i carried you

i carried you

Part 1

i carried you

feet flat on concrete floor

pacing these halls, 

i carried you high

the way a princess

should be carried

your feet pressing into my bladder

causing me the urge to pee

my arm bent, hand into my back

soothing my sciatic nerve

i carried you

like the easal on a photo frame

i carried you

as if I were a palaquin

and You were the king

even before I gave you a name

i carried you

close to my heart

sling, slung across my neck

Or wrapped securely 

upon my back

Part 2

i carried you

through those years of self-discovery

and wishing, 

when you were finding yourself

but kept coming up 

missing

i carried you

when you were hunting

free in the fray

for trophies to adorn your wall, 

a boy at play

because real committment

you were shunning

i carried you

through it all

but to you i was prey

too stunning

as you say

a trophy

to adorn your arm

and keep the homies wanting

but i carried you anyway.

even while you were fronting

i had your back.

even more than you deserved

i picked up your slack

Even while you sat on

on my last nerve

i carried you

Part3

i carried your az 

through college

even when you had no cash

i carried you past

two side chick

skeezers

without my knowledge

worked two jobs

treated two venereal diseases

i carried you

and even after all that

i married you

i carried you

feet flat on concrete floor

pacing these halls, 

about to have your daughter, 

i carry her high

like a princess should be carried

convinced not conceited, 

what will you tell her as her father? 

when she asks, 

so that she won't live defeated, 

should she expect 

a man to treat her

with the same respect

that he expects to be treated

or should she carry the weight

of all his mistakes, 

like I carried you.

©victori 25 Aug 2022

From the Congo to the Ghetto

From the Congo to the Ghetto

Arising before Congo dawns,
to fresh air and gentle breezes,
the merchants, traders and artisans,
worked until daylight ceased.

They built homes carved from ogbegbe trees,
along tree lined avenues,
and wove silk sails, to sail the seas,
in hand crafted wooden canoes.

Talking drums, and braided hair,
and funerals bedecked in white,
drank palm wine, and played Oware,
our culture at its height.

Congo nights, of waning sun,
and dancing beneath the trees,
before the coming to Alkebulan
of the Portuguese.

Our language lost, we seek in vain,
and endlessly endeavor,
to secure passage rites, and regain,
our culture that was severed.

Although, we were content, whether,
our roots were Bantu, Ilebo, or Bushongo,
seems we can’t remember ever,
living in the Congo.

Arising now, before ghetto noons,
to pollution and an ozone layer,
unemployed December to jobless June,
surviving on a wing and a prayer.

Tenements and slums,
along littered avenues,
drunkards and illiterate bums,
and crack houses to abuse.

Processed hair and ghetto boxes,
blaring on the night,
synthetic drugs and narcotic toxins,
our culture in its flight,

Ghetto nights of uzi’s exploding,
and brother’s dying in the street,
a recurring sense of depression aboding,
but difficult to defeat.

Though our vision be blinded,
by our oppresor’s hand
we seek to be reminded
of another land.

And though, we are troubled yet,
from Watts to the townships of Soweto,
seems we can’t, ever seem to forget,
living in the ghetto.

victori~1996

Calling Up, Lord Hear Our Cry

We don't want pity,

I love my people,

We take our sorrow,

and sing it pretty,

Calling up tomorrow,

to be a better day,

We turn insult into song,

We been singing the blues since psalms,

We define the meaning of strong,

overstand the lies, rejuvenate bad news,

Turn our pain into tools,

calling up a better way,

We don't suffer fools,

We turn the hate you spit with spite,

into jewels,

Turn havoc into calm,

Let you see where love rules,

We been singing wrongs into Civil rights,

lamentations for the lives we lose

E V E R Y N I G H T

Calling up the strength to fight!

We been down in the belly of the beast,

stared the devil in her face,

Saw the value of our lives decrease,

As if you could ever pay or replace,

What a life is really worth

When stolen by a thief,

Who thinks his manifest destiny,

is the very earth, and air, we breathe,

What is worst?

Than a thief who takes a life

And doesn't care,

Than a thief, who believes his own lie,

Than a liar who believes her own words,

Than a man who exalts himself so high,

Than a man's claim that he's greater,

Than God he insists,

Than a soldier who falls on her own sword,

We heed the battle song and resist,

Calling up the help of the Lord!

We conquered oceans and seas,

and survived,

We out lived your biological manmade disease,

And survived,

Fought a War to end slavery,

Been hung from trees, and are still alive,

won acts of valor for our bravery,

fought In every American War,

We knocked out Jim Crow,

Turned his blood into balm,

We, who have been singing the blues

since psalms,

We know these lyrics by heart,

We don't need your permission to kneel,

for those slain martyred,

Whose voices are forever stilled,

We sing a new song for the slaughtered,

Not your slave anthem!

We give God the oblations,

As justice is held for ransom

We heed the calling,

Can you hear it?

We pour out libations,

for the fallen,

Calling up their spirits.

Victori © Sept 16, 2016

Desolate Place

How did I get to this place?
How did I come to this desolate place,
where nobody seems to be,
where there's no love anywhere,
and everyone hides behind lying eyes,
because nobody really cares,
because nobody seems to see.

