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why i write (a personal anthem) i write because i never want to die. long after my pen has rolled its final word, i expect to be heard. when it becomes hard to picture exactly what i look like, my wrinkled expression some faint, faded charcoal drawing, i suspect someone will try to picture how i looked, which way i tilted my head and how i creased my brow when i was serious and thinking. when no one can feel the glare of my smile, someone will hear my laughter. i am a Blackwomanwriter bequeathing words and reflection, words and introspection, words and early detection to my people. they will know when i am gone what i have known, seen, felt, heard, touched and smelled. i will live forever and ever . . . amen my pen has become a voice so much a part of me that i hear it even when i choose not to listen. we are inseparable, this voice and i. we hurt from the same wounds, cry the same tears, rejoice in identical laughter, bask in the same intellect, and speak the same uncensored and unapologetic truths. the pen and i must continue to be one forever and ever . . . amen. my writing has evolved for many relevant reasons and many times for no reason at all. i write for sarah vaughn's funny valentines and billie's blue soul lullabies and dizzy's tilted, trumpeted nights in tunisia and the bird man down in birdland; because stevie wonder and aretha and sweet honey in the rock stir my soul to a tremor; because maya angelou knows why the caged bird sings; because langston hughes wondered as he wandered; because sweet lorraine had a tough message to fall on many a young deaf ear and only three gifted and Black decades to get through to somebody; because baldwin understood that we all must have a drug to endure this journey; we must prepare for the fire next time . . . some of us shoot up on paper; because vanessa williams never believed them when they called her indecent. that deep-down voice inside told her real queens don't need tiaras to walk in beauty like the night; i write because the Creator will not enter every man-made structure, but She instructs me daily from within; i write because i am a Brown woman with Black roots and lots of knew-growth . . . i write, i write, i write . . . because it's the only logical response to an illogical situation. if you find me sitting over an unfinished work that i am no longer sculpting with my pen, conjure me an epitaph (the living need those too, you know): "here lies miss vivian's little happy nappy-go faithfully Blackgirl. she spent her life looking for her own space, and holding the hands of her sisters, and massaging the keloid lashes in the backs of Black men and restoring Black people to their greatness. the girl wrote herself to death . . . amen. Cherryl Floyd-Miller (c) -- PoetLDM@aol.com. ************************************************************** IF I HAD KNOWN (for a friend) If I had known you were there for all these years waiting I would have held my breath more tightly and pray the Lord, my soul to keep till we meet in God's time. If I knew meeting you would bring the joy I dream of, I would have saved all hugs and kisses in all the banks of the world just for the day we will first kiss. If I knew it would be the greatest time I'd hear a voice sweet as yours, I would have left my heart safe, to hear you sing day after day. If I knew your arms were so warm, I wouldn't have died in cold embraces who chant "I love you," and kill me so softly till I faded out of sight. If I knew living together with you would be like being in heaven I would have asked to share your days, longer than we do today and surely wouldn't let this slip away. Though I heard there is surely tomorrow to make up for an oversight, and we always get a second chance to make everything right will it be true to know you? And if there will be a way to say softly "I love you," and there's something to do just to dream of you, please, tell me gently. And just in case I am wrong in saying how much I love you or that I dream of how good it would be to know you will you gently and softly forgive me. It was my grandmother who once said, "Tomorrow is not promised to anyone and love springs even in winter. So when Autumn comes, learn to water the plants so that they flower in the Fall." So if today may be the only time to get and hold your loved one tight, should we wait for tomorrow, cursing that the cat meows to early in the rising sun of today? And what if tomorrow never comes to make us regret the day we met and forgot our doorbells should chime. If there is a time for a smile, a hug, or a kiss, this is the time you must turn close to make that one last wish. If there is a time to hold your love close to a heart that cares so much, or whisper into the ears that want you to tell them how much you love them and that you'll always hold them dear, this is the only time. Can you make it by taking time to say it all over and bless the years ahead of you with tears of love? This is the only time especially if tomorrow never comes, to make you live in it again or meet your love again. Padmore Agbemabiese (c) -- agbemabiese.1@osu.edu ******************************************************* ALL THAT REALLY MATTERED I might have stayed there engaged in the process, caught up in the cycle, needing us to be, being what you needed but never being needed by you. I might have made demands that elicited half-hearted promises that echoed in the chamber of insincerity because in reality there was never an us, only a you, only a me, and a process that made us want there to be something we shared that was more tangible than just the same name. I might have reasoned longer had I not been 21, and positive it wasn't meant to be so hard, and that the only word that really