another great entertainer
bojangles
jingled his way to the top
tapped nonstop
for him it was play
but he was made to work it
he tapped himself to the stage
jingling jangling
jangling baby jangling
until he couldn’t stop
because the penalty was
whuppings on his back
so he tapped himself
until his freedom ran raw from his pores
’til blood seeped from his soles
’til sweat poured from his soul
Sambo led the way for black entertainment
remember that
step to the table with a pen
release all the static within
view the universe clearly
in my thoughts sand, gravel slipping through my hands
cocoa butter memories swim around
this intellectual revolutionary
bury me with dark chocolate and a floatie
i can back stroke through the essence of life
anger and admiration raise the question
are you really that comfortable with ignorance?
ebonics has spread like the bubonic plague
devil obscured our language to make meaning vague
if you can’t comprehend what i said
let me reiterate
in communication lies peace these words we preach
but the violence can’t cease if no one understands us
ninety percent of your speech is driven by thought
think of the truth
translate that into actions dominated by ninety percent of your heart
knees search for the carpet
amidst the tornado from the bed to the couch
we hit it hard
the mouth moves
the thigh sways
swimming in each other
until the door creaks open
You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and
skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Mendel Rivers to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, the revolution will not be televised, Brother.
There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
on reports from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the right occasion.
Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so god damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally screwed
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.
There will be no highlights on the eleven o’clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb or
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash or Englebert Humperdink.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be right back
after a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver’s seat.
The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.
Have you ever loved a rose,
and watched her slowly bloom;
and as her petals would unfold,
you grew drunk on her perfume.
Have you seen her dance,
her leaves all wet with dew;
and quivered with a new romance–
the wind, he loved her too.
Have you ever longer for her,
on nights that go on and on;
for now, her face is all a blur,
like a memory kept too long.
Have you ever loved a rose,
and bled against her thorns;
and swear each night to let her go,
then love her more by dawn.
–Lang Leav
Take the pen in your uncertain fingers.
Trust, and be assured
That the whole world is a sky-blue butterfly
And words are the nets to capture it.
–Muhammad al-Ghuzzi, Tunisia
The florist reads faces, reaches into the mouths of customers.
Turns curled tongues into rose petals,
teeth clinking against one another into baby’s breath.
She selects a cut bloom, a bit of leaf,
lays stem alongside of stem, as if building a wrist
from the inside. She binds them
when the message is right, and sighs at the pleasure
of her profession. Her trade:
to wrangle intensity, to gather blooms and say, here,
these do not grow together
but in this new arrangement is language. The florist
hands you a bouquet
yanked from your head, the things you could not say
with your ordinary voice.
–Hannah Stephenson
— Daniel Bowman Jr.,
There is a wordless tomorrow
In which I’ll forget all the chatter
It will be like the sky clearing after a rainstorm
To the washed gray of morning
The distant mountains an ink black line
Sweeping the mists away from here
But today
Is still a day for cymbals
Percussionists join in the celebration
Raising a din, pounding without restraint
Until twilight when I am so weary
That I long for the sleep
My tongue enjoys inside my mouth
–Chang Shiang-hua, Taiwan
The Poetry Corner 