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REVOLUTION
Brothers- sons of mothers,
Jive-ass niggers, talking shit.
Walking 'round with your badass strut;
Talking 'bout offing "white",
And scared to stand and die for right.
Always ready to cut, or fight,
Any brother you think ain't right.
Scared to death of "Charlie's" might;
Brother, when you gonna see the light?
Kicking ass shows no class,
When you have no goal in mind.
But when you've got it all together,
And oppression falls beneath your wrath,
Don't crack a smile, and don't dare laugh,
For you've started strong, down glory's path.
Brothers- born of mothers,
Strong and black, you should be free.
But so wrapped up with playing bad;
Always rapping 'bout being black,
And scared to commit a righteous act;
Always ready for that step back,
Or afraid to take the things you lack;
Scared to pick up on the slack,
And scared to death of "Charlie's" rack.
Brothers- are you brothers?
Well, stop killing your own kind.
Let's show "Charlie" what we have in mind,
And "off" that yoke so we may find,
Dignity, in our own time.
FOR THE PEOPLE (The Black Panther Party) 1971
Agile both of mind and limb.
Never doubting their design.
Mentors of the oppressed and poor,
Nocturnal guardians point the way.
Harassed at every turn,;
The leaders jailed or slain,
Succumbing not to the murderers scheme,
And dying everyday.
Black of body, black with soul,
They'll fight until this system dies.
And a new society lifts its head,
Based on truth, not on lies.
A wholesome and a needed change,
Where every man is free.
A system which brings forth,
Love, life, and Liberty.
REVOLUTIONARY SONG
Twenty-two years and filled with pride,
Leon Anderson up and died.
Guardsmen never tell a lie,
Was surely justifiable homicide.
Mildred Taylor, thirty-nine,
Never heard of genocide,
But Mildred Taylor up and died,
Justifiable homicide.
Dorothea Collier, was eighteen,
Just another black it seems,
For three bigots decided to try,
Justifiable homicide.
Then you feel its so upsetting,
When "we" do, the bloodletting.
We'll just smile,
And say with pride,
"Justifiable homicide."
THE FLAG
I hold the flag and I hold it high.
And all the time I realize,
It stands not for things I idolize,
But rather for hate and greed and lies.
And I wonder how this came to be,
In this land of liberty.
And all I know and feel and see, is,
This land, has never been free for me.
TO MY PEOPLE
Grievances but biding time,
Unseen people slowly move.
Past the unhearing, and uncaring,
Silently they pray.
Deprivation not unknown;
The whip and all that means.
Avaricious masters slay,
And patiently you wait.
What spirit, what soul;
To bear the beatings soundlessly;
Sacrifice your brothers everyday,
And off to heaven happily.
You who stare through unseeing eyes;
You who dream and pray and die,
And all the time his laughter rolls,
Your blind uncaring God.
Dispossessed from society;
Manhood stripped away,
But patiently you sit and wait,
And pray some more for a better day.
You have no hope, just destiny,
So take your fate in hand.
Grab your oppressor by the throat,
And show yourself a man.
ON THE UNFAIR TRIALS OF OUR SISTERS AND BROTHERS
Persecute and prosecute,
Hang them by their thumbs.
Harrie and harass them all,
And beat your fascist drums.
Jail them all, no bail at all,
Or at least unjustly high.
Deny them all the rights you'd want,
And set them up to die.
Systemize, the system cries,
For justice, what a joke.
We're all wise, murder legalized,
Recourse - Fire and smoke!
Damn us all, and make us fall,
But something you'd better note.
We're not quitting, or bullshitting,
It's down, and go for broke.
THE TIME IS NOW
You stole me from my mother's womb,
Adopted me and all my kind.
Brought me out of barbary,
And bound my body to slavery.
You broke my spirit, and my back,
And still demand my loyalty.
You cheat and kill me, then call me son.
You steal my women from my home.
You smile with every lie you speak,
And leave me nothing to call my own.
You ask for patience, and we agree,
Then you just forget.
You say you want to set us free,
But we're not ready yet.
America, the time is now!
Our patience has grown very thin.
The revolution we can't lose,
Because, we have to win!
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
(Jackson, Kent, the World)
The dragon reared his ugly head,
And spit his bloody fire
The children found their early graves,
And embraced the unsought mire.
The bodies lie around the world;
Lives are cheaply bought.
The guilt is borne right here at home;
Here where hate is taught.
OPEN LETTER TO MR. C.
(Brother Cleaver)
You're cool and you're fast,
But put on your ass.
Run out of the States,
But Lord, how you rate,
With all of us, Right on!
You write with style,
That's damned tough and wild.
