We Who Believe In Freedom

We who believe in freedom cannot rest…the song goes.  We who believe in freedom cannot rest until it's done.  The struggle has not ended it has only just begun.

A woman whose voice must be heard. 

A woman whose cry is a silent scream.  

Hear me now, she is tired of looking at a tear stained face with eyes that tell the tale of giving up….or giving in.  That was somebody’s child that died over in the avenues last night.  That was somebody’s potential that lay in the streets for hours as the police tape was strung and the memorial of teddy bears and candles and flowers was sprung. 

We who believe in freedom cannot rest until it’s done. 

Black woman, mother, daughter once strong and proud now weary of the cold and bitter place.  That child slipped from your grasp….lost under the veil of darkness the senseless hatred and anger and lost hope.  

Promises unfulfilled.

Black on black crime.  

Youth versus youth. 

The slavery of the times.  

We who believe in freedom are fighting the real civil war on these streets that breed a spirit of tragedy.  

Babies are still being born to babies…
Mothers ill equipped and unprepared for what life brings today.  
Hunger, poverty unchurched-ness. 

The spirit of lack and want. 

Where once was the crack house is now the meeting corner - 

Standing at attention in the uniform of the day….

Standing waiting for something to happen…

Shoot now question later.

Learning the sweet talk at an early age.

But Jesus she is only 13!  

Waiting for that baby daddy to show up with a 50 count diaper pack to fulfill his commitment until his memorial is sprung.

We who believe in freedom cannot rest until its done.

Inspiration

Inspiration repeats in my spirit -

Thinking back to the times of great sacrifice.

In fields crying, "Sweet chariot, come forth, carry me home".

My inspiration.

Swinging hoes -

Breath strained from tired lungs and aching backs.

Grand-mamas balancing fitful babies on broad hips.

Stirring  pots of snapped peas,

Mopping sweat with white flour sack rags -

Kept in the secret place betwixt full breasts that no longer suckle.

My inspiration.

Music and laughter like some sweet concoction flowing from the floor boards of that God forbid room.

Arguing, loud voices thick with cheap liquor, black tar death and reefer madness.

Forgetting all manner of respect one for another.

Escalating craziness.  

Somebody's child gone much too soon.

Dead, dieing, spent, crippled, locked up -

My inspiration.

Mamas crying on church floors splayed out before God begging for mercy

Seeking peace after nights of worry and fear.

Where is that daughter that brought so much joy?

Where is that son of great potential?  

My inspiration.

Then came Jesus.  Need I say more?

Write My Way Out!

When the enemy attacks it is like a strong unrelenting wave of heat that bubbles up from the bottom of my feet and spills out of my hands.  The same hands I use to write the poems, the sonnets, the words of encouragement, the shouts of praise, the tunes of observation.
An attack so low down and dirty that it practically takes my breath away and makes me feel closed in on all sides by a wall too thick to penetrate.  Stuck can't move, can't leave, can't even run.
It is when the fire burns within that calls me to my writing place.  The place where the words flow freely and I can sit contemplating the real rawness of it all.  That center of me, my birthing place.
This is where I write my way out. 
I write my way out. 
I write my way out. 
It is then I know I am doing that thing that pleases God most. This is where he created me to be.  

Ah, jazz!

Listening to jazz…the highs, lows and smooth in-betweens, the notes slide and sway this way and that.  Ah, Jazz.  Horace Silver, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Fats Waller, Duke Ellington and ah yes, Ahmad Jamal sounds that make you shiver and wish there was a man of the hour to love.

Listening to jazz….ah, that sweet all authentic American sound….words like compelling and absolute wonder as someone says it feels as though you are ease dropping on private moments, love serenades, blessed waltzes, cherished times that fade too quickly. 

Listening to jazz….soulful meandering melodies sweet and thick as molasses oozing forth from the mouths of true American beauties mothers of a nation of black folk, Sarah, Billy  a strange fruit a sickening sweetness speaking of life at its rawness, its uncompromising lonesomeness found only in shared experiences that make you nod and agree.

Listening to jazz....the rap, tap staccato spells casted over sin sick souls lost in the wild wilderness of dark allies, dank corners, seedy hotels a musty smell so thick it can be cut with a knife or pierced through a hardened heart as though by a found .38.  Stale liquor that is the life mixed with the unmistakable smell of horse trot, nod .

Listening to jazz….conjuring up a history long past.  Slave times and rhythms from Congo Square. The pulsating heart beats of broken black men.  Lester Young never really understood. Magical compositions springing forth from a dark and brooding soul. A pain, a heart broke from much too much and yet never enough. Still a black man in a white world. One could not live one without the other and there’s Billy…God bless the child.

Listening to jazz….ooo, John Coltrane take me there!  That blow man, blow, transcending all things in the natural making it prayerful in the spirit world.  Music breaking the blues boundaries.  No wrong notes just every everything that’s right …that makes you feel something in a world that would like you to forget and numbed. Ah, jazz a few of my favorite things.

Listening to jazz…..free to be Arnett Coleman…..free floating sounds against a rhythm as old as time slapping bass and deeply hearing new discoveries of what goes with what.

Ah, jazz.