Diamonds in the Night

Entries categorized as ‘Culture & consciousness’

Music ‘been always…

August 6, 2009 · Leave a Comment

music ’been always
a part of our history

Drums running rhythms cross country,
us singing in the language of the birds and trees
    roaring with the lions,
    humming with the bees
But that was long, long ago,
                    long before Jericho
Many a man’s come a-tumbling down
once the Word was said, and got around

There was magic and message always in the music —
we would talk in song,
passing the news along,
singing semaphore spirituals
                                           “gon’ steal away, Jesus,
                                                    steal away home…”
and spiritual, we slipped away
training,
training on the underground railroad

Now, spirituals we sang from slavery,
and you know slavery gives you the blues
It works the same
             on every man,
             no matter which name you use
The blues was a feelin’,
then it became a sound
It wasn’t new,
weren’t no mystery
’cause music ’been always,
a part of our history

When I came along,
            started working the trains,
the blues was growing,
Black folks was making gains
The blues came to the cities,
                        by road,
                        by rail
It grew hard like concrete,
they made it cold like steel,
but when we was playin’,
you knew it was real,
which music ’been always,
a part of our history

Rolling, running,
wheels ringing on the railroad,
songs rushing on the wind
As twin serpents of iron
snaking cross country,
pulsing arteries of iron energy,
breath of smoke & steam,
the click-clack clackety ricochet
kept the rhythm throughout the day

The horn and whistle wailed sweet jazz,
the train was a giant harmonica,
moaning the blues as it moved,
and through the night,
you could hear jazz giants playin’
                       blues masters prayin’ in the key of G
And all the while,
that engine kept chugging,
                         pulling us onward,
                                        up that glory road,
                         pluming smoke and steam like a shiny saxophone

We used to get all the crew —
Prez, Bird, Dizzy, Monk
and of course, Cannonball
Fats, Satchmo, Fatha Hines,
Bessie Smith sending shivers down the line
The Duke and Count was royalty,
and we had Lester and Lucky
Miles and Morgan was always hornin’ in,
and with Mingus among us
                          kickin’ up a ruckus,
you’d look up, and it’d be morning

We took Dame Holiday, Dorothy D.,
              sisters Sarah, Ella, Nina
&           the only Lena Horne —
cross country by train they all were borne
singing              swinging               swaying
changing minds with their music
healing the blind with their music
kicking behinds with their music
— like magic,
which music ’been always,
a part of our history

But the last one I remember,
a young fella on horn,
’played like he hit the floor runnin’
                  a relentless rhinoceros,
blasting through mountains of silence
to explode
roaring our of dark tunnels,
man & horn as one, alone,
a wailing soprano saxophone,
changing minds with his music,
healing the blind with his music,
kicking behinds with his music,
as music ’been always,
a part of our history

Standing at the station,
his music made me see light in the distance,
his music was light bridging the distance,
it brought a shine to my eyes —
   made my spirit smile
’cause then I knew my Trane had come in —
                            ’Twas time for my ascension
training,
training on the spiritual railroad

So you ask me now,
what’s to do,
what with this new music,
the Social Rag and you?

Son, a word can change your mind,
        a song can change the world
        ask the Beatles or Quincy Jones
Why not give it a whirl?

If you can make a difference,
and won’t,
who’s to say you wouldn’t have died today,
if you had just believed…
..but ya don’t!

