We’ll dig deeper than magma, we’ll discover the lava; the lava of years past waiting to be released from beneath layers of burning flesh.  Do your best to dig deep n me to the core & discover your rebirth inside me.

© SH/TM

Dear Mother Africa

I apologize for our forgetfulness of where we come from;
our disrespectfulness of what you once stood for.
Because now all I see when I open my project door
is faded sunlight casting shadows on sinking concrete sidewalks
and chalked outlines of unfinished existences
cocaine kings
and heroin princesses on their daily stroll
trying not to trip over their dilapidated souls dragging behind them
intertwined with their collapsed veins
and their days begin to blend into weeks
and their weeks into months
and their months into years
until they no longer hear their own cry
because they've long since realized God has forgotten about them
Or really they've forgotten about him.

Because now they worship the pimps that promise them a better life each time they spread their thighs and contaminate the purity inside.
Open wide for twenty dollars;
swallow the polluted seed of a stranger.
Too numb to feel the anger
too cold to care about the danger of becoming a statistic.

Too busy chasing false ambitions
molested viciously by the hollow promises of the street.
Dear Mother Africa we need to be free from a land that we now see as a tomb for the resurrection of slavery.

We are shackled by our own deception and we need your protection.
If your people that are called by your name understood our powerful connection,
we would never question our freedom's quest.

And these words would be womanifestated in the chest of each brotha that could not breathe
and each sister that could not see
the beauty of our ancestry.

©2012 S.H

Supernatural

I pull gravity from the earth’s core when I write,
so my words levitate off the paper.
I can’t sleep at night, mind's too elevated.
Astral-projecting thru phases of the earth’s rotation;
as I hustle moon-dust and sling lunar rocks
and walk the surface of the sun
so my essence is made ecliptic.

With the power of a tribal mystic
I conjure ancient spirits
to extract the venom from my fangs
and decontaminate my veins
so the blood flow to my brain is pure enough to sustain my equilibrium.
So I achieve balance as I travel this middle passage

The path laid b4 me is righteous
I just stroll with the cadence of my ancestor’s drums.
Some can’t see the wounds festering on my skin,
I painted over them with the tribal symbols of Ancient Warrior women. 

The battle scars of sin discolor my melanin & I'm fading into an abyss, but I'm too fuckin rebellious to die from this...
Used night vision goggles to search for my identity in the darkness

Follow this path to the knowledge of self
the wealth of my existence no longer hinges
on politickin’ with signifying monkeys with funky breath
from the shit they eject  out of mouths with rotten flesh;
a blatant disrespect of my intellect.

I erect Queendoms with my innerstanding;
demanding the blood of false prophets, rocking the foundations of the wicked
in counterfeit temples.
Simple minds read the lines and never in between.

Never mistake me born a universal Queen possessing 3rd eye vision
Expanding ur knowledge like helium
or a mother’s womb like 30 seconds b4 birth.
Like ur lungs when u inhale my verse.
Giving you metaphoric indigestion
as ur mental intestines are digesting my lyrical lessons. 

With each meditation, I sharpen my weapon

and   

& I'm manifesting the spiritual

to make my thoughts 3 dimensional. 

So u can feel what chu readin' & see what I'm sayin'. 

I'm weighin' in heavy like Frazier. 

Pound for pound, 

I'm dope like that lime green loud. 

I be Queen Kush from Kemet; 

sculpted from the sands of Zion. 

Descended from Judah's Lion; 

I was pressed for this

Blessed for this. 

I was gifted this

soul of a lyricist. 

©2016 Shay Holt (Impresse)

©2012 S.H

Fantasy

Lines blurred,

reality deferred

because I love this fantasy too deeply.

Decadent images imprinted on my mind’s eye

simply by the way he looks at me.

Instinctively my heart beats to the rhythm of his speech

each

syllable

breathes life into my imagination.

So fascinated by his individuality,

his presence reinvents me daily.

Nightly, I pray for the gift of prophecy

just so I can predict what he needs before he thinks it
and convey every emotion before he feels it

I’m twisted

in my sheets from tossing & turning;
yearning for him to release me
from beneath the layers of my burning flesh.

Rest evades me because I’m up most nights past three

ritually lighting incense trying to cleanse my spirit
of what I’m feeling

But shiiittt, he's so beautiful,

falling into him is inescapable.

No longer capable of embracing the actuality of us

since it just contradicts the visions in my daydreams
of us tangled in the lyrics our spirits compose on bed linen
that resembles parchment scrolls;
because what we do is historical.

Categorical storms form in the atmosphere

as the Universe anticipates the new breed of revolutionary
we've been destined to create.

Days begin to blend into infinite time lines

as I count the 68,400 seconds

that makes up the 1,140 minutes
that make up the 19 hours
until I can devour his magnificence again.

I’m so far in I find myself jealous of the sun rays

fighting for space on his skin.

And I’m living in alternate spaces that bare no traces

of reality
because I’m loving this fantasy too deeply.

