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

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

shreds of paper skip the pavement
slow wind mourns a melody
lyrics of sacrifice and surrender
now etched in memory

I stumble through your garden
magnolias hold no mystery
your petals are stiff and empty
of the scent I once could see

I feel folk songs moan,
whimper blues harmonica
wheezing fragments of what-if’s
over tequila-salted wounds

makes you wanna wonder
’bout prisons of used-to-be
&    strait-jacket suits
of wanna-be dreams

I barely sniffed the cork
of champagne desires —
effervescing wishes
melting shadows lost to breath

I hear a folk song chorus
chanting hallelujah
anguish goin’ church
in convulsions of regret

tambourine just a-tremblin’
my tangled tongue is speakin’
pleadin’ for wishes
I know will never come

’flicted tremors wrack my body
and tears no longer flow
grief’s blindness broke my hand
on walls of my frustration

I just wanna testify
wails runnin’ ricochet
along freight cars of abandon
’til I lost the will to fight

whistle moans harmonica
guitar is just a-stringin’
I don’t wanna feel
but the pain is just too strong

makes you wanna dance to glory
’had my hand upon the rapture
all she did was shrug
and her smoke slipped through my fingers

harmonica, cry now if you wanna
guitar, sing if you’ve a notion
the storm inside my chest
is pulling me out to sea

beyond the surf which brings tomorrow
&       waves of destiny,
my heart will sail me safely
until horizon is lost to mind

my eyes linger in the dimming
watching sun retreat from night
drifting slowly down
into whirlpool of despair

words catch on teeth of anger
tongue knots in strangled fear
my future crumbles, abandoned
in cold mists of used-to-be

her words walked right out the window
                       across the hill
                       out of my eyes,
extracting comfort by the roots
’til I was silenced by her choice

long, long
the refrain will always echo
strong, strong
the love I had to leave behind
wrong, wrong
the reasons given for the ending
and I will wander wondering,
how it all came undone

by
jamal
ali

© 7 march 2003

h² vignette

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

caring is courageous
love is an act of strength
only the endurance of commitment
can determine its length

your heart is a muscle
and so benefits from exercise
when left dormant upon the shelf
something inside slowly dies

yet, random reception of overtures
begets deception
        misadventures
and   their attendant pain

among emotional barbarians —
          those of savage disposition
at large, or one to one
their caustic nature is but a part
of these rapacious vandals of the heart

though, if love you would share
if, in fact, you need to care
you must bare your soul —
                                      courageously
facing the foibles of feeble minds
or                        those that think with their behinds
and thereby, you persevere
for love is an act of strength

emotions take not kindly to the cage
what you suppress
becomes difficult to express
as habits become frozen with age

but, by accepting our emotional energy
its nature, cycle and flow
we may harness
and      apply its strength —

constructively for ascendance and exaltation
or destructively for vengeance and degradation

sharing is not selflessness
nor opening without extension
sharing is an active endeavor
              self-motivated
requiring no lever, ever
and anon

giving is more than opening the door
or                         revealing what lies within
true giving requires an extension of self
without exchange for something else —
the dropping of defenses
the opening of the senses
is a most vulnerable condition

commitment’s honor and loving trust
as opposed to random wanton lust —
the courage to care
the strength to love
these are the things I’m speaking of

the efforts are great
the trials severe
yet, if we are to persevere
Love must be an act of strength

by

jamal
ali

© 1984

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

starts at the end
ends with a sigh
ever the child —
wondrous & free
dancer extraordinaré
physical symphony
with allure as accidental aura
you
a dark vanilla mystery
even to your father…
but mother’s prize
a living memory of magic
once caught betwixt her thighs…..