Folks is finally waking up,
it’s the Lifeline Express!
The underground railroad is pullin’ out
The band’s on board,
and they’re playin’ your song
Are you goin’ to jus’ hang around,
or is you comin’ along?!

by

jamal
ali

© 1987

Categories: Culture & consciousness · Music · Poetry · The Social Rag · Uncategorized
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in the desert of our lives

May 28, 2009 · Leave a Comment

in the desert of our lives
    the apparent void of juice and passion
exists a niche
        a haven
sheltering the sacred spring,
             the unfettered effervescence of our percolating hearts,
and there arises a sense
that the void,
      the sense of isolation
is not wholesale
but the unintended result of our own amorous efflorescence —
                                     a sensuous conflagration
                                     heartfires flaring in romantic rendezvous
                                     souls come full circle
                                                                in a cycle of self…

..and the enduring selflessness
which is the essence of family
and      the anchor of generations
becomes a beacon
in a wilderness of values
across the cultural wasteland

the rising presence
                         of whole over self
                         of service as exaltation
rekindles joyful waters
&         clear visions of a greater we

amidst the desert of our lives —
forty times forty, and the trek has just begun…
through the dry and soulless canyons
hearts, the water-bearers,
          through their meeting
                    their merging
          are urging us to emulate their example —
the children of Obatala arise again,
                               pointing with their hearts
                               embracing truth recognized
                                                     hiding in our eyes —
afraid of what we see within…

the mind is dry
                abstract
without heart
the heart lush
and       undirected without her bed
                          without a head
                                              shaping
                                              directing one another…

from the dust of dreams
our hearts produce the fertile mud of our imagination
nurturing Ori’s seeds

we are our own spiritual harvest —
         the first fruits
         life in the desert
         remnants of a forest of hearts
         ancestors to the new forest
                         the coming harvest —
                         the rising living dreams of those sacrificed
                         the new unknowing of their course,
a people thick with promise
their direction threadbare
and              wind-driven
a crop in need of cultivation
that their hearts may rise,
                             bear wise fruit
expanding the forest family
linking our lives to the land,
a land we may someday remember
as the desert of our lives…..

 

by

jamal
ali

© 31 aug 1999

Categories: Culture & consciousness · Poetry · Relationships · Uncategorized
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h2 vignette

April 5, 2009 · Leave a Comment

h2 vignette

astral body funkin’
his soul danced
writhing to a renegade rhythm
               a ricochet kill shot —
spirit cipher slipping the knot of his dreams
                 sneaking daylight into his dawn

hordes of foul-mouthed finger-waggin’ church women
massing on his frontiers of consciousness
each clutching her version of the right road
                                          right job
                                          right school
                                          right wife
                                          right truth

he went left
& left home
    left the ’hood

forget born again
every morning, he rebooted…

with what he had left over
he built razor wire lyrics
   hammered wrought iron rhythms
   listened to ancestral whispers
& remembered the magic of a past life

with a butcher knife
he carved ve-ve’s in the case of his computer
    tattooed them on his palms and fingertips
& they began to dance
          dancing deuteroms across his screen
          kicking notes in keys he’d never seen

on a pyre of ego
he purged himself
    was urged to utter night stallion dreams
riding rhythm chants
on the chance
    the hope
the magic was not lost,
                   only forgotten

at bottom
glyphs from ancient heartwells
dark tropical traditions
& chunks of craggy concrete truth
brewing in volcano skull
                                 merged
                                 surged
                                 erupted

both stone & steel
lush with the learning of lifetimes
flush with passions politic
&           heart righteous
he made a choice
    found his voice —
freestyling ancient tongues
spitting truth-tipped soul daggers —
committing Thelonious assault through sound

he traveled Miles by Coltrane
words his eyes
        reading his world in their reflections
        morphing majesty from travesty
                     warriors from soldiers
        drawing spirit from stone
lip-synching heart as talking drum

tongue coiled,
he seduced with rhythms phat
                     visions fresh & ancient
Afrika strutting lion-silent
                     sinuous
         hidden in his moves
         softly roaring deep in his grooves
filé to his gumbo gift

teeth clenched,
the stench of complacency pissing away
                                  hissing on hot corners
                                            beneath baggy fronts
jaws and jeans sagging
eyes frosted by the bling

his words seized throats by the tonsils of their fear
dispensing oral enemas to tooth-rimmed shit cannons
icing egos unaccustomed to target status
disproving imitation as flattery
exposing minstrel hip hop
as mug not half-full
but empty

