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AFRICA Dear Mother, this story is a song sang into minds....our minds, your mind, her mind, his mind....it speaks of nothing new; it is old, but it is new. This letter, it speaks of tears of mothers crying for their sons falling by the wretched sea; it speaks of scars carried long, long on the heart, on the mind. And everywhere I go I stumble on these scars. It is on the breast of the ocean, on the streets of the sky, under the armpit of the wind. It is on the face of our smiles. It confronts me, you, he, she, night and day, moon and shine, dripping blood in every space. They stand in the shadow of the rivers, stroll on roads to the golf course. They shoot pathetic death into loins, firing musketry into minefields. We dress them for the table, for postmortem, and we weep floods for flames sparked in Mississippi, Oklahoma, Alabama, Soweto, Burundi, Rwanda. They shred our dreams to dirges our festival to nightmares, dine flames into our eyes.. our minds....our arms.... You need not come with me down this road to hear we die.........hungry free men homeless sons of Malcolm X, King Jr. Marcus Garvey, Lumumba, Kwame Nkrumah, and I remember the kingdom without your children. And we fade, we fade, fade into arms of Guns and Roses...gunsgunsgunsgunsguns and we fade. Have we not lost Toussaint, Macandal, Lumumba to the savage haste of gnomic gods? What about the profiteering angels? Did you hear the wife of the Circus Manager, Rome rode the mule to the market? We bought the viruses in the restaurants, in the grocery shops, and at school we read our names from the bottom to the top of the page. There were men without names, even, in the telephone directory. Who remembers then wives bereft of husbands, women weeping, mothers wailing for sons falling to the hangman, daughters lost to a wretched Sea that washed shores long, long ago? It is a story not told in history, nor read in books, nor remembered in memories. And this story speaks of time not named; nor quoted by lips to you, me, he, she, and we. And these eyes get widened to dress another skin. Tell them from me "We all are children of AFRICA" Padmore Agbemabiese (c) firstname.lastname@example.org =================================================== revolution conversation piece it's gotta be a little bigger than just you and me outside appearances or individual strategies see we're dying out there and just maybe you don't care cause it's not directly affecting you or your world revolves around whether or not i look black enough or if my words are deep dope or big enough but little boys know how to break down a compound of cocaine rob steal and kill as if they've gone insane and what once was a world filled with pink houses baby dolls and lipsticks is now our reality of babies having babies cheap tricks and little girls who think that having a man is the sh.. revolution you say i'm hearing every word yet i can't seem to focus on the situation see my people are dying and we don't even cause a commotion don't give a damn or just don't have time for those emotions Angela (Genez) Singletary (c) email@example.com =================================================== WOMEN LIKE ME skin bleach---soft as a peach chemical peel---to spin his wheel hair weave---please don't leave colored contacts---see, I ain't so black TRAPPED in the unappreciated body of a black girl trying forever to shake it like a white girl in hopes of catching a "brotha" Doin' all the hip flips to the fly beats and funky tracks of a hip hop tune in between trips to Sheila's Hair Emporium for a touch of that chemical magic. Forever reminded of my darker hue by the way I always seem to disappear before the eyes of a "brotha". Being invisible makes it harder to be noticed in a hair shakin' bright smilin' world. What do you when your hair don' bounce and your smile ain't so bright? Fade to black I suppose. I say fade to emphasize how gradual the process of building in a vacuum is. Discover a niche a notch a place where they'd expect to see women like you. Lose yourself in a groove toward you. See yourself in a frantic race to escape. before it's too late. "Free South Africa" a cry leads the march "Africa for Africans" and the realization starts. I am an African/can't you see? Where is the place for women like me? Locked outside by a perm and a name Locked inside a culture opposed and vain. There is no balance for women like me. Like a coke a smile some brotha's caught the wave. Bits of me reappeared it eased my pain for a while. How long could he ride that cresting wave the rocks approached and reality remained. On his arm I'd never be 'cause it wasn't the place for women like me. In the final chapter when white ain't so right when brothers throw caution and put up a fight. When a brown paper bag loses it's sting and we let the crab before us go up and sprout wings. When black becomes righteous and real to the roots. When sisters like me ain't just for "da boots". Then there will be a place to let our light shine and women like me will be just fine. Ajani Kush (c) firstname.lastname@example.org =================================================== I AM A RAINBOW Who am I? I am a rainbow. I am filled with the spirit and blood, of a long dead slave. Who am I? I am a rainbow. I am the daughter of a decedent, of a 'Yellow' man, who migrated to the west, and mixed with a 'Red' woman. Who am I? I am a rainbow. I am the granddaughter of that 'Yellow' man, and that 'Red woman'. I married a black man. Who am I? I am a rainbow. I am the great granddaughter of the yellow man, and the red woman, that married a black man, who was the decedent of a king. Who am I? I am a rainbow. I am the best of all of my seeds. I speak English, Spanish, and French. I am a mixture of Cultures, yet I embrace only one. Who am I? I am a black woman. L.K. "Rose" Ford (c) ROSEFORMS@aol.com =================================================== YOUNG BLACK MAN Expresso skin and chocolate eyes: These are the visions that arise, But there's more to him than we could surmise or ever understand. Painful hardships and stereotypes Are known too will before his mind is ripe. Who knows how many tears he has wiped and wasted into the sand. To tear him down until he is weak Break his heart and bruise his cheek Dim his soul, make his future bleak-- its all in the ultimate plan. As society's scapegoat for every crime, He's overpaid his price, over-done his time. Yet, his presence remains sublime, and with pride he continues to stand. Little has changed from how things were. Those remembering the past may cause a stir, But nothing in life will ever deter The soft, sweet, irrepressible, lovable, determined, intellectual, forever, strong and always powerful YOUNG BLACK MAN. Trend (VeraCity) Truesdale (c) email@example.com =================================================== UNIVERSAL BLACKNESS Are you gonna blame me for my color, or because I have an attitude? Can you blame me for I know not what I have done? Is it because I'm black that you treat me so primitive? I can't help it! Are you trying to enslave me or destroy me? But you will not break me or enslave me because I am the child of my colored Father, Jesus. I can't help if my blackness is universal. Alonzo Carr (c) Angela.Jones-Carr@siemenscom.com
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