By Adam Yagoub Abdelrahman (2015, tenderness)
I love you Sudan
My country of goodness
But all is being lost
In our homeland our government has tortured us
Crazy, they killed their own people
Burned and destroyed every essence with no mercy,
Slaughtering young and old
Even wild animals have mercy, but you killed your own children Why?
Is it the wealth? The money?
Why are you so arrogant?
Why did you deny us our simple life of fields and farms
You took everything from us and made our minds go crazy
Our whole nation is lost and we live like guests without a home
And then finally, you divided our country
I am not envious and I don’t deny that God blesses me
But was this written? Is this meant to happen?
You stole our resources and now you rule us
Stole all the money from our country and then built your homes in foreign lands
We used to be the breadbasket of the world
We’re known for our warmth
A welcoming land…..a fertile land…where everything grows…
Lakes of oil, uranium, gold and diamonds,
My country is wealthy
When you touch the seas….Pearls!
Gemstones on our shores, tossed everywhere
You invaded our land. Took advantage of our kindness.
If you are a person of truth, you don’t steal and run away
Tribes of corruption, betrayers, criminals and thieves
Where is your history? Where is your pride?
You came to my territory! The blame is on you
I suffered tragedies in Darfur, my country
And you Bashir, running after the throne
You are a criminal with a stone heart
And the killing continues…
There are rivers of blood
Beautiful Valley, in you I know the fruits of our earth
I am so proud of our land of kindness and Sultans
My homeland…I’ve run out of words
By Benjamin “Bush” Christopher (2013, Fo n’ale)
The worst part about sitting alone
is thinking about the fact that I am alone.
Memory striking my mind,
I am shattered
I hunger for connection . . .
Heart growls for the taste of a warm embrace
For a father to hold me when I cry
To say, “I love you, son, I always have,
and I couldn’t be more proud.”
Heart growls for a mother to be there
who loves every part of who I am. Just because I am.
I hunger for connection . . .Tengo hambre pa conneccion…
My own grandfather clock heart ticking
beats…to hear a mother’s words,
“I love you, son.” Te amo hijo
I wake night after night,
and you have left me
Sometimes I sneak into your room just to feel your hand while you’re sleeping,
Just to know that you’re still here
Wanting you to wake up, not wanting to wake you,
wanting you to wake up, not wanting to wake you.
Wake up! Wake up! Levantate!
And feel the beat of love that you must hold in your chest
and see how it matches the beat of mine.
Do you know me? Can you help me find myself?
Your son
Do you know me? Can you help me find myself?
I feel like a stranger
Am I crazy?
Please see my need for comfort
Am I not worthy?
Searching each day
a dance in circles
Levantate! Wake up, wake up!
I will sing this song of life
Until I cannot sing any longer.
By Clive Brown (2007, a warning for the king / also lyrics to a song)
A strange thing happened to me one night
As I watched the moon shed its light
A star came up to me and said
I know of waves rolling in your head
I see the life you’re living, do you know of a star within
I can see that you’re troubled, and your life is just beginning
I said a distant wonder you seem so small
Yet you have the greatest power of all
I’ve seen the light but can’t understand
It’s like searching for a needle hidden in sand
They’re piercing my mind these mysteries that you bring
Tell me what I’ll find and why this song I sing
The brilliant star looked at me and said
Don’t go straying in the valley of the dead
The answer you seek is planted within
And if watered with wisdom good fruit it will bring
What’s sown by mankind, they’ll be reaping
It’s only a matter of time and soon I must be leaving
Suddenly the star was gone, I realized it was almost morn
The star I did not see, but I was feeling it was watching over me
The star I did not see, but I was feeling it was inside of me
The star I did not see, but I knew it was inside of me
By Clive Brown (2007, a warning for the king)
Anger is a Black God…The Father…
who with heart torn…broken;
hears the interminable cries
of prodigal sons and daughters.
Descendants of lost souls…long lost dark souls.
Souls abandoned to drift…aimlessly floating…
Many to be drowned beneath the turbulent waves
Or remain suspended in the Middle…
Of time’s mournful Passage…,
Seeking the prophetic, yet remote, shore
Of Martin’s dream…”The promised Land”.
Yes!…Anger is a Black God…
As He walks amidst the stifled screams
of still darker souls…souls imprisoned;
locked behind the cold inhumane steel jaws,
waiting to be slowly consumed within…
Deep within the voracious, impenitent bellies
of beastly…concrete slave-ships.