fluid and soft as tropical rain
&                             the sweat your dance inspires
Zenobia, little wonder
many small men risked all to possess you
                                                   dreaming of owning the wind —
they saw you as a mare to ride through the night
ill-equipped to grasp the fantasy
less so for the real
bodies bankrupt in their zeal

to hoofbeat drums
they marched you through the night
— swept across the sea in pirate’s flight
trembling,
now afraid to touch,
the winsome prize once coveted so much
having forgotten
one must be equal to your dream…

paternal pride & anguish
spurred me to your side
I had never seen you,
but once I smelled your fragrant silks
clutched tenderly in my fist
I never doubted I would know you
in a cave on a moonless night
— I had no need of sight

across sand or sea or sea of sand
the aura of my mission heralded my arrival
preceded by tales of battles won
opposition as veils melting in the sun
or                                withering in the night
incarnate Will was I
                             am I
bound to end your plight

when I entered their camp,
I caught your scent — so nice
above the grit of sand
                   clamor of dung
                   riot of curry, ferment & spice

the delicate chime of your ankle bells
&                                                bangled gold-filled ears
were thunderous whispers above the cacophony
and the sweat-stench of their fears
I simply followed the sound of passionate swoons
&                               the rippling wave of terror
expanding in a wake before me

found
my eyes told you you were free to go
& your gratitude melted into love

our romance blossomed during our journey
growing from flower to sacred bush
a girl, you were stolen from your family
but a woman returned now for them to see

once within your father’s sight
                       the light of his smiling eyes
your whimsical pattern of departure returned

dismissing claims of home
&                                    longing hearts,
you mounted my steed behind me
choosing my path to take
we vanished into night
cries of your name lost in our rushing wake

by

jamal
ali

© 4 november 1992

Eddie Jefferson

4 Eddie Jefferson

jazz is a sacrament of substance
and Eddie was a preacher spreadin’ the word
the cat used to swing it
singin’ syncopated lyrics
word-scattin’ while trackin’ convoluted tones
I tell you, the cat used to sing it
mixin’ words with the music
floatin’ and explodin’ from a smokin’ saxophone

in the solos, he heard colors
a peacock of be-bop —
Prez, Hawk, Trane, Bird
and a whole host of others
with the solos, he laced words
a sensuous weave, of voice and reed —
tongue and lips, flippin’ quips
sound side-slippin’
lyric quick-trippin’
squeezin’ words into a herd
                            a stampedin’ surge
modal maxes swingin’ with the saxes
just a-wailin’ while the axes
fed the hearts of every soul

jazz is a sacrament of substance
a sweet honey nectar just for the ears —
it’s the sound of sheer delight
the music the magic
set your soul to flight
bringin’ out the stars to light the night

jazz is a sacrament of substance
a lyrical music that ain’t got no peers
jazz is a sacrament of substance
with no words in the way to nasty up your ears
’til Eddie came along
mixin’ words in the song
— words over Bird just had to be wrong
’til you heard it
’til he stirred it
mixin’ up a bitchin’ brew
singin’ it out to all of you

the stage was a ring
with Eddie in his corner,
humbly acknowledgin’ the sax as king
across the way, the latest contender
the new holder of the throne
wieldin’ his mighty saxophone
with each round,
the sound began to swell
each man came out swingin’
throwin’ to beat the bell
hurlin’ notes, in combos and jabs
riffs racin’ ’round the scale
the horn was just a-screamin’
but the words never failed
swingin’ wild, slingin’ hot
neither knew the meaning of stop
and every night
      every flight
a frenzy of endless delight
a scintillatin’ hit
it was the shit!

jazz is a sacrament of substance
Eddie always knew just where to go
he wasn’t walkin’ on the music
he wasn’t changin’ the flow
he’d slip in a niche, and just blow
he always sings the way it swings
dancin’ all ’round and through that thing

Eddie Jefferson was known
as a vocal saxophone
riffin’ words to notes he heard
renewin’ the past
in raw torrential jazz —

the horns produced the sacrament
and Eddie told us what they meant
with words we know were heaven sent
through this genius of the time —
a miracle, an oracle, an epistle on the move
and every word that Eddie’d vent
just added to the groove

jazz is a sacrament of substance
a lyrical silk to lightly wrap your ears
jazz is a sacrament of substance
and Eddie was a teacher with rhythm and rhyme
jazz is a sacrament of substance
jewels of joy of every kind
jazz is a sacrament of substance
and Eddie blew
what Eddie knew
’til he got through to your behind

jazz is a sacrament of substance
and Eddie Jefferson was a feast for the mind

by

jamal
ali

© 17 january 1996

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

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