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For the eager, the patient, those intrigued and those steadfast, the time has come — the Second Edition of the Heartfire Rendezvous romantic adventure trilogy is finally here and available, on Amazon of course!! All three volumes are now at a second edition, incorporating shifts subtle and significant.
Book I – Destiny — 3483824
Book II – The Crossing — 3483845
Book III – Culmination — 3483846
Heartfire Rendezvous romantic adventure trilogy is a broadly inclusive weaving of human cultures from ancient Egypt, Olmec and Inka to Dravida, China, Angor Wat and Angor Thom, Micronesia and Amerindian. The overlay of spiritual systems and principles exposes unfamiliar linkages, posing a fabric of communion instead of conquest as alternate paradigm. Heartfire Rendezvous is character-rich speculative fiction spanning several continents and epochs of time.
The following resources are available on my Heartfire Rendezvous blog:
You can actually view pages of text on Amazon, to check it out, if you prefer. However, should you choose to buy, please use the links at the top — to my E-Store on Amazon — I get a better split. 🙂
Some have termed the writing “enthralling,” “couldn’t put it down.” It is a feast for hungers, some you knew, some you did not know you had. As author, I invite you into the Heartfire Rendezvous universe…..may your life never be the same…
2 them
america is white noise
clogging throats & ears
marching to the beat of a broken drum
marching to the beating of broken heads
feeding on broken spirits
the banner of blood & blue
inspires a national anathema
topping a list of blights
in the rush 4 more
2 their eyes
the constitution is busted sintax —
a declaration of forced dependence
they hear no music
their hopes are assured of change
with none to spare
coining phrases of false content
with the vision of sightless justice
anonymous in their guilt
others donate pockets
that provide no slack
& serve only to expand the emptiness
2 their hearts
relentless hunger demands
fear cannot compete
determined not to fade away
or be dismissed
the desperate are birthed ruthless
and death has no meaning
resentment puddles from its acrid rain
dams leaking
threaten the fruited plain
the concrete cracks
from the pressure of need
and all the king’s horses
& forces of greed
will drown beneath the flow
sidewalks shatter
beneath the weight of thwarted hearts
tremors ravage the city’s intestines
agitate the urban rigor mortis
tremors from restless sleepers on city streets
from the heavy treading of ceaseless walkers
& the rumble of shopping cart covered wagons
circling in the night
unconsidered and unseen
when determination shifts to desperation
bluecoat barriers will be insufficient
& the burning flood of acid malice
will be all that remains
4 the land of greed
& the home of the knave
by
jamal
ali
© 1989
in the silence
darkness of sound
grinding flint teeth
flexing sinewed jaws ignite —
a voice
a flame
a stone in the still pool of night
a cry in the canyon
echoing
soaring above crested peaks
above whispers of cloud
a cry
calling Names
ancient Names
evoking lifetimes
& memories
suddenly flooding to the fore
and what is more
the tangible presence —
the brush of soul on skin
fire on flesh —
electricity arcing between fingertips like synapses
your heart inundated
suddenly immersed in ancient oceans of experience
discovery
love and legacy
all this
all the force
the flow
rushing from then into Now
and the question of how…?
what goes where?
who is we?
is it all me?
does it ever stop…?
no
this is just the beginning…..
each life
a river
a water finger
gripping earthflesh
flowing
reaching for the sea
from streams of consciousness
to the ocean of me
contrary to cliche
night removes illusion —
the illusion of size
of distance
of detail
for the purity of principle
the divine abstract
was that a twig breaking
or a limb snapping under a heavy foot?
is that a star in the distance
or someone striking a match?
is that deep voice in the dark a menacing giant
or a baritone dwarf?
in the silence
darkness of sound
absence of light
night beckons us
deeper
within
source of mystery
haven of history
brought to light by memory —
spirit-whispers to our inner ear
words of conscience
confidence
slaying hidden fears…
the fire of spirit
blazes darkly across the night of our soul
heart surges
flushing us clean of dusty despair
with waters sweet and enduring
with wisdom
& fortitude
consciousness cultivates the fertile mind
aiming for more than an intellectual harvest
night gives birth to day
spirit suckles soul
consciousness nurtures mind
Self rises with heart
whole
silent
brilliant in the darkness
a star is born
by
jamal
ali
© 5 april 1998
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
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 out 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
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
starts at the end
ends with a sigh
ever the child —
wondrous & free
dancer extraordinairé
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
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
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
driven to jagged corners of self
excavating skin once shed
my pen digs through cinder piles
ash remnants of heart scabs
incinerated in furnace of self-immolation
once a foundry
producing mettle iron envied
folded
pounded
between John Henry will
& anvil of determination
into swords for defense, and vengeance
into tools, and farm implements
into cradles for children who have not come
instead of bottle
or pipe,
I crawled into my womb of imagination
scraggy walls raising whelps from memory
sphincter for air
and lips to mumble words —
wishes so fragile in conception
they lie stillborn on my tongue
me and Ellison
invisible to ourselves
facing the mirror of our creations
lost between lines scribbled from inkwell eyes
read best on rain-soaked afternoons —
words ripped from wounds still raw
on command
persuaded the wine squeezings of misery’s sponge
are the brandy of desire
but these toxic spirits don’t leave you drunk
or blue,
sip this
and inhale death’s nightmare —
a talisman harvest ensuring endurance
denying surrender
or any form of release
more distant than eskimo winter’s dawn
beyond reach of faith or prayer
there is a place where genius creeps
and no one sleeps at the bottom of gravity’s well —
pens don’t write
memory fails
and lockjaw mocks the mute
from this place
I dredge stones precious
& swamp-stained
coveted by chefs of carrion cuisine
framed on place mats in truck stop diners —
road kill rotisserie served as art
Ellison’s cup calls for refills from a distant booth —
blood espresso
whiskey liver latté
& champagne of curdled passions
served with a straw
by
jamal
ali
© 13 january 2003
Diamonds in the Night 