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

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

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

emerging
from words
       language
       stones

       mudbricks
       vaults & arches

emerging
an essence
music
spirit

and from the building
             the erection
of walls and windows
peristyle pillars
and lofted eaves
we find ourselves
within a temple of the word —
             concrete utterance
             lyrical birth
                              harmonious with the earth
temple
not building
a verdant timbered mountain grove
nestled in a soul-swept seaside haven
graced by owls and eagles
             dolphin and elk
&          whales as mother sentries —
nurture to the nature
poetic fire frees

by

jamal
ali

© 25 june 1999

He say dis be de mango mess,
                   signs o’ de mango madness —
                   sublime devourin’ of self an’ fruit

He say surrender chile!
Surrender to de mango!
Surrender to de sweet seduction,
                 de frenzied suction o’ de mango seed,
                 de jealous clutch o’ de mango need

King mango, de tropical treat,
folks justa gobblin’ de mango meat!!

Dis ain’t no fiction
Dis be a ’fliction —
he say it be de mango fevah,
                lustin’ fo’ de mango flesh,
                mango breasts make de vision hazy
                de mad passion make ya mango crazy!!

And it be spreadin’ — 
                              lips
                              hips
                              bellies
&                           smiles,
alla da peoples
           growns
&        chiles

Look! Look!
It be on dey face
it be on dey chest
it be on dey hands
it be on dey feet
da sweet sweet mango mess
folks slurpin’ fingers
                  arms
&               elbows —
mango juice stains in dey eyebrows
— and dey ain’t shamed!
Dey be proud!
Dey no apologize
Look at de crowd!
Dey rhumba,
dey sing,
dey samba,
dey sigh,
an’ no one whisper —
dey all be loud

Lissen to de slurpers,
dere be no usurpers —
          no encroachin’ on me mango, please!
Lissen to de squealers,
lissen to de chorus —
dey all be hummin’,
smiles on dey faces,
tongues just a-dancin’,
sweet cheeks blessed by de mango’s kiss,
baskin’ in de ecstacy o’ mango bliss

Can you see dem?
See, see?
Wit eyes closed,
an’ belly full,
bodies movin’ calypso sweet,
moanin’ de mango melody

by

jamal
ali

© 13 june 2004

sassafras and cinnamon
freshly grated
she had skin like that
     always smelled like something fresh out the oven
     was biscuits you dip and eat
yet never consume
she never met a hunger she couldn’t lick
and he kept busy coming up with new ones

in the kitchen of her embrace
he was the apple in her dumpling
          the chocolate in her eclair
she was a spice chest of comfortable aromas
her wet kisses tropical fruit teas
companion to her honey wheat pastry flesh
seemingly always on the rise

her whispers were yeast in his ears
savory frenzy of cookie dough fingers
leaving tribal stripes she nibbled neatly away

in naked anticipation,
his hand cupped her cheek
like a sweet corner of fresh cobbler,
gnawed her shoulder with tender teeth
found her breast willing dough
yielding to the juice-producing gentle ferocity of his eager hand

utensils hanging by open porch windows
rang in culinary mobile
stirred by an internal breeze —
something about seeing her on the table
                                flour dusting her face
                        feeling her legs locked behind his butt
sucked the sigh right out of him

treating her belly as plate
he slid a slice of pie over her navel
to catch errant juices
and ate all the way to her chin

in rising kitchen heat
they mixed exquisitely slow
churning butter
from tangible desire
blending raw need
with fresh chocolate blossoms
in romantic recipes of mango pudding passions
&                           sweet sauce confections
laced with brandied carnal syrups
brewed in slack-jawed abandon

resting on edge
they were an intricate goblet
of whipped pearl jam parfait
’til a timer stumbled their slumber
and she shut down the oven
as he carried her from the kitchen
satisfied to let this dessert
cool from the inside

by

jamal
ali

© 9 december 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

the sound —
jingling bells of an ice cream truck —
was a ‘Children, start your engines’ Olympic trigger
for every kid in earshot

giggle-laced chatter broke mid-word —
“Joey got a new model-”

Shooooom!
Big eyes
mouths hangin’
bike rubber burnin’
minds breakin’ out in clever fever
‘Hmmm, beg Dad,
he’s in the middle of his nap…!’

sure ’nuff
growls and yawns

“Leave me alone will ya!”

“Awww, Dad….!
The truck’s almost…”

bedsprings creakin’
grunts and mumbles
half-sleep wrestlin’ with stubborn pockets, ’til
“Boy, all I got is a doll-”

snatch
thanks
& halfway downstairs
before last letters caught air

full tilt dash was frozen
screeching to nonchalance,
easing past kitchen radar fun trap
‘she’s on the phone!’

the screen door was a catapult
launching porch leaps shaming Wright brothers,
the block filled with flocks of sweet dream angels

as foot hisses over grass
thunder from above
“Boy, that’s a dollar!!
You betta bring me a Nutty Buddy…”

grins blinded with enamel sunshine
halos to siren howls of
“Ice cream! Ice cream!!”

Like always,
the truck kept rolling
extending the race
’til Jeff’s bike blew past
leanin’
legs churnin’
spokes hot rod thrumming balloons front & rear
but Sarah was faster
                     barefoot
                     laughing so hard she could scarcely breathe

Slam! Slam! Bdddr-bam!!
little hands and bodies hit the wish wagon
a primal rhythm on frozen drum

The only answer to “What’ll ya have?”
was wheezes and fussin’
                       shovin’,
&                    wild hands waving
faster than lips and tongues could speak
’til the closing bells
&       gradual migration walk
mixing skips and baby steps
fresh fudge faces
licking greedy
and    slow
at the same time

there were trades
and sharing —
slow eaters teasing
fast eaters conning
while some slurped wrists and fingers
tracking trickles
spawned by an August afternoon

“You betta get your butt home
b’fore your daddy’s cone melts!” Sarah shrieked, giggling

’Didn’t hear their razzin’ as I ran
lickin’ elbows while dodging dogs
&                                    a baby carriage
careful not to fall cuz…

Dad was on the porch
funnin’ with the hose
pretending to water the grass
“Gimme that!” he grinned
“..and rinse your face and arms
before the sheriff comes out…”

The screen door slammed
as he rounded the corner
“Where’s your father?
Did he tell you to water the grass?”

“Well, he gave me the hose…”

“Are you watering you, or the lawn!?
Hurry up, dinner’s ready…”

The screen door creaked again
and I had to ask
“What’s for dessert…?”

“You are a pitiful child….
Peach cobbler, okay?
Cobbler, and…”

“..and…?”

“..and ice cream, so come on…”

the door slammed
the hose fell
and before my foot hit the first step
Dad scooped me up in one arm
       winked
&    whispered

“Heaven done smiled on both of us!”

 

by

jamal
ali

© 20 september 2002