Where silent and solitary tears, burn faces black.
And…anguished black hearts, grieving
The distant hopes, and fleeting dreams,
of a regal nation…once proud, strong and righteous,
beat to the rhythm of Marley’s “Redemption Song”.
Yes!…anger is a Black God…
Who sees, feels, and hears the voice
of “Able”…his chosen,
while shackled and chained,
to chemical rock formations,
crying out from the blood soiled streets
of a so-called “Free Land”.
Where the “Cain” raised crops…
of greed, pleasure, and violence are harvested,
to the prevalent chant of “twin” un-spirituals…
“I’m Not My Brother’s Keeper and…I’m Just Doing Me”.
So…should you be moved to ask the question that is so plain to see.
Yes…anger is a Black God…a God that is Black like me.
By Clive Brown (2007, a warning for the king)
Woven within “Greed’s” scarlet web
Of corruption, schemes and misinformation
The delicately balanced fabric of life,
Fades into the dark shadow of death. Suffering, anger and chaos,
The common threads that bind the masses
Becomes the “rallying cry” of the deprived
As “prison plantations” rise and flourish
In decadence from state to state
“corporate vampires” clad
in “Media’s” deceptive cloak
cower behind poison “Ivy League”
covered walls of “Gated Communities”
Feasting like fiends, they gorge themselves
On the flesh and blood of the poor
In their gluttonly for wealth and power
They regurgitate their bile in madness
Creating bitter conflicts between brother and sister
Dividing and conquering countries and souls
They destroy the innocent and perfect Mother Earth
Trapped within “corporate castles”
They revel in their false sense of security
By Itoro Udofia (2009, Through The Eye of Bakok)
We can go and find the pieces we left along the way
Retell the story and take the things that make us tattered and torn,
tattered and worn
And suture us together again
Weave ourselves into beings that know we need mending,
Remember all the things we pushed aside
Find the hidden answers and shake the dust out
Call silenced things by their names, as we dig up our skeletons
and watch them turn human again
I’ll trace back to when we were outlined with night
And the stars lit our eyes
And the only us seen was eyes and teeth, eyes and teeth
I took one little star that lit your eyes, put it in mine, and left the rest of us out there
Us creatures of the night only allowing ourselves a mere outline,
I’ll bear witness to our brokenness
and maybe we’ll get closer to God’s reflection this way
Knowing we’re a patchwork in need of a trimming cause our edges are frayed,
Reaching the Promised Land, only to find we left pieces of our essence
along the way, I’ll ask the almighty for a needle and a thread
We are, a bunch of tiny things, in need of putting together
As we dig up our skeletons and watch them turn human again
By Iyawna Burnett (2016, tenderness)
I sit in silence as my city riots in a silent but deadly stampede
Broken, breaking barriers breaking down doors
Broken glass breaking Windows
just to let some air in suffocating barely breathing
Breathtaking how life can be sometimes or all the time most of the time
we are searching seeking thinking
something has to give giving everything for nothing
begging pleading snatching stealing any and everything
just to find something to live for to die for to be remembered for
even if its all for nothing
blinking staring off into the distance wiping running water from my eyes
gulping choking down pain like thick medicine
a taste of our own medicine
beef threats clap back fists thrown guns aimed shots fired
retaliate retaliate retaliate war
lives lost children lost my generation lost
an eye for an eye – we’re already blind – it’s too late
Broken hearts homes families broken
breaking news murder shots fired
a shooting here there here everywhere
which way is no where? You’re standing in it
Frozen, heart beating eyes leaking mind racing running chasing running chasing life chasing dreams running the streets running from beef or running to it
with thoughts of dying for respect guns blazing
blazing summers and mothers’ tears for another lost Son
my life your life
I sit in silence screaming as my city riots in a silent but deadly stampede
stop the violence marches and statuses speeches and preaching
but nothing is sinking in
its a lose lose the system will forever win
R.I.P over and over and not many over 23
if you ask me where I’m from
ask me where young men go to die
rep streets give their life for respect and sets
ask me where is nowhere
Breathtaking how life can be sometimes or all the time
most of the time we are just searching seeking
thinking something has to give!
giving everything for nothing begging pleading snatching stealing any and everything just to find something to live for to die for to Be remembered for
even if its all for nothing in the middle of nowhere
I’m trying to find hope in a city so broken
hoping to get somewhere before it’s too late !