You say what you think,
The system, it stinks,
For all of us, Right on!
The Party's been swell,
But treated like Hell.
The Party's been tight,
And busted by night,
By all of them, Right on!
Things have gone bad,
But we'll make it a fad,
Revolution's the key,
To be black, and be free.
For us, right now, Right on!
AGAIN? EULOGY FOR A BROTHER
Damned, another martyr!
Slapped swiftly by high powered justice.
Stunted in the prime of fruitfulness.
Spirited away, now,
When such voices are wont to be lifted.
Gifted black brother.
Revolutionary in thought, soul and deed.
And murdered for having the strength,
For possessing the determination, to cry out,
"I AM A MAN!"
Cut down, as was his brother.
Left to wallow in a pool of sweet, warm blood.
Sweet blood of my brother,
Who was, a true brother.
George Jackson died the final death of body,
But his soul lives on.
Crying the martyr's sorrowful dirge.
May it be he died not in vain.
May it be we press on the fight.
May it be we offer our blood,
To mingle in the earth,
With all those brothers and sisters,
Who have gone on before,
And who will go on tomorrow.
May it be that this time, this next time,
We - We act instead of cry.
May it be, we kill, while we die.
May it be a new righteous fight, and,
May we make it ALL right,
Or may we all die, while we try!
It must not happen again!!
AMERICA
You who leave my dying, lying,
In streets, expiring, in pools of scum.
And damn my children, sighing, crying,
Who valiantly challenge starvation.
You with riches, undaunted, flaunted.
Untold treasures never shared.
And reject my children, unwanted, haunted.
But not embraced, and seldom spared.
You whose money is needed, greeted,
Around the world, by friend, and foe.
Are headed for destruction, meaded, speeded;
You've repressed your soul, and refused to grow.
I'M BLACK
I'm black, I'm black.
I can't change that fact.
Understanding I don't lack.
I'm me, I'm black.
I'm me, I'm me.
I can't change that.
Today is black.
Yesterday is gone,
And I wasn't promised tomorrow.
I am what I am; that's all I am.
I'm me, I am.
I'm black.
MASSACRE, SEPTEMBER 13, 1971
Gas masked troubadours
Frantically beat the drums of death,
And seventeen hundred armed assassins
Rushed the gates of Attica.
Storming the ramparts of holy desperation,
And tearing apart all hope of justice.
Not caring that hostages have families.
Not wanting to know the names.
Just that they were, the reason to enjoy war.
The tear gas played games with the mist filled breeze,
And settled swiftly about the rain soaked buildings.
The shots rang out and the cries lifted high.
But the joy of killing was rampant,
And in ninety minutes, the massacre was over.
MY THREE BROTHERS, AND ALL OF US
My brother George has quit the war;
To lose his soul to greed and gold.
To seek all those golden dreams,
He's fed his body and lost his soul.
My brother Lloyd has run away.
He's gone to seek what should be right.
But oppression comes in many tones;
He'll find black hate, instead of white.
My brother John sleeps in his grave.
He died to keep his country free.
He fought and died in Viet Nam,
And found his peace, and liberty.
And what of us, what reward?
For those who play here by the rules.
Do we secure our equality?
Or are we, just being fools?
RED, WHITE, and BLUE
The flags wave; bugles blow.
The rain drops ripple pools,
They themselves create.
It's a wonderful day; a joyous scene;
A beautiful land.
Red, White and Blue.
Where are you going?
What will you do, foreigner?
Born not a heart's beat from this spot,
But born a thousand miles from its conscience.
This wonderful land, Red, White, and Blue.
Where is your throne, King of Kings?
Just where are your ermine and jewels?
Or just respect; this land;
Red, White and Blue
Each day you live; a day you've survived;
You're beaten both body and soul.
You watch your women raped,
Your children starved,
In this land of plenty;
Red, White and Blue
Murderers, destroyers of color go unpunished.
Bodies, big, black and beautiful,
Find unsought resting places.
Thrown Raggedy-Anne style,
With only their widows to mourn.
Blue suits; copper buttons; white faces.
Black faces with white souls invade our communities,
And our homes. Such a beautiful land;
Red, White and Blue
All those who call themselves brothers;
Who are no more than carriers
Of the task master's orders.
They who climb the ladder of success,
By stepping on the still warm
Bodies of their own kind.
The educated and the ignorant.
The educated who are still ignorant.
Ah, success, sweet land for
Those who are blind.
Red, White and Dead!
NIGGER
I remember the first time I heard it.
(Used by that white boy)
And I was only eight.
I must have heard it Before then,
But this was the one time
It really hurt.
His name was Albie, and he Was a friend.(?)
