This is not a poem…this is hot chocolate at the beginning of Spring…topped with hand whipped double cream…a splash of brandy to give it sass…and just a little cinnamon to give it class…This is not a poem
This is a summer quilt…log cabin pattern…see the corner piece…that was grandmother’s wedding dress…that was grandpappa’s favorite Sunday tie…that white strip there…is the baby who died…Mommy had pneumonia so that red flannel shows the healing…This does not hang from museum walls…nor will it sell for thousands…This is here to keep me warm
This is not a sonnet…though it will sing…Precious Lord…take my hand…Amazing Grace…how sweet the sound…Go down, Moses…Way down to the past…Way up to the future…It will swell with the voice of Marian Anderson…lilt on the arias of Leontyne…dance on the trilling of Battle…do the dirty dirty with Bessie…moan with Dinah Washington…rock and roll through the Sixties…rap its way into the Nineties…and go on out into Space with Etta James saying At Last…No, this is not a sonnet…but the truth of the beauty that the only authentic voice of Planet Earth comes from the black soil…tilled and mined…by the Daughters of the Diaspora
This is a rocking chair…rock me gently in the bosom of Abraham…This is a bus seat: No, I’m not going to move today…This is a porch…where they sat spitting at fireflies…telling young Alex the story of The African…This is a hook rug…to cover a dirt floor…This is an iron pot…with the left over vegetables…making a slow cooking soup…This is pork…simmering chitterlings…surprising everybody with our ability to make a way…out of no way…This is not rest when we are weary…nor comfort when we are sad…It is laughter…when we are in pain…It is “N’mind” when we are confused…It is “Keep climbing, chile” when the road takes the unfair turn…It is “Don’t let nobody turn you round”…when our way is dark…It is the faith of our Mothers…who plaited our hair…put Vaseline on our faces…polished our run down shoes…patched our dresses…wore sweaters so that we could wear coats…who welcomed us and our children…when we were left alone to rear them…who said “Get your education…and nobody can put you back”
This is not a poem…No…It is a celebration of the road we have traveled…It is a prayer…for the roads yet to come…This is an explosion…The original Big Bang…that makes the world a hopeful…loving place
This is the Black woman…in all our trouble and glory…in all our past history and future forbearance…in all that ever made love a possibility….….….….……. This is about us…
bleached and natural…braided and straightened hair…
made up…or…beaten up faces…
tall…short…stately…bent…
CC Riders…junkies…whores…
wives…mothers…grandmothers…aunts
working in the home or outside…
working in the system or outside…
working praying working to survive…
giving pride…giving succor…giving voice…giving
encouragement…giving whatever…we can give
This is a flag…that we placed over Peter Salem and Peter Poor…the 54th Regiment from Massachusetts…All the men and women lynched in the name of rape…Emmett Till…Medgar Evers…Malcolm X…Martin Luther King, Jr…. Thisa banner we fly for Respect…Dignity…the Assumption of Integrity…for a future generation to rally around
This is about us…Celebrating ourselves…And a well deserved honor it is…Light the candles, Essence…This is a rocket…Let’s ride