Split in Two
By Iyawna Burnett (2013, Fo n’ale)
If time stood still
I could divide myself in two
I could be both me’s
in both places
at the exact same time
leaving one home behind
while running to what's ahead.
I know where home is
Both beds have let me lay
Blankets and pillows,
and all that hold my past and present
and all that holds my head at night
when I cry
So I will be both places at the same time
aching for home when here
aching for home
I divide myself in two
I can be both me’s in both places at the same time.
time stops
And I stand in the middle with my bags packed,
dividing myself in two
so in both places I stand at once,
neither here nor there.
Yearning for a fresh start
and aching for the familiar
leaving my self behind
to find what's up ahead.
I’m torn, with bags packed
Muttering, under heavy breath
“I'm going home.”
And then, at that same time
in both same places, I begin to go, to leave
And at that exact moment,
crossing myself,
I walk right by me,
heading to the place I left,
going to the place I'm leaving.
I arrive, and it's as if I never left
but I will always go back,
To unpack
To stay,
To leave again, with bags packed
and head home
to unpack the love.
My home is where my heart is
and my heart is split in two.
By James Hall (2007, a warning for the king)
Rap Mantans
Dancing for white man
Now you reppin your hood on Indian land
White man lies
Look into a white mans eyes
Who’s the real criminal since Columbus’s time
I’m the truth, that same bullshit in your rhymes
You goin clap something, but where come room for realize
I’m from the hood, but before that comes the realer things
Like how they tore us from home, made us slaves
Put us in projects like animals in a cage
Showed us life at the lowest class, poisoned our brains
Made our lifestyle cold
On da land of lost souls
Some parts in my hood, one time don’t go
How many rocks have you soldTo white folk though
Close to none. Son, you surrounded by your own
I understand though, I’ve done the same
I’m still cleaning the poison out of some parts of my brain
If it aint AIDS, its drugs
And if it aint drugs, the some got clapped
Some natural, but when last you heard it at.
They killin us softly, playing the sucker
I hit the suburbs, sell to these rich MF
Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth
Fuck America, we got our own flag to salute
Red White and Blue,
Liberty and justice for who?
That aint what X died for, X died for the truth
You letting the power of loot close your eyes to that
And it’s easy to put a knife in a blind man’s back
Wake the fuck up, see whats goin on out here
I know little kids with guns that will clap you and don’t care
We’re in a war zone training for warfare
Don’t flip on me, the enemy right there
Why we scared to speak out to one another
Is it because if you did, you feel like a sucker?
And if somethings said to us, why don’t we listen to one another
So I ask you again, does it make you feel like a sucker?
So tell me are you leader or follower, brother?
By Julie Lichtenberg, 2009
Is she is she
Is she a warrior?
Was there a struggle?
Is there evidence of a struggle?
evidence
like phone phobia
and dark-room PTSD….
Like teaching her 3 year old to dress in under 2 minutes
Just in case…
Evidence of a warrior battle won, this evidence carefully folded and hidden in stories told
a hundred times
to a daughter’s obsessed ears
a daughter’s adventure-thirsty ears
Bloodthirsty ears
Ears transfixed, and morbidly fascinated by the hiding
By the dark apartment, by the hand over her mouth and the knocks on the door
The identity papers and train stations,
By truck rides in the middle of the night, and the baby hidden in an oven,
and drugged to sleep, so she wouldn’t cry out
so many stories of people who nearly got caught, just barely escaped, didn’t make it,
never came back, risked their life for another, lost, and then found each other.
Or never did.
Is it the fine line, the fine line, the fine line, the fine, fine line.
Is this about the fine line between living to tell it, or not?
Evidence of a warrior-battle won, this evidence carefully folded and hidden in stories told
a hundred times
After she learned to remain silent,
carefully look only at her feet, ask and answer no questions
My mother still stuck her tongue out at the Nazis
In her six year old act of silent resistance.
Does that make her a warrior? Or is it simply the living that she did,
how she made her life,
woke up each morning, made plans,
changed them, and kept going…
This is the gift my mother gave me.
How to keep going in the face of the horror
how to see the madness
how to not back away
how to stare it down.
She gave me the gift of knowing that each of us
must answer
some very basic questions
in the privacy of our own souls.
