Poetry
Revolutionary Church Boy
I am the last generation of the tambourines
and washboard sounds
that filled the single-family homes
we called the church.
The slave chains of my ancestors
are still here—
just invisible,
but you can still hear them jangle.
I am a product of years
of undoubtable faith
into an unexistence—
an experience that only appeared
when my eyes were closed.
But my eyes have been open for a while now.
God is within me.
Not the pictures staring from wall frames
that look nothing like me,
but the mother’s presence of a beautiful
church brim, dressed to impress—
Delivered from her womb
God is within me.
Not in “yes sir, no sir,”
buck-broken dialogue,
but in the chants of Gullah warriors
who snuck out to praise in the evening,
got married, had children,
who later had me.
God is within me.
Not in a book where I read lines
from people who look nothing like me,
never bled like me,
never fought like me,
never sought freedom like me.
God is within me.
Nowhere else.
I am the dream my ancestors chased.
The sun—mother of melanin—
carves my figure with a wooden stick in the sand,
no plans, just ambition
that extends under any condition.
God is within me.
From the hand claps
to the tambourines
Ice Cream in the Winter
It’s snowing outside
But I want what I want
Who said ice cream could only be a summer thing?
Who decided joy had a season?
Probably the same ones who said we couldn’t have vanilla.
So we launched butter pecan —
A flavor folded in rebellion.
If I want to treat myself,
I don’t need the perfect weather, or permission.
It’s mine.
It is for me.
Ice cream in the winter,
Sitting by the fireplace,
Keeping my distance at comfort
So it doesn’t spill everywhere.
Ice cream in the winter —
That’s me choosing me,
Freedom without an audience.
I am not out of season.
I am the season.
Outside Children- Georgia Nubia
and we are
the outside children
the ones born before they got married to another and finally started a family
that never made room for the outside children to sit in for family dinners because they’re never counted
never included.
and we are
the outside children
the ones easily forgotten and the ones you’re never available for
the ones left outside asking for more
but that door…. that door isn’t always open for us
and when we need a ride, we gotta take a hike or ride on our shiny bikes that our daddies never bought us…. we had our uncles and grandparents to show up
filling the positions of our father figure because we… we are the outside children
the ones they had before marriage so they never helped mama with the baby carriage
and now we’re grown unpacking childhood baggage
no longer looking for our daddy
still not invited to the family dinners, sibling weddings
or graduations
i guess the outside children never got inside
we’re so outta sight and outta mind
we were long left behind
never truly accepted and always feeling neglected
but being outside taught us more than being inside so i guess… i guess we respect it?
cause we really can’t change it
and although we’re the outside children
we were daddy kids first
Zanafamu- The Branch
If this branch breaks, do not throw it away.
Use the wood for fire to heat your home.
Use the leaves for covering.
Then go into the forest
and grab another branch.
See that it’s stronger,
more durable
than the one before.
And soon we will be a tree
of many nations,
many branches,
one Bloodline.
Business Suit
Fresh in a three-piece charcoal-grey suit, dark red tie in a Windsor knot
And this isn’t for trial
The only thing I’m on the stand for is business
I walk into the meeting room with no college degree
but this GED gave me everything I needed when you’re hustling and you’re hungry
Dress shoes or Jordans— every step you take, take it with purpose.
You never know when the ancestors will drop an opportunity in your lap
Long days, long nights, making motion with intention until you and the purpose become one
Be ready.
With a business suit
Old Stories
Old stories that were never told still live inside our DNA.
And though they can’t be spoken, they can be felt.
Though they can’t be seen, they can be heard.
I am the product of my ancestors’ wildest dreams
their greatest hopes
what they tilled the yard for
what they planted the harvest for
Silky Grey Hair
My grandfather had long, silky grey hair
like those of my ancestors
Long, silky grey hair
with a brown skin tone
like that of a native man
a native Black man
His hair shined when the sun beamed on it
He taught me about the land
he taught me about nature
What you take, you give back
This land isn’t mine he said
it’s ours to share
He spoke like a native man
A native Black man
He told stories of when the foreigners came
his voice steady
his spirit still
He spoke like a native man
A native Black man
Culture Call
n the sunsets of Asia
In the jungles of Indigenous Australia
I can’t hear you
I know nothing of your culture
yet you look like me
The sun glares back off your skin
like me
Africa can’t be the only place
our tribe exists
Answer the call
Chant your Indigenous chants
Say our Indigenous prayers
Call on our ancestors together
so the nation may stand
as the rock
that was called built on that church
But I need no church
to know my worth
My people hurt
Call to the tribes
and let the Gods come themselves
In our differences
we each bring something to the table
Tones of melanin
be our color spectrum.
Not a damn soul free
yet we argue
If your enemy matches your identity
take a long look in the mirror
a longer look
in your soul
Sena's Story
Sena
are you there.
Will you come
Her beauty—timeless
Unfading, even through pain
Youth is only a disguise
She is older than memory
Her youth is not age
Her silence is not ignorance
Cutting the knots
as we fall back to the soil
She remembers the rope
the tree
the silence after the scream
She saw the batons kiss
the grandmother’s eyes
She stood with the elders in Selma
She carries her own
She traced the scars
on Papa’s spine
Because she has seen the ships
iron chains, naked backs
salt in open wounds
Why
Still
Call Sena
The world has turned down her volume
She wipes the blood of Black men
killing each other
day by day
Call Sena
The mothers were denied the time
The fathers failed to shield her
But she is young
Call Sena
Jakwáni
the Bloodline stands in despair
A Praying Mother
Her sweetness comes from bitter fruit of the burdens against our bloodline
Momma love can shift to war drums in a second
A praying woman with essential skills in combat training and a AR 15
Momma drums move to the cadence of the ancestors
On foot or by tank this hero protects the Bloodline
Momma gets it handle issues the call of 1000 Black sons
Protect this house protect this Bloodline
And they come.
Beat by beat, call by call they come
Momma love can shift to war drums in a second