Although I really didn't Like him.(?)
He said it and then ran
Through his gate.
Was I only eight?
VOICES OF A BLACK PEOPLE
Voices heard in darkness plight.
Crying out in darkest fright.
Voices call, so young the sound;
Children wail for a love unfound.
Resounding tones, of all that's needed;
Begging pleas, that go unheeded.
A life to live, is all we ask,
And free from fear,
Freedom, at last.
BABYLON
Promises of freedom,
And songs of liberty.
Every man an equal,
And every slave set free.
Race, or religion,
They won't hold you back,
Every child has his chance,
Unless that child's Black.
Free from fear and danger,
Success for those who care,
But baby, just be Black,
And try to get somewhere.
The housing's very modern,
So why should we be glum?
'Cause Whitey gets those houses,
And Blackie gets the slum.
Industry is booming, the war,
And all is fine.
In whose pockets goes the money,
And whose life is on the line?
My father fought before me,
But my son you'll never see,
Because by then, I promise,
He'll be dead or he'll be free.
FIRST FIRES OF SPRING
Red and yellow,
And beautifully uncontrolled,
The jagged fingers of flame
Reached skyward hungrily;
Consuming air already polluted
By the dying cities,dying children.
Brownsville burned,while sirens screamed,
And children played in the streets,
Of Bedstuy, and Crown Heights.
Frustration, and anger uncontrollable
Fed those flames, and hate was there.
Hatred of all things not of the poor;
Hatred of the feeling of being poor;
While money pours-in all directions;
While money is spent, on all things;
While money is available for all people,
But not for Brownsville;
Not for the poor.
ON LOOKING FOR A JOB
Those experiences that turn on us,
And tear our very flesh.
That bare our souls,
And devours our manhood.
Shrivels and binds it
In a web of ineptitude.
Experiences that rend us immobile,
And stagnate all that we are.
Little utterances, so innocent,
As to be unnoticed.
But they are, very noticeable.
Just Words, but even looks.
How powerful our masters be,
With a thousand years of knowing
Just how to belittle, and make it hurt.
A BICENTENNIAL MESSAGE
Count down America;
To your second hundred year, Of being.
Count down from terror,
And the long flight from oppression.
Count down from the long danger filled voyage;
From one continent to another.
Count down from the murders of
Murdering savages.
From King George, who wouldn't be King,
As you wished.
Count down from brother Abe,
Who did what he did,
Regardless of the reasons.
Count America, from the days of "freedom";
The days of hooded lynchmen and dragon eyes.
Count down America, from long dark nights,
On plains of grass among the buffalo.
Count the days and years by the lies,
And broken treaties.
And your beautiful wild west conception-
Reservations.
Count down America, from wars,
To make the world safe for democracy.
Who's freedom? Whose democracy?
Count down America,
Where are your dead heroes?
Why did they die?
Where America, do you find Hiroshima
In the greater sense of what is?
Count down America,
To your second hundred years.
Nagasaki and loyal Japanese Americans,
In American "Concentration camps".
Count Down to separated,
Broken, destroyed families.
Count down America to Korea, and Viet Nam.
Where can we find atrocities like Mai Lai,
In our distorted sense of what should be?
Count down America and remember, how,
You watched Malcolm die.
How you planned and plotted
The end of Martin Luther.
How you stripped and robbed
So many young brothers
Of their color and their dignity.
Count down to poison pen letters,
Shot out of the mouth of Government.
We all counted while guilty
Presidents were pardoned,
And young black brothers and sisters
Were systematically shipped off to jail,
To waste away their sweet essence.
We are still counting America,
We are waiting and watching,
For while the revolution has quieted,
It has NOT died.
We are waiting America, patiently.
Waiting and wondering.
Will you make it through the
Next two hundred years?
TRAVEL BY RAIL
(9 HRS FROM PENNSYLVANIA TO MASSACHUSETTS)
discouraging sights abound
where heirlooms lost are never found
close by the tracks we spy the trash
the wound a festering filthy gash
garbage dumped & garbage thrown
garbage cans that once were owned
by people good, and of quality
thrown helter skelter for all to see.
stagnant water, torpid seep
dying weeds in natures keep
trees all mangled, falling down
and slime as green as any found
so ride the rails, if you dare
and see how much we really care
about our great and wondrous land
a dumping ground for your garbage can.
c. 1983
A few days ago I experienced an event that brought
home the meaning of reality to me. My uncle died.
For Uncle "Bunk", his reality was the small, unimpressive
community of Oyster Bay, New York. It is here
that my uncle spent the majority of his life. It is here
that he died. He lived a life that may seem uneventful,
but he lived it in a way that was real for him...
and he died a death that has suddenly become all too
real for me and my family.
