#12-Naprowrimo

#12 of Naprowrimo

Easter or re-Matt:28

-Revive
Early, Sunday morning, while the new day was dawning,
-Relife
Came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to the tomb.
-Re-
-It was the women who believed, even until the end.
Everything.
-Look at those places in your heart where pieces of your hope has died
Come! See the place where the lord lay.
-Even God, descended into hell. Why should we not? Even still why should we then not be blessed to rise from our hell?
For He has risen as He said!
-Why does it need repeating? Once should have been enough! But, why then, do we seek Jesus only in our hell?
For I know ye seek Jesus who was crucified!
-Just as we look to the suffering of Jesus so that we can know how great a debt he has paid, remember. . .
He is not here!
Why do you look for the living among the dead!
He is not here!
-His glory and know that He also rose that we too would be able to rise from our own deaths.
_Why look to our failures and choose them as the definers of our reality? Our God is a risen God, therefore we too are meant to be a risen people.
FEAR NOT!
_ We are so rarely visited by our joy that catching a glimpse of it, we can cast it off in fear and disbelief- our earth quakes, and in the great noise of our desire we can overlook a miracle in its infancy.
_We must lift up our eyes, our minds, our hearts, we must let go of the security of that hell that we know so that the glory of our truth can be shown to us.
We are meant to – revive ourselves and each other through mercy and faith, forgiveness and understanding, humility and love.
The Word is the life that must be brought unto a world steeped in death.
Why continue to look upon that place where death is meant to take residence?
Why are you looking at darkness, when your eyes should be turned toward the light?
Revive!
Alleluia!

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#11 Naprowrimo

#11 of Maafa Cycle

My Man

He woke up early this morning
Early
He woke up early this morning like he always does
And he met the morning dew
He greeted me sweetly this morning…
Like he always do. He woke up early and was on his way.
I knew that my man….was on his way.

And as the day was passing to night, I knew that his fee t would touch the porch
Like it always do.
And as the day was passing to night, I knew that my man,
Was on his way.
On his way home to me
On his way .
As sure as the moon rises as night, I knew that my man was on his way.
His feet, would meet the back porch,
Workboots would meet the floor,
His low voice would meet the air,
And My man,
Would find his way.

Dinner was ready,
As it always was.
Kitchen was clean,
As I always was.
Porch light was on, like it always was.
I knew that my man,
Had lost his way.

Moon was high,
In the night sky.
Stars were shining bright and sure.
All the night was quietly panting;
I knew that my man, had lost his way.

I’m bound to find him, and fetch him home.
I’m sure that he is somewhere to be found.
Dusk has fallen, and he not home.
I knew that my man, Had lost his way.

I took a lantern, and his best dog.
I took my shoes, and his warm coat.
I set foot to stone and was one my way.
I knew that my man, had just lost his way.

I waded through tall grass, and walked sure footed on.
I held my light proudly forward.
I looked into the blue-black night,
I knew that my man had just lost his way.

Saw the lights, bouncing on the treeline.
Saw the lights, bouncing in the trees,
I saw the lights shining brightly in the orchard.
I knew that my man had lost his way.
And my feet moved against my judgement.
My feet moved against my judgement.

I reached the treeline, and my fingers met the bark.
The scent of plum blossoms met my nose.
I heard the yells of deamon glee.
I knew that my man,
Had lost his way.
And my feet moved.
Against my judgement.

I heard the whip, CRACK
And land on flesh,
I heard the screams that would curdle blood, and in the red-orange glow
Of crucifix aflame,
I knew that my man, had lost his way.
My foot, moved
Against my judgement.

I saw the knife, slice at his manhood.
I saw the blood, urine raise down his leg,
Heard his soul writh free of his body.
So, my feet moved against my judgement.

There were men, standing round, with the faces of devils, there were
Men all around but lost to God,
There were men all around, screaming against his favor,
I knew my man, had gone way.
But, feet moved, against my judgement.