mattered in the English language was "next." Peggy Eldridge-Love (c) -- plovewriter@yahoo.com ******************************************************* WHEN ENOUGH IS TOO MUCH Our ability to accept as black people especially black women may lead as much to our demise as well as our survival. Sisters accept the fact that we are mothers/fathers/lovers/friends counselors/and diplomats expected to wash/clean/fix and function while we supervise/organize/delegate and mediate We shop/drive/tote/lift/haul/put away bathe children/pack lunches/do laundry/correct homework and still cook dinner/dress wounds/stroke egos/look pretty and give encouragement, love and satisfaction to our men, even when they ignore/chastise/misunderstand/ vent rage/put down/ drink/smack/hit and are unfaithful all while pushing aside our own aspirations/hopes/dreams/and heartaches blaming ourselves for our children's fears/insecurities/and problems and our husband's girlfriends, as well. One day, if I were to peel off all of my clothes while walking out on the most important meeting/power lunch/dinner party/ parent conference/counseling session while pulling at my hair, perhaps making the six o'clock news sistas watching around the world might finally say enough is enough. Jamal Sharif (c) -- super_sister@yahoo.com -- From her book "Passion, Pride and Politickin': Homegrown Poetry and Essays" ******************************************************* MO TEA SUH? Sometimes I think If born in those times Of slavery If the master proclaimed The house nigga Was only allowed to write words of meaning Which is my passion Would I serve crumpets with tea and eat their scraps? To retrieve old pens and dried up papers To express words Never to be heard or read By my people Since the field hands had no reason to either In their eyes It is definitely something to ponder But I think maybe my pension as a child For writing words in the mud With my finger when it rained Is an indication That the answer would be HELL NO! Richard A. Parks Jr. a/k/a "RiP" (c) -- president@nusawf.com -- From his book "Someone Is Sleeping In My Head" *********************************************** FREEDOM For only a word I was called away, From my love, my hopes, my dreams, my morality. I have become a killer in the name of two syllables, And as I lay loose my wrath I wonder how seven letters can separate murder from duty. Though I know the answer I pretend that I don't. I tell myself that I believe in our oxymoronic disposition, And that we are murderers in the name of God and righteousness. I am an executioner of the innocent, But in their death they serve the great word. As I gaze at the radar screen I see people running as we fly overhead. I turn the key, the latch opens, and a laser-guided bomb finds its target. I wipe the sweat from my brow, and wonder why I must see so clearly the people I am hurting. Devin Dickerson (c) -- sdickerson@whitneybank.com -- Devin is 16 years old and attends both NOCCA and Math &Science Academy in New Orleans, Louisiana. Devin wrote "Freedom" to express his views on what war means to him. *********************************************** YOUR SCENT STILL LINGERS ON MY PILLOW your scent still lingers on my pillow i am lonely because there is only space between my arms now that your side of the bed is cool this morning my lips parted to inhale you now, they part with a sly "remember when" grin for those moments shared by only u and i it does not matter that we have not always seen eye to eye what matters is that despite it all, still we try . . . and "why?" is a useless word in our vocabulary yes, at times I have lashed out in anger tears gave way to fear and my pen became my sword when you and my heart were at war but no more . . . from this day forth, my pen will only write love songs in your honor see we are connected because we each hear our own voice in the other's laughter, because when we are together nothing else matters, because your scent still lingers on my pillow and it surrounds me completely even when u are physically absent . . . your scent still lingers on my pillow and before I close my eyes, i inhale once more and u appear because i am where u belong and i always will be . . . Tonya Marie Evans (c) -- TMARIE3@email.msn.com -- Tonya is the author of "Seasons of Her" and spoken word CD, "Shine". For more details, visit Tonya's web site at (www.fyos.com). ******************************************* SELF-RESTRAINT Self-restraint sho' ain't as easy as it appears to be 'cause I wanna say in an unrestricted way how bad I want you and everything I could do to earn and keep your love but then I'm forced to think of her and then you and then you with her and though my focus blurs I can still see you don't belong to me and that instantly authenticates the absolute need for self-restraint but it sho' ain't as easy as it appears to be so damn, stop flirting with me while I'm trying desperately not to feel what I feel even though you're ideal another sista's pain will NEVER carry my name because I will always draw the line and stay away from what ain't mine but believe me, self-restraint sho' ain't as easy as it appears to be. Cynthia Moore (c) -- cmoproductions@hotmail.com *********************************************** EMBER warm glow dimmed never extinguished flickering through the harsh winds of change orange red fire pulsing rising heat mirrors our hearts growing changing shifting taste and texture bending never breaking yielding never stopping extant Glendon Cameron (c) -- Onixxprose@yahoo.com ********************************************** SECRET HIDEAWAY nervousness melts away as the warmth of a southern breeze traces the edge of my face reminiscent of a favorite dream the wind blows me through secret passageways and darkened corridors that