©2012 S.H.

Beah Richards

 

Beah Richards (July 12, 1920 – September 14, 2000) was an American actress of stage, screen and television. She was a poet, playwright and author.

There are sooo many Nobel Prize winning, world reknown African American poetess that have inspired me and my artistry like, Phillis Wheatley  Sonjia Sanchez, Maya Angelou, Jacqueline Amos & Ntozake Shange just to name a few. I consider myself fairly well-read in the poetry realm. So, how this JEWEL flew under the radar for me can not be explained.


I happened across a documentary on her called "Beah: A Black Woman Speaks" and was instantly glued to her story. Not to mention her illustrious (yet highly unsung) television and film career, her poetry, her activism and her unapologetic regal presence on stage struck like a bell in me.


Any poets or anyone who see, read or follow this blog, please "google' her! It'll bless you! This is one of many riveting pieces of art from her pen...

A BLACK WOMEN SPEAKS...
OF WHITE WOMANHOOD
OF WHITE SUPREMACY
OF PEACE

A poem by BEAULA RICHARDSON

It is right that I a woman
black,
should speak of white womanhood.
my fathers
my brothers
my husbands
my sons
die for it: because of it.
and their blood
chilled in electric chairs,
stopped by hangman’s noose,
cooked by lynch mobs’ fire,
spilled by white supremacist mad desire to kill
give me that right

I would that I could speak of white womanhood
as it will and should be
when it stands tall in full equality.
but then, womanhood will be womanhood.
Void of color and of class,
And all necessity for my speaking thus will be past.
Gladly past.

But now, since ‘tis deemed a thing apart
Supreme,
I must in searching honesty report
How it seems to me.
White womanhood stands in bloodied skirt
and willing slavery
reaching out adulterous hand
killing mine and crushing me.
What then is the superior thing
That in order to be sustained must needs feed upon my flesh?
Let’s look to history.

They said, the white supremacist said
that you were better than me,
that your fair brow would never know the sweat of slavery.
They lied
White womanhood to is enslaved,
The difference is degree.

They brought me here in chains.
They brought you here willing slaves to man.
You, shiploads of women each filled with hope
That she might win with ruby lip and saucy curl
And bright and flashing eyes
Him to wife who had the largest tender.
Remember?
And they sold you here even as they sold me.

My sisters, there is no room for mockery.
If they counted my teeth
They did appraise your thigh
And sold you to the highest bidder
The same as I.

And you did not fight for your right to choose
Whom you would wed
But for whatever bartered price
That was the legal tender
You were sold to a stranger’s bed
In a stranger land
Remember?
And you did not fight.
Mind you, I speak not mockingly
But I fought for freedom,
I’m fighting now for our unity.
We are women all.
And what wrongs you murders me
And eventually marks your grave
So we share a mutual death at the hand of tyranny.

They trapped me with the chain and gun.
They trapped you with lying tongue.
For, ‘less you see that fault—
That male villainy
That robbed you of name, voice and authority,
That murderous greed that wasted you and me,
He, the white supremacist, fixed your minds with poisonous thought:
“white skin is supreme.”
And there with bought that monstrous change
exiling you to things.
Changed all that nature had in you wrought of gentle usefulness, abolishing your spring.
Tore out your heart,
set your good apart from all that you could say,
think,
feel,
know to be right.
And you did not fight,
but set your minds fast on my slavery
the better to endure your own.

'Tis true
my pearls were beads of sweat
wrung from weary bodies' pain,
instead of rings upon my hands
I wore swollen, bursting veins.
My ornaments were the wipe-lash's scar
my diamond, perhaps, a tear.
Instead of paint and powder on my face
I wore a solid mask of fear to see my blood so spilled.
And you, women seeing
spoke no protest
but cuddled down in your pink slavery
and thought somehow my wasted blood
confirmed your superiority.

Because your necklace was of gold
you did not notice that it throttled speech.
Because diamond rings bedecked your hands
you did not regret their dictated idleness.
Nor could you see that the platinum bracelets which graced your wrists were chains
binding you fast to economic slavery
And though you claimed your husband's name
still could not command his fidelity.

You bore him sons.
I bore him sons.
No, not willingly.
He purchase you.
He raped me,
I fought!
But you fought neither for yourselves nor me.
Sat trapped in your superiority
and spoke no reproach.
Consoled your outrage with an added diamond brooch.
Oh, God, how great is a woman's fear
who for a stone, a cold, cold stone
would not defend honor, love or dignity!

Your bore the damning mockery of your marriage
and heaped your hate on me,
a woman too,
a slave more so.
And when your husband disowned his seed
that was my son
and sold him apart from me
you felt avenged.
Understand:
I was not your enemy in this,
I was not the source of your distress.
I was your friend, I fought.
But you would not help me fight
thinking you helped only me.
Your deceived eyes seeing only my slavery
aided your own decay.
Yes, they condemned me to death
and they condemned you to decay.
Your heart whisked away,
consumed in hate,
used up in idleness
playing yet the lady's part
estranged to vanity.
It is justice to you to say your fear equaled your tyranny.