How did I get to this place?
How did I come to this desolate place,
This wasn't where I was going
when I started out,
This wasn't the itinerary intended,
This wasn't my expected arrival when I departed out,
This wasn't my desired ending,
This isn't how I'd planned it,
in the beginning.

When I began this journey,
filled with good intentions,
ALL high on life, saving the world, and yearning,
but something occurred,
at the intersection of Youth and Learning,
where the two roads converged,
I procrastinated too long in doubt,
then got swept away by the crowd,
I wasted too much time on Youth
before I was able to figure it out,
and ended up somewhere between 
Intellectual and Girls gone wild,
for anyone to take me seriously.
The road to freedom, ain't free,
There's a toll to be faced,
Here I land in the Valley of Now,
No smile on my face, and wondering
How did I get to this place?

How did I get to this place?
I studied too long,
So much time did I waste,
I wandered off wrong,
Now I'm way off the map
with no way to get back,
How did I come to this desolate place?
where nobody seems to be,
where everyone hides 
behind lying eyes,
because nobody seems to see,
That the road to Love has closed,
and there's hot lava flowing in the streets, 
The Leader of the free world is the hate we chose,
and the relief that comes to Puerto Rico,
is thrown toilet sheets,
And once I felt we overcame,
Now we're back to where we used to be,
where everywhere the world stays the same
without any changes from me.

~victori~ ©

Always Our Roots

ALWAYS...

Our roots 

Dug deep in American soil cling
only to the surface crawl
across ungiving ground pulled
hybrid tubules, sprout
in all directions now
From Cameroon waters plucked,
From our own waters, placed
in to the tears, our mother's shed
in to the mouth of a vase, clipped,
rerooted in new waters, planted,
rare flowers yearning for the forest ripped
from and carelessly scanted,
in to fields of ungiving day,

By ungiving day thrived,
from sunrise to sunset worked
On neglect survived,
Up from the sandy loam, we arise,
We weren't meant to stay,
Perennial flowers in a field alive
Meant to work and die,
We return each May,
We sprout anyway,
Like chaparral on a hill aflame
baptized by fire and futility,
We seek our given name,
Out of the murk and mire,
We sprout a new beauty 
Not anyone to bear the blame

for those millions gone,

No right, no wrong, no shame, hush

we live for them,
They died for US!

©victori May 8, 2018

A Response to a Fool

In response to Joyner Lucas...

"I'm not racist," you say?

seems to be the code word,
'word up' of the day,
because if you really wasn't,
you wouldn't have shit to say,
In the sixties,
We use to change negatives
into superlatives too,
in order to make the best of
a bad situation,
so when something was good
we'd say "That's bad!"
although it was the best we ever had.
The opposite of what you're trying to do,
Make a positive phrase,
Suit your negative ways,
because we know who you are,
When you show up,
You rappin' that trap,
thinkin' it's spit,
It's just throw up
R E G U R G I T A T I O N !🤮
of over six-hundred years,
of discrimination!
In what era do you want us to show up?
The Montgomery of 1955,
was still alive in Ferguson 2005,
And is still prevalent today,
We don't have to go back to slavery days,
We can start with Jim Crow,
That wasn't that long ago,
The peonage and the lynchings,
replete with photographs, that remain,
Of the assailants standing in a fog,
surrounding, smiling unflinching,
and the culprit's stilled laugh,
uttering a silent refrain,
Lest we forget,
That "what is past is prologue,"
Then take a seat,
Or better yet stay asleep,
"Those who forget the past,
Are doomed to repeat."
It's as many whites as there are blacks,
who rely on welfare to eat,
Let's deal with the facts,
And I gotta' job!
JUST LIKE YOU!
without regret,
But there are those, let's be brief
who may have a felony beef,
trying to make a hustle selling cigarettes,
On a city street, to feed their families,
who deserve to breathe too.
LIKE ME AND YOU!
Instead, what do they get,
slaughtered for the world to see,
like in those old pictures, yet
Their murderers walk free.
Don't think you can halt,
How long I choose to morn,
My grief is what your forefathers bought,
coupled with my scorn,
As long as there's no statute
of limitations on, grief
So you best believe I will
Continue to pour out libations for Eric Garner,
Latasha Harlins, and Emmitt Till,
As you continue to imitate our flow,
Like a thief.
Instead of joining the alt-right,
You need to exit stage left, and join us,
White man,
because you're deluded
if you feel you're included,
in the rich man's plan!

Victori ©

It's all I ask?

What was his name?

That man, that man,

Of African birth who came,

So many generations past,

So very long ago,

So many questions asked,

And none who really know,

What was his name?

That man, that man,

If he were Akan,

He would have been named in order of his birth,

His name could have been any given Sunday,

He would have been given a soul name first,

 A name chose by Nyamewaa or Nyame

with another name to determine his life's worth,

But what if he were born in Burundi,

Nzikobanyanka, ("I know they hate us.")

Or if he were Yoruban,

He could have been born at time of festival

Abiodun, or the son of Royalty, Abioye,

What was his name?

That man, that man,

Who carried my DNA,

From sight unseen past,

into this present day,

What was his name?

Is all I ask?

Was he Igbo?

He was human first,

Before he was slave,

And the destruction of his identity,

which was the worst,

that ever became of us,

What was his name?

 Before that ship depart,

Was his name Chimaobi?

Did God know his heart?

victori7 ©