Slowly the rope, slid around his neck.
And when the horse moved,
His neck did stretch. And when the breath stopped,
His feet did kick, and when the feet stopped, his body twitched.
And when his eyes bulged, the heart did lurch.
And my feet moved.
I knew that my man, had lost his way.

There wasn’t time to cry,
There wasn’t time to think,
There wasn’t space to believe, there was a God to see.
All of the years that passed, he had come home to me.
I knew that my God, would bring my man home to me.
And my feet moved - Against my judgement.
At first,
I believed they had thought twice.
At first I believe it was water to douse the flame.

At first,
I believed they had remembered God.

At first,
I thought they had remembered shame.

Then, the smell of gasoline, and the smell of hair a flame.
Who knew that skin would melt like wax? Who knew that wouldn’t quell the pain?
But I knew.
I had found my man.

I knew. I had found my way.
I knew. I had found my home.
My feet, climbed to him.
My arms clasped tight to his body.
Laughter met my tears,
And I knew, I had found my way.

Our skin, met as one.
The flame smelled sweet.
Our hearts beat and stopped as one.
And I knew, I had found my way.

And early, that morning, carrying the blackness of night.
Our joined skin, was met by the dew.

Silence crossed the orchard.
Silence crossed the field.
Hound dog howling breaks the silence.
And the truth of love revealed.
I and my man,
Had found a way.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

#10 of Naprowrimo (Maafa Cycle

#10 of Maafa Cycle

Whippin’

Here is this flesh
Wrapped around wood
Hands lashed together
Heart pounding
Mind clasped tight around fear
Waiting for breath, while breathing
Waiting for the promised beating
The beating promised to my too dark flesh upon birth.
Waiting for the twisted hide of an animal to launch through the air and past
The speed of sound
Crack
Wildly through the air, land as deftly across the flesh of my back
Split like overripe cherries in summer heat
Breath stops, eyes bulge, arms arch against unheard of pain, every muscle contracts
Before breath can be found
Crack.
New split skin and tears stream down my face, never mind that I am a woman, never mind that I have borne children who work this land,
Never mind that I have given my body to pleasure the man who sold away my love
Never mind
The blood and sweat rolling down my back, never mind
The fire in my lungs
Never mind that my lips can’t even shape the question my mind screams
Never mind.

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#9 of Maafa Cycle

Did you here that?

Did you hear that? Did you hear that?
Sounded like a link in a chain falling.
Did you hear that? Sounded like the first time – Nigger came flying from 4 year old pale white face pink lips.
Did you hear that? I Swear I heard something when I first learned the direction the Nile flowed, and found Kilimanjaro on the map.

Did you hear that?
Martin and Malcolm talked, and called their wives at night. And, read and learned and became definers.
So defined that they are studied and made studies. Did you hear that?
Not even the bullets blasts have taken them from us. No it has not been the bullets blasts but it has been our absence and our willingness to media, to mainstream, to celebrity our memory. We lost them before we found ourselves.
Before we found ourselves we ran to white picket fence streets and forgot our own. Before we took care, to take care, it was taken.
And when we cried foul, we found that it was not a new trick but an old.
The same tool of colony had taken us again. But then instead of losing country and language, history and family, faith and healing, we lost all those who survived the chains.
Big Momma and Old Uncle, Grandpa and Auntie, we lost knowing just how much God has done, we lost witness, and cried foul but it was too late,
new chains had already been prepared.
But this too was not new, these chains were the same chains as used on the first Americans. Chemical chains, wrapped up nice,
yellow diamonds in a dealers pocket.
The dealers,
Worshippers of the money God. They filled the necessary criteria. They volunteered to be the scapegoat who made the people the lamb.
But
the chain was not complete until the last link was added.
The children.
Once the children were raising children,
and once the children would not read, once the children were given to those who refuse to know and who swallow stoneguilt down throats of glass, then the last link was formed.
Here, American.
You piece of Diasporic Afrika.
Here - we are still dancing, still bobbing and weaving,
still shufflehussle
still adrift
with dulldrum minds in critical mass, we are chained.
Did you hear that?

