I do not know the power of my hand, I do not know the power of my black hand.
I sit slumped in the conviction that I am powerless, tolerate ceilings that make me bend. My godly mind stoops, my ambition is crippled; I do not know the power of my hand.
I see my children stunted,
my young men slaughtered,
I do not know the mighty power of my hand.
I see the power of my life and death in another man’s hands and sometimes
I shake my wooly head and wonder:
Lord have mercy!
The blues calling my name.
She is singing a deep song.
She is singing a deep song.
I am human.
He calls me crazy.
He says, “You must be crazy.”
I say, “Yes, I’m crazy.”
He sits with his knees apart.
His fly is broken.
She is singing a deep song.
He smiles.
She is singing a deep song.
“Yes, I’m crazy.”
I care about you.
I care.
I care about you.
I care.
He lifts his eyebrows.
The blues is calling my name.
I tell him he’d be better
do something about his fly.
He says something softly.
He says something so softly
that I can’t even hear him.
He is a dark man.
Sometimes h
Since me and Jesus got: married
Haven’t been a minute apart
With the receiver in my hand
And re-ligion in my heart.
I can ring ‘im up easy
Ahhhhhh
Oh well
Ring ‘im up easy
Go make up my
Mmmmm
Weeping that he ain’t: lost
They despised the Amen
Hanging on the Cross
Hanging there in misery
Ahhhhhhh
Oh well
Hanging there in misery
Go make up my
Mmmmmmmm
Mmmmmm mmmmm
Jesus gon’ make up my
They despised the: Amen
Made poor Martha moan
Jesus said to his de-ciples
Come and carry my mother along
Dying will be easy
Ahhhhhhhh
Dying will be easy
Dying will be
I
here within myself
centuries of self hate
that know no way to destruct
that know no way to break loose
chained to myself
as I stand and watch me die
I slowly protest the death of others.
What better way
to say goodbye than this
to toast your young dream
my cup run-eth over
what better way
to leave than to leave
you this way what better way
to say that I understand than
this as I say goodbye I leave…
Popsicle Cold
Now
that the story has moved
out of the headlines
the widow of the dead
black hero stands alone
at the public market
purchasing polluted pork
with government food stamps…..
Clairvoyance
City birds
fly in small bunches
on Sunday morning
as if they knew
what happened the night before…
From destination ashes by Norman Jordan.
learn moreO Africa, where I baked my bread
In the streets at 15 through
the San Francisco midnights…
O Africa, whose San Francisco shouting-church
on Geary Street and Webster saw a candle
burning in the middle of my madness…
O Africa, whose Fatha Hines and Teddy Wilson
I took to my piano…
O Africa within every brown breast that’s
sucked me,
Africa’s thousand calmings of my mother-hunger
across the North American continent…
O Africa, within the black folk who’ve loved me
in this prelude to the sip-blood time…
Africa, I lay my hand upon your swarthy belly-and
keep it there till deat
Barely through the second quarter-and he has already rushed through swatches of curses, blood and astro turf fourteen times-a ballet of chalkboard moves which sometimes fail.
After the bodies rise, he takes brief glimpses at the sky, and flags which seem to point in the direction of a quiet beach….
learn moreperhaps what beans & potatoes
mean to me is what
cornflakes and yoghurt mean to you
maybe the machines tell your insides
something similar to what the
drums inspire in me
do you really believe cold weather is
invigorating as the sunshine
is fine everyday everyway for me all the time
if you really think your way is right and fine
then why do you pass laws against mine?
Reference:
Ted Joans
rhythm and blues
ain’t what it used to be
blues done got Americanize
tellin’ me that I should stay in school
get off the streets
and keep the summer cool
I says
blues ain’t nothing like it used to be
blues done gone and got Americanize
blues done gone and lost its soul
and the folks singing it
ain’t singing for me no more….
Copyright 1970, by Black World reprinted by permission.
Barren cross-ties of penny-whistle twigs
Mating and parting as the wind
Beats the rhythm of sad songs
With black shafts once hung in gold
Basket-weave tears of ancestral black
Fall in arcs as the ruthless sun
Seeks the heart warm with traces
Which now the snow paints in crushing white.
But upward thrust defy the requiem
And glisten in black affirmation
Or orchestrated songs to be sung tomorrow…..