You were afraid to nurse your young
lest fallen breast offend your master's sight
and he should flee to firmer loveliness.
And so you passed them, your children, on to me.
Flesh that was your flesh and blood that was your blood
drank the sustenance of life from me.
And as I gave suckle I knew I nursed my own child's enemy.
I could have lied,
told you your child was fed till it was dead of hunger.
But I could not find the heart to kill orphaned innocence.
For as it fed, it smiled and burped and gurgled with content
and as for color knew no difference.
Yes, in that first while
I kept your sons and daughters alive.

But when they grew strong in blood and bone
that was of my milk
you
taught them to hate me.
PUt your decay in their hearts and upon their lips
so that strength that was of myself
turned and spat upon me,
despoiled my daughters, and killed my sons.
You know I speak true.
Though this is not true for all of you

When I bestirred myself for freedom
and brave Harriet led the way
some of you found heart and played a part
in aiding my escape.
And when I made my big push for freedom
your sons fought at my sons' side.
Your husbands and brothers too fell in that battle
when Crispus Attucks died.
It's unfortunate that you acted not in the way of justice
but to preserve the Union
and for dear sweet pity's sake;
Else how came it to be with me as it is today?
You abhorred slavery
yet loathed equality.

I would that the poor among you could have seen
through the scheme
and joined hands with me.
Then, we being the majority, could long ago have recued
our wasted lives.
But no.
The rich, becoming richer, could be content
while yet the poor had only the pretense of superiority
and sought through murderous brutality
to convince themselves that what was false was true.

So with KKK and fiery cross
and bloodied appetites
set about to prove that "white is right"
forgetting their poverty.
Thus the white supremacist used your skins
to perpetuate slavery.
And woe to me.
Woe to Willie McGee.
Woe to the seven men of Martinsville.
And woe to you.
It was no mistake that your naked body on an Esquire calendar
announced the date, May Eighth.
This is your fate if you do not wake to fight.
They will use your naked bodies to sell their wares
though it be hate, Coca Cola or rape.

When a white mother disdained to teach her children
this doctrine of hate,
but taught them instead of peace
and respect for all men's dignity
the courts of law did legislate
that they be taken from her
and sent to another state.
To make a Troy Hawkins of the little girl
and a killer of the little boy!

No, it was not for the womanhood of this mother
that Willie McBee died
but for the depraved, enslaved, adulterous woman
whose lustful demands denied,
lied and killed what she could not possess.
Only three months before another such woman lied
and seven black men shuddered and gave up their lives.
These women were upheld in these bloody deeds
by the president of this nation,
thus putting the official seal on the fate
of white womanhood with in these United States.
This is what they plan for you.
This is the depravity they would reduce you to.
Death for me
and worse than death for you.

What will you do?
Will you fight with me?
White supremacy is your enemy and mine.
So be careful when you talk with me.
Remind me not of my slavery, I know it will
but rather tell me of your own.
Remember, you have never known me.
You've been busy seeing me
as white supremacist would have me be,
and I will be myself.
Free!
My aim is full equality.
I would usurp their plan!
Justice
peace
and plenty
for every man, woman and child
who walks the earth.
This is my fight!

If you will fight with me then take my hand
and the hand of Rosa Ingram, and Rosalee McGee,
and as we set about our plan
let our Wholehearted fight be:
PEACE IN A WORLD WHERE THERE IS EQUALITY.

RUNNING IN PLACE

Running in place

inside empty spaces

making love to empty faces.

Trying to orchestrate moments

that will change your life forever.

But it’s a never ending story, no glory among thieves;

stealing your self esteem. Spilling your purity on the enemy’s

bed sheets.

It’s a dead beaten path, so you laugh at the pain

to sustain just an ounce of your sanity.

Convincing yourself of your own vanity

pretending they love you for you.

But a hard dick doesn’t have emotion

just a deep motion that helps you escape

the un-faced reality of the next dawning.

All night moaning, never owning

he didn’t even make you cum.

But its not about what you ought to have,

you just want status as the No. 1 chick in his contact list.

But you resist the fact there’s a flaw in your plan to fuck every man you can

while your pussy is still young  and wet.

But you’re more than just a hole.

See a hard dick can’t love you

it loves only pussy.

And if he

cant hold you and tell you you’re beautiful

and special and MEAN IT

and you can feel it in your spirit;

then dig it…that cat ain’t for you.

He just wants to be in you.

So defend the you that you are.

Descended from warrior queens &

sculpted from the sands of Zion; the protector of Judah’s Lion.

You are half of the beginning of time & half the beginning of life.

You illuminate the moon because you give birth to suns.

So if a brother ain’t “G” enuf to see…move on.

You don’t have to run in place inside empty spaces, making love to empty faces…

Stand still… your king will

come… ©2012 S.H.