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

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

I hear laughter in the rain
comfortable in my overstuffed chair
embraced by its fragrant leather
lost in a distant stare

logs of old oak crackle and hiss
flaming alive in the hearth
the musical incense of gentle jazz lingers in the air
I gaze at my child asleep in my arms
and I wonder at all this —
                  how the magic of this moment
was something I one time thought
I would forever miss

I gently smooth his eyebrow
He smiles faintly and shifts in slumber
and again I wonder at the marvelous gift
the simple presence one’s child can give

I used to despise the rain
it was a melancholy dirge —
but now when I hear thunder
&                  lightning streaks the sky
I gather my children to me,
we cuddle on couch or bed
I tell them stories
  read poetry
and listen to dreams and questions
that always fill their heads

I may be an artist
            a writer
            a gourmet cook
I may invent new machines and devices
or      publish a new book,
yet I know my most creative act
              my miracle
              my masterpiece
              the culmination of my fusion
is to help birth a child into this world
&   nurture this dream to full flower
within the haven of family union
and full awareness of their power

I never understood tears of joy before
I used to despise the rain,
now I hear laughter in the thunder
as lightning smiles across the sky
within my family gallery
the art is gathered ’round me —
a manifested dream so beyond words
all I can do is sigh

by

jamal
ali

© 24 april 1996

moisture clung in shrouds
lingering after storm crested hill
the house was hers now
yet dread laced this dream come to truth

she walked empty halls
&                     rooms
crowded with furniture of generations,
rich with memory stew,
fragrance unblocking sorrow’s inward gaze —
mama’s mushroom-wild rice dressing meant real thanksgiving
’soon as nose crossed doorstep
scent of summer berry cobbler
with homemade ice cream
’bring rain from roof of your mouth
now streaking cheeks like house eye windows
grieving in chorus

abruptly shaking fists and head,
angry at sorrow stirred sweet by fond recall,
she ran shoeless
                      through accordion-slamming screen door
                      past porch swing
                      straight to mama’s garden

trembling hands yanked sweater to her knees
drenched in gathered mist of splattered tears
she peered up at mama’s new grave
’longside daddy, ’top of the hill
and it drew her up, straight
bluster of ancestor breath frettin’ locks untied

tilled soil embraced her feet,
and she rolled her ankles
’til she felt herself sinking
                       earth accepting
                       mama’s years of unhurried devotion
rising to meet wriggling toes, searching

rhythm whispers rose in her chest “..gone ain’t gone…”
sacrament she clutched with both arms
standing
still growing in mama’s garden

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

by

jamal
ali

© 9 january 2003