end the war

inspired by vicara

mostly, when my heart speaks
joy flows
happiness glows
& the heights of my ecstacy tend to show

even when addressing instances of hurt,
                              phases of pain and sorrow
I tend to shift towards resolution
avoiding pointed discussion

But I don’t hear that type of balance
in the poetry my sisters sing

This is no criticism
’cause to each their own thing
Perhaps they’re just more honest
and my way is less than true,
’cause if you breathe,
we’ve both done
&            been done by the deed
and know hurt & pain
hit each gender the same

So, like the sister said,
I was gonna write a nice sweet poem,
but truth busted my face,
              chased me all around my place
there was nowhere to hide,
not even inside
no peace, no how, no way

So if we are to face the truth,
                    be the truth
then we must know,
when we act out of fear
                          ignorance
or                       pain,
we just create more of the same
it’s not just no win,
it’s both lose,
and if you’re seeking blame
don’t ask whose,
it’s yours
it’s mine
it’s both or neither, every time

I’ve been hurt
and       demeaned in many ways,
ways I never thought possible
I hung in, and now understand
why abused spouses remain despite the pain,
praying for sun in the pouring rain

But each of us has a line,
                          a point we should never cross,
that place where rules go out the window
              beyond mercy
&           compassion
’til rage is the only color you can see

Reduced below our humanity,
the animal rises
     war erupts,
and lovers become the enemy

Folks will say they have no temper,
             say they’ve never been that mad,
and even they know they’re lying
Some will ask if you ever loved that much,
and that too is sad

How do you stop it?
Where does it end?
With me, with you
by choosing not to begin
Because you feel is no excuse
to be out of control

Manipulation of any sort
is not an Olympic
or          domestic sport
It’s competition for control,
which is the hidden underlying goal
If one wins, we both lose,
no matter the tactics or premise you use

It is so easy to forget
this is a three-way fight —
it’s between you, me, and we
If we,
if us loses,
   us dies,
then it’s just you
&    it’s just me
faking love and harmony

 

by

jamal
ali

© 15 march 1994

Feeling the Spirit

moonlight streamed in
past ragged cloud curtains dressing the window
baby roses sighed
on a setting for dinner
                     romance

candles burned low, flickering
with hazy phrases, in smoky silhouettes
they breathed feelings into each other’s hearts
shirt and skirt fell
lost to rose petal words now covering the floor

at each step
boards creaked
slow grinding sound

it was humid prickly, August itching hot
gentle lightning linked their fingertips
                     love
                                                    — a scent of rain

they were a thunderstorm crammed in an attic
             anticipation crackling
             the chemistry of latent flame

she leaned against the bedpost
              beside the window
              wrapped in shadow
              profiled against the moon

her hip glistened
wet chocolate painting her moist from breast to thigh
silver light hugged her curves
bending to break the law
adding to her glow — aura of spiritfire

at each breath
sweaty chest hairs twinkled
a dew-frosted forest on dark mountains

slowly
he dragged his hand across his chest
    touched fingers to his open mouth

a corona shimmered about his shoulders
cloaking his firm form in divine whisper
love was a radiance
            about him, between them
tongues of passions’ flames flaring —
              a consuming tenderness

their auras merged
embracing them as they ascended to the bed
in shadow they weaved
they danced in the light
lip-reading epic kisses
faces melting into one

— the forecast was for rain

with each sway
bedsprings sang slow string serenades
their quick breath airy percussion —
                         a moist sensuous mist, gathering
his clenched back muscles glistened
etched into shoulders of quivering stone
theirs was a spirited romance
of rigid tongues and gritting teeth
   bodies in trembling frenzy

her back arched
she clutched him
mouth moving in passionate mime
her heart searching his face

beyond their eyes
they saw harbors in the night
tasted seas of raw magic —
they were heartships riding their hot breath wind

to his lockjawed scream
she whispered in his ear
“Your fire burns sweet
                       so hot,
                       so strong
you trigger my typhoon…
..my Goddess…I am a storm…”
she gasped, breath rushing through clenched teeth
“I feel your God
and I know He,
I know you love me…”