By Julie Lichtenberg (2006, Walk With Me)
The world is frozen
and time has come full circle
It doesn’t seem to matter
what day
what country
what people
Freedom must be held inside us
and protected fiercely
private and sacred as a stone
which comes from forever and before
which belongs to no one, and each of us
No, not the stone
but the gaps and sparks between the molecules
that make the stone
In these spaces, something resides
so elusive that no one can take it away
Liquid and vapor
never still
passing
from one to another
like a smile.
The Power of my Womanhood
By Keiry Heath (2019, Stand Tall Mi Gente!)
I’ve been thinking about how your words have held me back
from being who I really am and who I want to be.
I want you to know how much your words hurt me.
Your words made it clear that my opinions aren’t valid.
And so, I stopped expressing them.
Your words made it clear that my feelings aren’t valid.
And so, I held them in.
Your words sexualized me. I hate that you sexualize me.
It makes me want to hide my body.
At times your words destroyed my confidence.
All to belittle my power
The power of my womanhood.
Understand
That I really don’t need your validation.
I will use all your hurtful words to fuel my power
to grow and become an even stronger woman.
I will continue to flourish…
I have the power to be who I want to be
To do what I want to do
I am divine feminine energy….
by Paris Holmes
I remember the smell of school on the first day.
The old brick building next to the church.
The way the wooden floors smelled.
The way the pencils smelled.
The books. I’m the only one out of my seven brothers and sisters
who hasn’t been to jail.
But you don’t have to go to jail to be in bondage
To experience imprisonment.
I’ve had shackles on my feet, been on lockdown
A long long time
and I didn’t even know it.
Always been somethin holding me down
I just knew somethin was holdin me down.
No can’t won’t don’t don’t say that!
It wasn’t mine…..
this mandatory life sentence passed from generation to generation
The prison goes way back
I was locked up by the time I was seven,
Forty six years old
when I finally got out.
My family is from Springfield
The North End
The Projects
Down South
Brownwood Georgia
My family is from Chaos
And I am accustomed to their ways
They are funny
Mean
There
And Missing
Strict
And loving
They called me Skinny Minny
I can still smell the blackberries in the woods goin up the trail
near the West Street Park
And the pissy smell in the elevator of my projects
And the smell in the sandbox in front of my building
The Chaos is still all around me, pulling.
The silence is trying to weigh me down
I’m catchin my breath
I’m catchin my breath
I’ve caught my breath
Finally, I will learn to drive
I plan to own my own house
I will write a book
and I will
be the first in my family
to go to college
by Shareef Ibrahim (2010, Mural Project and First Generation)
Take a look at my life
I might be different from you
But I still live the same everyday life that you do
I too was born with the need for connection
It’s so hard
When I was a baby everybody wanted to hold me
Now they say I am a danger to society
I’m no different I’m just like you
I bet we feel the same pain
Been through the same struggles
Struggle from bondage
Struggle to break through
Loss of connection
Looking for our roots
And reaching for the truth
Let me ask you a question
Do you have a dream?
Well I do….
I sit back
close my eyes
paint a picture in my mind
Time after time
By Stickii Gadson (2012, Ripple Effect)
Place Passion, Drive and Promise into a large casserole
and turn the heat to medium high.
Add 1 heaping cup of struggle
and three quarters of a lb of hustle
Sprinkle with 4 oz of fast money and cocaine
Cook over a low flame, stirring occasionally
until your strength softens and your world begins to fall apart.
(about 10 minutes)
Warm your frozen heart with another hit in a small saucepan over medium heat.
Throw in 8 kids by 4 different women and a fast track to destruction
and whisk for 11 years
Add 2 years jail time and turn the heat down to low.
Beat for 3 years until your life begins to break up.
Mix in 1 cup of halfway house
and a tablespoon of new love.
Bring to a boil,
then turn the heat down and cook uncovered.
Add a new beginning,
generously blending in second chances until your new life is tender
and your past is just about absorbed.
It should take about 3 to 5 years.
Add in the pinch of HIV and stir.
Cook for 1 to 2 years,
raising the heat if necessary to cook off the remaining days.
Dad, close your eyes, and rest in peace……
Cause your just about ready!
By Stickii Gadson (2012, Ripple Effect)
Preheat the earth to 350 degrees Fahrenheit
In a medium sauce pan, over low flame, melt all the DREAMS of your ancestors until liquefied and golden
Carefully pour the hot liquid into a small vessel and watch the MAGIC unfold.
