

see and out

naked emperors

wolves in sheep’s clothing

pimps and polytrixsters

lined up to bleed the sheep

the arc and its direction

an eternal battle ground

where potential wages war

with what is

what has been

carving room for what needs

to be those who would birth

paradigms must resist

being wolf or sheep

you will be known by the works

of your hands idle hands will

be judged by the reality they

allow to be created

we are all there is

we are the pendulum

the wind it makes when it

swings and the dull sound

it clamors in cacophony

when it lands

like a lead dime on now

walking the road

after King

after Chrisman

after Malcolm

I am pragmatically optimistic

like Cornell West

I aspire to be a Shepard

a freedom fighter like Robeson

a clear light like Belafonte

a gift to struggle like Glover

neither wolf

nor sheep

a voice clearly heard by both

a clarion calling hands

to the work of moving

the pendulum

neither wolf nor sheep

walking forward

awake in the eye

of the storm

standing on yesterday

holding court for tomorrow

invoking with the constant

prayer of moving hands

a birth place for a new paradigm

 

 

 

 

Posted in (NPM2017), Black Arts, North American African Perspective, That New Millennium Dime | Tagged , | Leave a comment

left handed child (NPM2017 10)

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i dreamed of the left-handed

child standing in the middle of

the road

i have been dreaming about

preaching on milk cartons

most of my dreams

come from the ocean

my sleep is a classroom

my teachers

are mostly dead

they speak

because i listen

i dreamed of the left-handed

child standing in the middle

of the road

i have dreamed of

a line stretching

back to the beginning

how can a line be

a maze

snatch a people out of a

paradigm set them

outside of existence

and majick must

occur if they

are to go on

they must be protagonist

crossing a desert

coming into

the maze of another

man’s logic

a straight line

up out across

an ocean

i have dreamed of

sitting on the bottom

looking up

woke to find myself

seeing from above

things revealed

i dreamed of the left-handed

child standing in the middle

of the road

Eya texted me

confirmation

a push in the small

of the back

up the hill

staying to the right

of the left-handed

child leaving yucca

anise brandy and

canary seed

at his feet

Omi tutu.
Ile tutu.
Ona tutu.
Tutu eshu.
Tutu orisha.

staying to the

right side of the road

bowing the left

handed child

armed with bow & arrow

opening

the door for me

Omi tutu. [Mojubar: I give homage
Ile tutu. [Omi:water]
Ona tutu. [Tutu:cool,fresh]
Tutu eshu. [Ile:house,temple]
Tutu orisha [ona: road! path]

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in conversation with God

 

17861709_10155304314536424_2604698520286078331_n.jpgdo you talk to God

do you listen when

God answers do you

overstand God’s will

God demands

you see God’s work

you can hear

God’s voice floating

in the vibration beneath

the surface of the

ocean phantoms below

feel God’s power

blowing in the wind

leveling the plains

moving the mountains

opening the skies

hanging the moon

pulling back the sun

do you listen to God

changing  the seasons

stringing the stars

holding up the firmament

dressing the trees

birthing in the midst of

burying mighty eternal

watching weighing measuring

do you listen to the holder

of scales the owner of darkness

the provider of light

the alpha the omega

the beginning

circling the end

do you listen?

 

image: serenamorelli from Ticky. Ticky. Boom!

Posted in (NPM2017), right handed poems | Tagged | Leave a comment

beyond capacity (NPM2017 9)

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there are places

you may never see

out beyond

the end of the known

past the safety nets

where the air thins

the ground is rocky

there is no path

all roads are uphill

where life stretches

you like a rubber band

its in the tension you

find traction to go forward

propelled from god’s hand

seeking destiny

walking fate’s tightrope

eyes on the time when

we cross over the abyss

gaping below like a hungry

thing waiting our failure

there is only one

choice to be made

at the end of capacity

the choice is go forward

go forward past the boundaries

the walls over the pits

the places where the bricks

are missing the cracks in

the sidewalk the shortfalls

the not enough the not

for you not now not ever

bend to the wind and

go forward push the

edge back dance on it

become the one who

draws the line

ignore the line

go where the tightrope

leads

become

the rope

 

 

 

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brick house sunrise

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open the curtains

in the brick house

let the light spill in

peeling back the dark

illuminating broken things

scattered like litter on the side of

life the broken dolls

games that glicth

the only for this side of town

bag of mismacthed chances a

keyboard with  missing keys

a greasy box of half

sentences missing verbs

near a pile of half lives

lived in shadows waiting for something

that may never come straining to hear

music that may never be played

knowing things are missing

but not able to name them

empty hands reaching

restless after stagnation

pressed down and unstable

dawn breaks

sun rises

 

 

 

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