…vapors

the power is the word
he another living evidence
the magic is alive
its wielders waking
               walking ancestors’ trails
only
cuz they don’t yet remember how to fly

by

jamal
ali

© 26 july 1998/17 july 2002

Categories: Culture & consciousness · Music · Poetry · Uncategorized
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magic

March 25, 2009 · 1 Comment

running rhymes against rhythms
in pointed percussion
dagger words digging dream graves —
a requiem discussion
wreckin’ through sonic concussion

ya hear the buzzin’?
that ain’t no hum
it’s the ricochet racket
of that electron gun
it’s commercial vomit
spilling across your screen
masqueradin’ as burgers ’n fries —
another pack of lies
suckin’ up your green

St. George funked truth in the line:
“Mind your wants
cuz somebody wants your mind…”
smugglin’ wisdom —
leather laced slick in the groove
and you wuz moved
but didn’t know why…

the hip hop drops
sound bites
hungry for the rush
rising
a wave
grinding
finding you’re still a slave
to ego
to what ya don’t know
to what they said you’re supposed to be —

don’t ya know,
it ain’t for you
it ain’t barrio
it’s “bar you”
no queremos mas Negros
                        la gente indigena
                        morena o roja —
                        la raza
from PR to Molokai
       Baja to Oglala
it’s rising,
up
uprising —
reservation, plantation
ghetto, barrio
islands stolen without a gun,
folks permanently on the run,
herds of shopping cart covered wagons
locked down
run around
plantin’ us in the ground,
prayin’ there ain’t no harvest…

so the search is on,
the future’s pawned for some magic now —
a spell to quell the fire
a charm to douse the flame,
they’re searching everywhere,
                       even across the sea
cuz they know
magic beats technology…
..and who owns the magic?
        where is it found?
it’s not under ice
it ain’t under ground
the magic is one,
found in the lands of the sun

they thought you forgot,
       thought they had won,
but you’ve got rhythms wrigglin’ in your bones,
                    dreams dancin’ to ancient tones
they know of your power
that’s why they study it so much
and now, when you need it most
you can feel your ancestors’ clutch
— this ain’t no ghost!
but the whispers of grandfathers
      the embrace of grandmothers
alive
in our DNA
today
they are the call
we, the response
     the calling
     the magic
rising within
and so it begins
rising in each of us,
            each of us
                           — magic
to heal the tragic

rising
a voice
strangled
still mangled
but undenied…

..and just when they thought we shoulda died
we heard a roar
echoing concrete canyons
and Jericho trembled
      Jericho shook
cuz even they remembered the book,
&                knew the revelation
was their exposure,
their glory
our treasure,
our resurrection
their demise…
..and the horror in their eyes
is their own reflection

the magic can’t be stolen
only forgotten
it’s not hidden,
but stored,
and presently ignored…

..learn you
learn us
dismissal of our true identity
remains our greatest travesty
& it ain’t never gonna be on tv

learn you
learn us
learn the magic
sing those lyrics
rap those rhymes
cuz it’s way past time
and you can’t use what you don’t understand

by

jamal
ali

© 4 february 2000

Categories: Culture & consciousness · Poetry · Politics
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The Allure of Obama

February 10, 2009 · 2 Comments

foretold to the day by RFK,
emerging from turbulence,
born of a crucible of change,
he was reared on sights of gas lines
                                    industrial crumble,
                        the unraveling of a leadership of lies
&
                     the arrogance of those who refused to be humble

instead of memories of depression
or                             endless profit
he knows frugal means more than money —
it’s about resources,
and citizenship is about more than neighborhood
or                                              nation,
he has a vision for the planet

Obama is a paragon of firsts —
                 our first post baby boom president
                 our first leading from the ground,
                             free of the WASP’s sting,
                             who recognizes collective is the thing,
is what the constitution really meant

