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

pain
hurting
fear
sorrow
loads we’ve carried too long
so wrapped up in the shroud
we’ve come to believe it’s part of our identity
                                          our essence
                                          the nature of life
and any who would know us
must walk this gauntlet
to reach us

then the gauntlet —
       what must be passed —
                                         is not us
but our shield
     our persona
     our shroud
we clutch with death-like desperation
                   hands frozen in emotional arthritis
                   arms locked, clinging to what we don’t want

after all,
what would we be without our pain?
who would we be without our anger
                                 our outrage?

if, right now, today
you could start life fresh
                         without racism
                         without the rape
                                        abuse
                                        fear
or                                     pain,
if you could wake up tomorrow
and it was all behind you,
               no longer connected to you
who would you be?
what would you look like?
what would you feel like?

Hey, no one’s saying it’s easy
or                even saying now is your time to do it
but maybe
it’s time to dream it
            to imagine it
            to prepare for it
’cause it’s just something else to be slave to

think about it —
do you carry the pain of your burned fingers with you
to remind you to use a potholder?
no, ’cause you’ve learned the lesson
do you drag your textbooks with you
                                   every day
                                   for the rest of your life
or just the lessons,
    just the knowledge
as tools to conquer the next challenge?

what’s been done to us
the past
we cannot change,
but we can choose to lose it’s misery
for this is the actual victory
over the memories which hold us back

the guilty may never admit,
may never be caught
you may never even be believed

Does this mean we must forget
or                              give up the fight?

No, just take the bat out of your hand
            take the bullets out of the gun —
the bat you beat yourself with
the gun you shoot yourself with,
over the past

Biko said
“The most powerful weapon in the hands of the oppressor
                                    is the mind of the oppressed”

imagine for a minute,
you were still Black
but you came from a place
                         where racism wasn’t even an idea
                         where oppression wasn’t part of your reality
                         where you’d never heard of these things,
then you came to America
and were faced with all we’re faced with
today

you’d still have to deal,
you’d have to face the reality,
but you
     your mind
     your heart
would not be burdened
like ours

how different would your tactics be?
how different would your experiences be?
like being a New Yorker in apartheid South Africa,
it would be vastly different

we complain of stress,
                    the pressure of bills
                    racism, drugs, crime
but what is that to slavery?
did our ancestors have stress?
can you even begin to compare it,
much less share it?

then, if we have a choice,
do we choose to be slaves to our past?
do we drag the chains of childhood
               the scars of mistake and failure
               the ache of injustice
with us every step of our lives?

it’s volunteered slavery —
even the blind can see

we cannot begin to heal our hands
’til we release the fire which burns us
we cannot heal our hearts
’til we stop the pain where it starts,
in the now

sure, it’s just a dream
                  a possibility
                  a spark,
and that’s how the magic starts

within

by

jamal
ali

© 11 december 2001

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