We Are All Kin

By QS

You are our sons and daughters
Whether we birth you into this world or not

That’s what the elders would say to the babies
While telling ancient stories around the village cooking pot

Our ancestors, when I close my eyes, I see and talk with them
Praying when I reach the promised land I’m worthy to walk with them

Never forget where you come from
The blood that runs through your veins

Beware, the white man will try to make you believe we are different
When genetically we are all the same

You must know the truth to free yourselves
Don’t be fooled by the pale man’s old divide and conquer game

Go research your history books
Uncover the lies they’ve been telling you
And when you find out the truth for yourself
You’ll realize the jewels I’ve dropped on you are true

Use your mind!
Stand up and be counted Black man
No one will do it for you
Only the man looking back at you in the mirror can

They hear the war cries (fear of the Black Planet)
The white man’s greatest nightmare has come

All the beautiful shades of Blackness once separated by lies
Now united by truth, marching as one

I said it before and I’ll say it again
Once we take the mental blindfold off our third eye
That’s the moment we will realize
We are all kin

They Don’t Want Us to Recite Our Poems

By AG

They don’t want us to recite our poems, don’t want the people to behold any signs or see any symbols and they d-mn sure don’t want us to know that the ancestors are with us. They don’t want us to recite our poems.

They fear the foreign sounds of our secret language: Hope. They thought it long dead. They are afraid of the spread of our fever how it creeps along the sense—our hearing and seeing, our awakening perception, our ability to sniff out what’s false.

The willingness to feel our most painful wound, the taste of blood on our lips. They don’t want us to recite our poems.

They are afraid of the promise of our spring, the way mother earth blushes green for us, hiding her gift in full view of both the strong and weak alike.

She has shown us fine stones in a babbling brook: love, faith, courage, tenacity, and understanding. They fear the inevitable fall of their rampaging giants.

They don’t want us to recite our poems. They want us to die with our songs unsung. They want to bury our burnt-out husks perfectly preserved shells, with sightless eyes of bitter black smoke and a mouthful of tightly clenched pearl-white teeth, trapping inside, for all eternity, the music that they desperately fear.

They don’t want us to recite our poems.