hold precious memories of warm underground springs and hidden valleys.... sweet solace from the world above the sounds are soft and inviting and I lose myself in a flood of emotions intense but so very tender as I shed the layers of fear and shame and step out naked trembling not from cold but from sheer delight I submerge myself in the warmth and float effortlessly on my back ...in the darkness I watch as sunlight creeps through tiny crevices sparkling like distant stars creating my own private heaven. Veronica Tezion (c) -- vtezino@msn.com *********************************************** STUCK ON "IF" If I were to leave you would you even notice that the nature of who I am is gone away? If I were to remove my royal beams that support you do you know that your strength would diminish to mere nothingness for I am the foundation that concedes you... Would you wake in the middle of the night searching for my warmth sniffing for the scent of me calling for the flesh of my thighs Would you lie in bed on Sunday morning waiting for your Spirit to rise? Cause see it wasn't just my sexuality that brought you to your knees It be my knowledge of God and life it be my spirituality duality and simple ability to be all that you thought you wanted and even more of that you didn't even know you needed. . . If I were to leave you If I were to leave If I wasn't stuck on "IF" I'd Be GONE Tanya King (c) -- journeywrites@yahoo.com *********************************************** THIS AIN'T ME Sometimes I have to get away From how much I love you I hate the way you make me feel I hate the way I stay up All hours of the night Waiting for you to call Waiting for you to swing by the house. Turning down the TV So I can hear your knock at the door This ain't ME Waiting to wash my hair because You might come by Crying because I haven't heard your voice all day Getting up from my bed because I think I heard your car, but I didn't But I get up fifteen minutes later Because I think I heard you again This ain't ME Trying to convince myself at two in the morning That it's ok for me to go to sleep That the world won't end if I see you Tomorrow instead of tonight and then Closing my eyes for thirty minutes Of glorious sleep only to awake Because I think I heard your car again. This ain't ME Staying home Just in case You come by No more wild nights with the girls No more unscheduled day trips Not because you told me too, because Just in case You drop by I'm staying home This ain't ME Stop being so damn lovable So I can visit some of my friends Cuss me out one good time So I won't feel so bad When I spend the weekend in Atlanta Put a phone number in your pocket So I can sit up and eat a pint of ice cream in my pajamas that's gots feets in them (the ugly ones with the ice skating penguins, please). On Saturday morning with one braid pointing to the sky And the other pointing toward Alabama With the crust in my eyes. Forget to call me a couple of days So I can tell you to eat or starve Instead of trying to figure out how to make my potpie without peas. So I can put on my faded purple Hanes sweat suit With the lint pills on the seat of my pants Stick cotton balls between my toes and Give myself a pedicure. Sometimes you get on my Damn Nerves All I want is for you to leave me alone But I let you sit up in my house and pick at me Because the only thing that would make me more upset Was if you weren't here. So Never mind I got you whipped, but in the process I messed around and Let you turn me out. This ain't ME. This is me by You. Adrienne Leonard (c) -- alouise27@hotmail.com ************************************************* N OTHER WORDS. . .THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED (A Tribute 2 Gil Scott Heron) I can still hear Gil Scott Heron Hollerin' at the top of his lungs The Revolution Will Not Be Televised The Revolution Will Not Be Televised The Revolution Will Not Be Televised Be advised We're fighting a war And no more tears are shed for your cause Than come from your own eyes because The Revolution Will Not Be Televised White lies Black lies Bold face lies Hide covert ties to injustice N other words The Revolution Will Not Be Televised The deaf ear of our society Will not hear our cries Instead they hear us enter a plea Innocent isn't an option They've already found us guilty of something If nothing else... Of telling the truth The Revolution Will Not Be Televised Only one thing has changed in 30 years Now their fears have a voice For a small price Cable TV offers you a choice Between right wing ideology Left wing rhetoric And rap videos disguised as the truth but The Revolution Will Not Be Televised If you're looking for it Check pay-per-view They'll try to sell you a revolution as seen through their eyes Filled with white lies Black lies Bold face lies That hide covert ties to injustice N other words. . .Our Revolution The Revolution. . .Will Not Be Televised There won't be a halftime show featuring J Lo And even with Nikes on People won't be able to jump out of the way There won't be a million dollar field goal attempt with a consolation prize The Real Thing will take on a whole new meaning And the Sopranos will have no meaning at all Oprah won't have time to do an interview Cause The Revolution Will Not Be Televised I can still hear Gil Scott Heron Hollerin at the top of his lungs The Revolution Will Not Be Televised The Revolution Will Not Be Televised The Revolution Will Not Be Televised The Revolution Will Be No Re-Run Brothers The Revolution Will Be Live Keenan Pendergrass (c) -- jazz21kp@hotmail.com -- Keenan is the author of "African Angels: Poetry for the Mind, Body and Spirit". Visit his web site at (www.poeticsoul.com) to find out more about the author.
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