Dear mayor,
in the office
hear my call
my people are dying
while you having a ball,
with death lingering
under our feet
for years
y’all refuse to hear us speak,
people had to die more can come
but you sit and play games
like this is for fun
filling us with broken promises
covering us up with ash
y’all created prisons
and police cameras instead
and say that is that,
this is not fair
I’ll tell you the truth
you would not like it if this was you,
all we ask is to be removed
from the cancerous place called
Gordon Plaza you fool,
from the pain to the tears of the ones we lost
this is not us this is your fault
how can you do this? it’s easy to do
you do have the power
but instead you use it you cater to others,
take your time make sure they’re fine
but now is our turn as victory is mine
you will hear our voice; you will see us speak
and at the end of this fight there will be peace,
remove us from this toxic land or forever
we will make you understand,
may your guilty conscious haunt
you at night with the darkest
of your mind that you reside – we will win,
until then mayor – goodnight,
sincerely,
ryan jones
Speak truth to power
To the things that you seek
Freedom
Will not be handed to us
By our oppressor
Especially, if we are meek
Speak truth to power
To the things that you see and hear
Injustice
That purposefully runs
Through our community
Has no place in
The veins of our street
And I know that it is hard.
I too feel the pain,
That we all breathe
Growing up numb
Taught to be undyingly strong
Fervently brave
Face things that we can’t even
Bear to say
But what they don’t tell
You in any classroom
Is the power of the youngest soul
Hidden information
Nutrients that would make
The revolution grow.
That would remove our oppressor
From the centerfold
Did you hear?
About the action that broke
A chain of tears
Led by the children of Birmingham
in May of 1963?
They organized themselves
Took guidance from their leaders
And peacefully descended in protest
into the streets of their very own city
The government sent in their pigs
Squealing in delight
As they arrested little black bodies
Only armed with their power
And their might for demanding what is right.
As young as seven
And as old as the youth grow
They stood up to the system
Those men in the big houses
That feast on the strife of all our kinfolk.
The pigs sprayed those bright black children
With water from the fire hose
And in response they danced
And they sing song sang
Lyrics of unity and love and life,
Knowing that their undying joy
Would be the greatest ammo
To defeat the piercing knife
It was ingrained in the false power’s minds.
They were so sure,
That no child had the grit
To deliver the blow that they deserved
Imagine the view
Of thousands of young people
Flowing into the city in waves
Of devotion to their freedom
Steadfast in their decision
That their people would live
To breathe the freedom that we all must ring
To smile another day.
A construction worker cheers as a monument of Robert E. Lee, who was a general in the Confederate Army, is removed in New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S., May 19, 2017. REUTERS/Jonathan Bachman
By A Scribe Called Quess?
knowing that I walk atop the bones of my ancestors
in the shadow of their oppressors
towering statuesque above me
I cannot look down without feeling
the puzzled pieces of my past beckoning me back together
This dirt is rancid with tears
It stinks
Flowers were never meant to bloom here.
These lives were forced to give too much here.
Give up the right to a beautiful home,
One that is perfect for casting roots,
One that would let them
Plant seeds
And watch those little children go,
Watch them grow,
Run!
In this DIRT,
This dirt is sticking
In a way that’s different,
But recognize that it is the same in many, many places.
This dirt leaves the cancer in you.
You’re tracking around medical bills you can’t afford,
And smelling the taste of the death
That is dwelling over you,
You,
And your neighbor’s heads.
Why
Didn’t they tell you this was BAD dirt?
Why didn’t they tell us?
That this foundation
Was built to harvest thorns,
And not daisies.
That the happy home
You were promised
Would cost you the life that you have every right to?
Why aren’t you listening?
Why aren’t they listening?
Cant you see it?
LOOK
Look
This dirt…
Maybe this death is in a language
You’ve never heard.
I guess this would never
Be the insidious dirt
You were given to make a house a home.
Your dirt would never be my dirt.
Ain’t that something?
huh
Is it weird to say that all dirt
Should be equal?
That everyone deserves to live,
In a place where the land they stay on WONT
Kill them?
That just as you are important,
I too,
We too,
THEY too are equally important?
Is that a foreign language
Too?
What does it mean
When your government kills you,
With deathly dirt?
Do they not care?
Who do they care about more?
Why, maybe they’re mistaken!
Once again,
They think,
That this dark and deadly dirt
Is supposed to be matched,
With our dark and beautiful skin?
My ancestors didn’t die,
In this VERY LAND,
By the hands of slave masters
For my people,
To die today,
By the hands of this poisoned dirt.
this land is not conquered or broken;
she is living, persisting, and thriving.
curse to the nay-sayers
for I talk to her everyday.
she dreams wildly.
so wildly, and so vividly that she sees her destruction and rebirth, emulating the resilience
of the phoenix, continuously stream in the consciousness she holds.
why do we stop her dreams?
dreams that are much more valid than me’s or you’s.
the ancestors sing through her.
in the moss, in the cypress.
in the pelicans, in the possums.
her song is quiet but strong.
if you listen closely, she says “yakoke” and “si vous plait”
to me and others like me.
but a vengeance she has.
a vengeance so strong it makes Katrina look weak.
a vengeance so strong it makes Andrew Jackson’s knees tremble.
a vengeance so strong it makes the BP oil spill look far from a disaster.
a vengeance so strong it makes Marie Laveau startled.
and that vengeance lives through me and others like me.
for the obligation we have bestowed on us is a tall order of demanding respect.
when it is quiet, tohbi ofi need be afraid.
for you shall know, that vengeance is no longer resting.
it is living, persisting, and thriving.
and it will not rest until she is doing the same.
“vee wan cee,” she says, “and do not betray me.”
she believes in us.
it is time we believe in us.
and it is time we believe in her.