My uncle played baseball. He could throw a knuckler
better than Hoyt Wilhelm, but being black in the 1930's,
his chance of displaying this proficiency
(on a national level) was quite slim indeed. He and
my father played in the Negro leagues of the day. For
them, this was the only reality that mattered, perhaps
it was better that way. My uncle was a boxer and a
painter (among other things). The boxing gloves he
gave me one summer's day, are still with me. They're
old and worn, but I think to myself that one day, long ago,
they were worn by a man fighting in HIS real world.
His paintings speak to a greater reality than Uncle Bunk
could experience in Oyster Bay. My uncle used the creativity
of his mind to overcome the restraints of his material
environment. His memory, his paintings, took him places
he had never been, or back to places still vivid in his
memory. I thank God he was able to leave some of this
reality on canvas, so that I too can now go places I've
never been.
MR. WHITE-BLACKMAN
Mr. White-Blackman is so cool.
He goes to work and plays the fool.
He wears a cloak and keeps it white.
And lives with fear and sleeps in fright.
The mask he wears, he digs so fierce.
Plays his game, and hopes it lasts.
He's fallen in, though he can't swim,
He tilts his head; holds up his chin,
And sinks and swims at Charlie's whim.
He wishes to be his own man,
But still a slave, in freedom's land.
With skin so black and soul so white,
He hopes to heaven with all his might,
That darkness claims his "brother's" sight.
ON BEING BLACK
They couldn't take it if they tried,
For what was there has long since died.
They've killed the shell, once a man,
But the spirit still, I hold in hand.
Blackness raw, and burdened through,
And no-one cares just what I do,
As long as I do it Black.
Black prison all around,
The gates are locked, and bolted down.
The shell is broken; down on one knee,
But the soul is loose, and flying free.
Stare out my prison, at a world so new;
Knowing no-one will care just what I do,
As long as I do it Black.
Kill and rob; Maim and steal.
Cuss and cheat, and keep it real.
The welfare workers by the bunch,
And welfare checks, come twice a month.
Pride is fine for me, and you,
'Cause they don't care just what we do,
As long as we do it Black.
THOUGHTS
i hated with all the fervent power within
the thought of black skin
i swelled with anger, not pride
every mirror reflected glance
i cursed my mother and my father
all my forefathers for being that
which i knew i hated
pigmentation curse black black
not black but brown but still black
feeling fear and shame
the fear of a black life
ashamed of the fact i fear
not knowing who or what or why
i am i am i should be the color i am
friends laugh and taunt pick pry and hurt
friends can anyone really be a friend
confusion and searching do i know why
yes i know why
but can i accept
BLACKMAN - WHITE WORLD
Blackman - White world,
Where do I stand?
Can I tell my children
That I am a man.
White world - Blackman,
Restrictions all the way.
Am I really living life,
Or existing from day to day.
Jobs are surely plentiful,
If your color's right,
But tokenism is the word,
If your skin's not white.
Prejudice is rampant,
Let repression's flag unfurl,
But would there be a difference,
Whiteman- Black world?
WE WERE THE SEED
We were the seed.
Planted lovingly, growing with vigor.
Despite the weeds of hate and racism.
The flower children of love and peace.
The revolutionary, the Sixties generation.
Changing the very foundation of Mighty America.
Power to the People.
We are now the roots of dysfunctional families,
Fertilizing our seedlings with the very hate,
And racism we despised.
Money, our green pastures, selfish, unforgiving.
Guns speak the clear message,
Red is simply the color of blood.
Violence dehumanizes.
Must this be the failure generation?
Where is the voice of reason?
I sometimes hear it among the changing winds,
Yet even I forget its meaning,
Perhaps it's a child voice.
Tugging at my leg, wanting attention, answers.
Remember when you had the time to ask why?
WHITE, BLACK
WHITE , PURITY
WHITE , RIGHT
WHITE , JUSTICE
WHITE , LAWS
WHITE , JOBS
WHITE , HOMES
WHITE , BUSINESSES
WHITE , SUBURBIA
WHITE , SCHOOLS
WHITE , GOVERNMENT
WHITE , FREEDOM
WHITE , HISTORY
WHITE , GOD
WHITE , AMERICA
WHITE , WHITE
BLACK , SLAVERY
BLACK , POVERTY
BLACK , FEAR
BLACK , GHETTOS
BLACK , CASTRATION
BLACK , NIGGER
BLACK , TOM
BLACK , RHYTHM
BLACK , POWER
BLACK , CHILDREN
BLACK , HOPE