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Embrace - #8/30 for Naprowrimo

#8/30 not Maafa

Embrace

Fingers against fingers. My fingers, someone’s hand.
Fingers touch wrist and I roll to the side. Face against face and

I smile.

Hands in hair and fingers twist gently ‘round hibiscus locs, nose nuzzles ear.

I’m kissed.

Lips touch lips. Softly, gently, gracefully dance. Nose breaths in sandalwood and cedar on warm skin.

He is treasure.

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Man - #7/30 of Maafa Cycle

#7/30 of the Maafa cycle
Man
Man for sale.
Man for sale.
One man, black man.
One good negro man.
For Sale.
Never run away, talks good, strong back.
Clean back.
Good teeth.
One negro
For sale. One negro buck. Four strong
Boys, good negros too. All good pickninnies, work hard
Too.
500 dollars will buy you this negro. One strong rice negro.
Work all day and never talk back. Work all
Day, no doubt. Buy this Negro, never look back.
Negro for sale.
Negro for sale.

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#5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

#5 of Maafa Cycle

Atone

Here is this skin – this black skin.
Here is this body – covered by this black skin.
Here is this soul - full of light and promise.
Here is this world – that looks upon this black skin and calls it secondary.
Here is this earth – the blackest soil reaps the most abundant crop-
Here is the sun- that waits upon this skin.
Here is the world – that buys, sells, rapes, kills this flesh
Here is this soul – made stronger or broken.
Here is this world – that calls this flesh an abomination.
Here is the blood- spilled for gold, sugar, tea, coffee, cotton.
Here is the foot – with steps cut short for trying.
Here are the hands – chapped and bleeding from reaching.
Here is the womb – soured by anger.
Here is this god – who gives his son a copper hue.
Here is this body – that bends so as not to break.
Here is this soul - eternal and connected.
Here is this world – willing to lie to steal the soul from the skin.
Here is the body – Atone.
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LINK TO VIDEO PERFORMANCE

18" 1/30 of Maafa Cycle

#1 of Maafa Cycle

18”

18 inches in which to sleep, eat, drink,
Die
Give birth, relieve myself
18 inches – but then the boat shifts and
There is 12 and then none
Between the next person and myself
And the wood upon which my back
First rested attacks my skin and fed up with it -
Feeds upon it. Sucking in my flesh
My Flesh becomes and melts into the wood. Is this
My burial slat?
And the smell – the smell
Once human, now is animal.
There were children on this vessel but
They are gone – gone tossed over, over, over,
The edge of the boat – most went the first
Chance their mothers had to set them free.
And the little ones – once they found rest
In the ocean buoyed up by the salt for a short time- before they sank – after the
Terror left their little eyes- before they were swallowed by forever – after their arms and legs stopped trying – before the waves
Succeeded and pulled them under – after eyes and skin resembled more that of a seal’s than a human child –
--The Sharks
---The sharks growing fat off of the sick and small,
-----The sharks that nipped at each other and swallowed men whole…
The sharks that lived off the flesh of the dying and desolate and lived in the waves cast by the vessel, came.
The vessel that would deliver us to a new hell
To be consumed by the mouth of man and into an other belly.
But here, again, in darkness and foul stench
I share my 18 inches.
Partially, submerged in urine, feces, vomit and afterbirth
I struggle to believe – that red exists beyond blood, green beyond rot and stench.
I struggle to remember lush hillsides and orchids – the heavenly smell of the plains after the rain has passed.
I pray to any god that will listen. DELIVER ME!

All rights reserved © 2009

One more time!

Hello everyone out there in the blogging world! I just want to try this blogging thing one more time. I have decided to do so along with Napowrimo (National poetry month). It is similar to the write a novel in a month writing challenge. I appreciate your feedback. In the months to come I will write more regarding all that is in my view in terms of Afro-American Womanhood. And since my view is limited, I invite your incite. We may not always agree, but communication will hopefully make understanding more powerful.