Dice 4lbs of CONFLICT and throw it into the FIRE
Then let CULTURE reconstruct the SPIRIT
Whisk in a pinch of CHANGE and watch CONNECTION transform war into laughter.
Soak 7 oz. of DREAMS until they absorb all the HUMOR they can hold.
Then marinade your SPIRIT in the mixture for many GENERATIONS.
Fold in 2 cups of BREATH and let your VOICE carry your story EVERYWHERE.
Grandma, the way your smooth gray hair curls astounds me
And the way your house always smelled like home
You were always in the kitchen making a delicious meal
And you used to always say, “It’s going to be ok”
I love how you smelled like Rare Pearls, your favorite perfume
And how you loved dressing up and wearing one of your many church hats
The way you wore the color peach
The way you cooked Mac and cheese and Caramel cake
You loved eating glazed donuts
You hated when people were dishonest and disrespectful
Grandma, the way you loved me, makes me stronger
and love you even more…
Your memory will always live on through me
- Taja Wiggins, Ripple Effect
By Thea Som (2005, Walk With Me)
Tremble sky, roar of thunder, rival lions
that filled the aura with only violence.
Hold in silence is the anger that feels.
With no control,
nothing to hold hands that fold
into a clutching fist, swollen veins.
Chewed up tongue, angry grin
untamed knuckles allay in strain.
Drifting soul in flood of pain
thunderstorm hurricane
drops of rain plunging hail
Strikes that bleed flowing pale.
By Thea Som (2005, Walk With Me)
I’ve heard it all.
Through the words of my mother, I’ve seen him fall.
My brother tied at his arms, down on his knees.
The Khmer Rouge wrapped a handkerchief around his head
that covered his eyes. I couldn’t believe my eyes
what my mind had in picture.
She cried as the trauma came back into her life.
Her thoughts choked as the past tried to speak.
I could see that it is prodding her that I’ve asked.
She took a deep sigh and lay back on her chair to relax.
She never mentioned I had another older brother,
back then he was my age now.
Somehow I could envision him going down by a single gunshot.
Bang!
My mother weak in the knees, soaked with tears,
as my brother was kicked to the ground face first body laid in the dirt.
I could feel the shivering words coming from her.
It hurts seeing my brother killed in front of her.
She wanted to bury him but she had another son to look after.
Now she is pregnant, carrying me, traveling through the killing field.
There were dead bodies everywhere,
some from bullet wounds and some from land mines.
The time is 1979.
My family had to leave everything behind
and the Thai border seems impossible to find.
By Thea Som (2004)
It took generation of blood to animate this flesh and soul.
Eyes of elders stare at me with a blot disappointment.
I am no longer welcome in their house.
I don’t want to live life so restless
Or die without a meaning.
I look at the stars
And wonder what story they have to tell
By Yissel Rosario (2009, Through The Eye of Bakok)
Dominicana Soy
Dominicana soy porque canto esta cancion
Fernandito Villalona el idolo de Quisqueya
El nino mimado. Querido. El mayimbe.
La historia de mi Quisqueya
Tainos muertos Carribe’s muertos
A la merced de Europeos
Libertadores
Juan Pablo Duarte, Francisco del Rosario Sanchez, Ramon Matias Mella
Politicos corruptos
Genocidio
Dominicano. Haitiano. Mujer. Nina.
Por racismo, sexismo, y oposicion
Con sus manos manchadas de sangre te presento
Al Dicatdor Rafael Leonidas Trujillo
Acesinado
Porque lo que se hace aqui, se paga aqui !
Gracias a las hermanas Mirabales
“En el tiempo de las Mariposas”
Soy Dominicana
Dominicana Soy porque soy humilde
Porque soy dulce y a la vez escandaloza
Esto me lo enseno mi historia Quisqueyana
Esto me lo enseno mi dulce Mama:
Dominicana soy y lo llevo entre mis venas
Corriendo como los rios
Que baja con fluidez
Con calma y proteccion
A la vez peligroso
Dominicana Soy
Y siempre sere
Porque aunque no sea cantante o bailarin
Cuando hablo hay un ritmo
Un son que mueve nuestras bocas
Y hace que nuestra lengua baile
“ven vamo a baila…”
un perico ripiao
tambora
guira
accordion
un perico ripiao
pa los Dominicano
un perico ripiao
gaga
Haitiano
africando
Tamboriando
africando
Tamboriando
pa los Dominicano pa los Dominicano pa los Dominicano
Dominicana soy
Y seguire cantando