Obama evokes
           conjures,
leveraging language
awakening comatose conscience
&            principles buried in history books
After giving life to hope,
he resurrects memories of ingenuity
                                  productivity
                              
prosperity,
newly defined

He understands our resurgence demands
we pull the best from our past
and wisely purge what no longer works
He prudently reminds us
such achievements require effort
                                    a new focus

He levels the field so all may till,
                                    
harvest, in measure with their effort,
                                         gain in measure with their contributions
rather than pandering to station

Once considered shiftless,
we now embody the paradigm shift
from belief to hope to is
This is about more than faith —
it is about doing
instead of waiting on salvation
No plan can be rendered,
no policy tendered
if the will of the people is not in full effect

If President Obama is to resurrect
the ideals of America,
so long empty and defiled
into living paradigms,
we must lead from the bottom up,
exerting experience
           genius
       
our infamous drive
harnessed to hearts which see you in me
accepting accountability for how we choose to be

by

jamal
ali

© 6 february 2009

Categories: Culture & consciousness · Poetry · Politics
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emergence

January 20, 2009 · Leave a Comment

he screamed truth at the walls
                                         raging
a Joshua of trumpet throat
cutting
carving
sculpting cold stone
into forms fluid
              curving
&           triumphant
bulging the box
with his sphere of power
                        influence

dwindling
to fierce whispers
sparking
igniting the dark
echoing the light
within his enforced night
beneath the dungeon
of his captor’s imagination

he
another dark sun
unbowed
unclouded
and now, by self-doubt
unshrouded

once fearful of peering into his own eyes
      made comfortable with the lies
but wisdom survives,
and in his solitude
from attitude
he forged resilience,
acknowledging flaws
& built upon experience

harnessing pressures crushing his soul
he compressed his black
and became diamond whole

his moon did not share his crypt
she faced her deadly destiny
pounded with predictions of her doom
and of those from her womb

yes, she cried
but a righteous rage built up inside,
and soon her captors found her fortified,
for even in darkness
           without books,
she learned from her dreams
     listened to ancestors’ whispers
     awakened comatose memories
of warriors and builders
                                 undefeated
                                 reborn within

his heart became a fist
he ceased his screaming
harnessing his surging passions
                    frustrations

the constant inundation —
                                      of brain beatings
                                         mind manglings
&                                      rapes of his sodomized heart
slowly shrank into unconscious white noise
                         surf feebly splashing his promontory will

he stared into the night
his gaze turned within
his rage focused,
he felt the ritual begin
his words of truth
                 outrage
                 rebellion
transformed
echoing chants of power
                    immune to ice
                    calling the knowing
his fight was not without
or                    without price
but within
      inside his skin

he embraced the night
    did not miss the light,
knowing the sun was not lost,
just resting beyond the horizon
and, like him, soon to rise

her heart felt his fire
her soul his embrace
bound by blood
             will
&          spirit
they knew distance could not divide them
              incantations of doom could not defeat them
only they could conquer themselves

lost in labyrinths of lies and deceit
drugged on powders white
&            powers vain
the once mighty had been broken again

finally,
his will breached the box
her heart reached through the wall
in union
they stood
              free
              bathed in midday sunlight
                        in the depths of midnight
              steeled in their knowing
              unabashed in their glowing
                                                   an embrace at once deeply Black
&                                                a brilliant beacon in the night

by

jamal
ali

© 23 january 2002

Categories: Culture & consciousness · Esoteric · Love · Poetry · Politics · Uncategorized
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end the war

December 21, 2008 · Leave a Comment

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

Categories: Culture & consciousness · Relationships · Uncategorized
Tagged: , , , , , ,

Feeling the Spirit

December 15, 2008 · 2 Comments

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

Categories: Culture & consciousness · Erotic · Love · Poetry
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temple of the word

December 10, 2008 · 1 Comment

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

Categories: Culture & consciousness · Poetry
Tagged: , , , , ,

the Hand of Ifa

December 6, 2008 · Leave a Comment

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

Categories: Culture & consciousness · Esoteric · Poetry
Tagged: , , , , , , ,