emergence

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

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

the tribe

4 atiyah

I weave threads of glistening midnight
into a robe of dreams
tied off by a sash of northern lights
my hair is silvered with moondust
my beard a tropical mountain rainforest
embroidering my new moon face
I am black as intergalactic space
&    celestial as any star

my tribe is human —
in hues of every shade of night
           om dusk to dawn
           noble and strong

our history is immeasurably long —
we have a number for millions of years
our expressions are evocative
yet simple
balancing and blending our hearts and minds —
we aspire to the divine

our women are leaders
                     warriors
&                  nurturers too
but then, so are our men
we each are whole
we each know our role
&        live lives of harmony

we are not easily recognized
by those who read exteriors
when we choose to be revealed
                      to have our presence sensed as real
it is by forces felt, but unseen
      by spirits stirring in between
we transcend dimensions

demiurge
titans of old
wisdom walking the world…

for those who fear what they don’t understand
we are the gleam of legend
but, for now, I am seen as an ordinary man
or less, if that is what’s needed

by time and wind and war
the tribe now is scattered
many have lost the vision
                forgotten turtle island
&             abandoned the wisdom of our ways

but the coming days are the hardest yet
and when you put pressure on the black
glistening diamonds is what you get
when their memories come rushing back
&     their eyes are cleared of the haze
all the tribe will gather…

..and legends will live again

 
by

jamal
ali

© 19 july 1995

soul music

my heart is a well
                a storehouse of memories
                an archive of the wanderings of my timeless soul
                a universe of existence
                               of lives and events

                a symphony of emotions
                                 of sorrow
                                 of joy

my heart is a flute
and I breathe music
songs of longing for what was
and                             is yet to be

the longing
the search
and unfinished, the sorrow
yet ever certain of its final joy

the drive within me blazes
dim now
bright then
a surging will which knows no end

my heart is a flute
my breath music
and this wandering soul sings the opera in his eyes

raising
rising
from sub to superconscious
from ages of slumber
             too many to number
awakening finally to a wholeness of Being
recognizing within
the completeness I’ve been seeking

my heart is a saxophone
and I breathe melodies
a musical melting of joy into sorrow
a lyrical jazz for traveling the spheres

in my library of livesI have known great beauty
and colossal rage
                  pain
                  shame
                  birth
                  death
                  joy and ecstasy which knew no bounds

these are memories
             not fantasies
but flesh and bone and throat-tightening thrill
full of sound and color and images keen
from pulse-racing moments
to the calm and serene

my heart is a drum
and I am walking rhythms
steps in the cycle of an evolving soul

the free flight of the eagle
a dolphin’s glee
the stride of the lion —
all are part of me
the struggling emergence of the butterfly
I know all too well
I am living it in the moment
as I emerge from my shell
wolfsong, coyote howl
the deadly silence of the serpent’s prowl
the thunder heard from buffalo and elk
I know these
I have been these
and so love them as myself

like the wise elephant
my breath is music
all memory
every part of me
is an instrument
for this wandering spirit
all is orchestra —
each heart a rhythm
and every soul a song

my heart is a flute
and I breathe music
and along the path of this wandering soul
the songs are finally joyous
and my Being whole

by

jamal
ali

©  20 march 1994

Diamonds in the Night

diamonds in the night
our brilliance has no meaning
our beauty is only seeming
our inner fire
our hearts’ desire
both lie out of sight

diamonds in the night
half buried in the earth
seen as mimics of the light
by those ignorant of our worth

their heels, unconscious and blind
grind us like simple stones
with our radiance concealed
without our unity congealed
we are broken and crushed like individual bones

as diamonds in the night
we inhabit the darkness of their perception
how conveniently they seem to forget
darkness is the source of light’s inception
it is the darkness that receives
                              absorbs
                              accepts
light reflects light
and thus dimly perceives
the softness of the light
filtering through the leaves…..
they are lost in search of a forest
blindly ignoring the trees

our roots merge with the ground
like veins of stone
Mother Earth’s bones…

these too were mined
in dark and light
as they sought to find
diamonds in the night…..

the faintest glimmer of hope
or                             star
excites in us a glow
a vagrant flame begets the same
and serves only to show
that the Light of Mindor any other kind
is maximized at best
not by reflection
or       refraction
but by putting to the test
our creative Will —
a strength instilled
as substantial, not as whim
and awake all our kindred spirits
as ancient as the wind
that we may rise
to be seen in Pharaoh’s eyes
as worthy of the throne
so we may know our legacy
and our ancestral home
to shine as gold
instead of cold and broken lifeless stones

 

 

 

by

jamal
ali

© august 1984