her head fell back
to the vocal thunder of love’s seizures
and the splash of rain upon their flesh

by

jamal
ali

© 1987

temple of the word

emerging
from words
       language
       stones

       mudbricks
       vaults & arches

emerging
an essence
music
spirit

and from the building
             the erection
of walls and windows
peristyle pillars
and lofted eaves
we find ourselves
within a temple of the word —
             concrete utterance
             lyrical birth
                              harmonious with the earth
temple
not building
a verdant timbered mountain grove
nestled in a soul-swept seaside haven
graced by owls and eagles
             dolphin and elk
&          whales as mother sentries —
nurture to the nature
poetic fire frees

by

jamal
ali

© 25 june 1999

the Hand of Ifa

we are the Hand of Ifa
Condomblé, Santeria, Lukumi, Macumba & Vodun —
four fingers and a thumb
but the palm
that which makes them a hand —
                                capable of grasping
                                              holding
                                              building

the palm
the center
is Ifa
   Orisa

the clenched fist holds ikin
                              power
                              strength
                              anger
                              resentment

the open hand releases
                    is readable
                    is an opening of the way

with the Hand of Ifa open,
we can get a better grip
on events of the Now —
an ocean of time
whose currents of Past & Future
merge in the evolving moment…

..the Hand points the way…..

without the palm
we are not a hand
but disconnected digits
four fingers and a thumb

together,
bound by common ancestors
&          Orisa
we can seize the time
take back our minds
heal the rifts dividing us
balance the roles of woman & man —

it’s part of the plan

we are in a time
of the birthing of old spirits
   the calling of the old names
   the return of ancestors
   the resurrection of our people
Olofi orchestrates the plan
She is wise
He is strong
and we’ve strayed from the path far too long…

as Orunmila teaches,
we divine to become more so
recognizing Odu all ’round us
the wise choose accordingly
recognizing the illusions
of ego
& provincialism

these are luxuries we cannot afford —
we are at war
with an adolescent people running a world gone mad
and pompous warriors are doomed to defeat

we are healers
an equatorial people
evoking balance from created chaos
remembering arrogant healers serve none but themselves

the Hand of Ifa
we have come together
today
we are strong
today
in spirit
in unity

the lives of our children
depend on what we do today

and tomorrow

by

jamal
ali

© 25 july 1997

women speaking truth…

when women talk
they know they speak the truth
women say men don’t feel
                                    not really
& if you’re lucky enough
to find such rare male fruit
you better squeeze those apples —
              get all the juice
before the dream fades —
then make applesauce with the rest

all men feel

the myth is
lust is the fuel
ambition the engine
driving our dreams

all men feel
but the world teaches us
in repeated painful lessons
to keep the secret
to feel, but not show
to hunger, but not be hungry
to love without caring
to care without sharing

stray from this straight & narrow
& you invite your doom
                                  to be less than
                                  to be used
                                  to end up castrated & confused
crushing your dreams

even women wise & wanting
who may seek this mythical breed
often respond with mule mentality
once in the presence of the steed

caution, suspicion, bitter disbelief
their acid bath of test & trial,
                     a test to destruction,
determining authenticity
a living autopsy
                       “let’s see what makes him tick…”

trusting heart over mind
nearly every time
except when faced with her dream,
unable to accept things are as they seem
trusting her eyes over ears
distrusting belief instead of her fears…

“..but maybe…”

the heart cannot show what it contains
when inspected under glass
the heart is a muscle
whose strength isn’t measured in gyms,
whose size cannot be seen

for a man,
his heart must be the softest diamond
&                     a cloud made of stone

in the maze of contradictions,
in a sea of ache & ecstacy
simple drowning would be a gift

all men feel
their passion held in check

wise women,
when you speak,
discover new truths
cultivate rare fruits
that they may multiply
to sweeten others’ lives

by

jamal
ali

© 1991