Spoken Word

Spoken Word

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Mother Tongue

I know where my mama come from
somewhere that she belong,
riding Atlantic wave,
singing a Guinea song,
walking the hallowed cave 
of her mother tongue,
barefoot from Chad to Brong,
She be ransomed
from the Horn of Alkebulan,
Arabian stash,
taken from Tanzania,
stolen like a bass beat,
breaking through brass,
I know where my mama come from,
somewhere that she belong,
sprouting from alluvial mire
surviving like a beating heart
pounding like a talking drum
tiptoeing over her mother tongue
from Yoruba to Cote D' ivoire
She be kidnapped
from the Bight of Benin
Portuguese cash,
taken to the Caribbean,
sold for sugar cane
whipped into a reggae beat,
gyrating to calypso,
dividing her mother tongue
betweenTrinidad and Tobago
singing a creole song,
bobbing for Barbado's
funking for Kingston,
I know where my mama come from,
somewhere that she belong,
heading to America,
picking cotton in Carolina,
praying to Orisha,
calling him Jesus, divine,
losing her mother tongue,
growing another one,
she be geechee
she gwine.  Victori ©

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

It's Pretty Plain

I could write it pretty,
or I could write it plain,
but flowers in a meadow
won't describe a mother's pain,
unless I also tell you
that those flowers cover graves,
I can wax all spiritual,
and describe how Jesus saves,
because love is a miracle
when you know how hate depraves.

O I could write it pretty,

or I could write it plain,
but if I write it pretty
then please let me explain,
how those flowers are like medals
given to the slain,
who died without cause,
unjustified, a mother's loss,
with none to ease her pain
and does not condone some
men who unleash their fury
upon other men and become
judge, executioner, and jury
only to be absolved without blame.

I can tell you stories,
or I can tell you truths,
but if I tell you stories,
then there is no excuse
They must begin
He was stricken in his youth,
and they must end
He was taken before his time,
This ain't Aesop's fables,
we need be prayerful, not playful,
This is life, and we are dying,
and death has no reason nor rhyme.

I can make it pretty,

Or I can make it plain,
either way you know who to blame,
I won't name the culprit.
I won't even tell you who,
he could be behind the pulpit
he could be behind the gun,
he could be either black, white, or blue
she could be anyone,
but, His prefix is death
and his suffix is you.
He comes with such a venom 
cause ain't none but vengeance left
cause ain't no Jesus in 'im
cause your soul is his greatest theft
in him there ain't no truth
He wears the disguise of sheep's clothes
as he hides an inner wolf.
He wears your body like a suit,
and convinces you that you chose,
as if a body is bullet-proof,
to kill a man in his youth.

I can say it pretty,

or I can say it plain,
guard your eyes, 
for therein lies your wealth
they're the window pane,
to see it for yourself,
now I can tell you stories,
or I can tell you truths,
but will you hear it?
the media is the proof
Guard your spirit 
We are at war
We are under attack
Need I say more
The powers of the air
want to turn time back
Cause they have so little time left
to finagle, defraud, and prod,
and commit the grandest theft
to convince you, that there is no God,
and that believers are insane
The author of confusion
has but a little time
be not partakers of his collusion,
or accomplices to his crime.

Victori ©