My Black Joy is witnessing my nieces and nephews, my niblings, be alive. Thriving as the future, and me watch them and celebrate enough that their teenage, young adulthood makes them embarrass of my shout-out. Like, yeah aunty, yeah uncle, I hear you. Black joy is watching them cut up. Is that the phrase? Am I getting it wrong? When you are so right with your mashups, and your new language for something as old in its expression. Black Love is being a witness to their parent’s’ commitment, my siblings, which brought and nurtured the young in this world when Blackness is seen as dangerous.
Today and always
I am forever seeing you
out at large, a gift.
So this is a response to all the fireworks happening in the New York area and else where.
Explosions In The Sky
The sky lights up with the sound of Boom
resonating through the walls. Like thunder it
exists as a reminder of disaster, a Boom Boom
Boom so you know who is in charge. Like a
frighten dog, like a frighten cat, we escape
under the bed. We take to cover and bury our
heads into our arms. Hide our bodies and our
love ones from the terror of what the sky is
suppose to mean now. Safe? It is a word we
dream about and fight hard to attain. Safe? It
is a word that cares nothing about who is
outside facing the elements which was
created. We are looked as dangerous while
our bodies, an esse, are the most vulnerable.
Spent the evening watching fireflies
that’s what I did because it meant
observing the nature of quiet while
being restless with nerves by
all that has happened and
all that can still can…
I watched those lightning bugs ignite
pulses of pronounced intensity
shortly appear to shortly disappear
vanishing as the transition occurs
dusk is their majestic moment
where such leaping guts sparkle
intermittently, they beam a breath
of fire in the nigh night.
The weather exists outside your own intentions. The rain comes with its clouds regardless of your want to lookup at the moon, to receive and see its splendid aura. Especially at a time where I have to lookout for threat rather than beauty. The beauty in the sounds of joyous glee. The beauty in seeing the miraculousness of things of living a life. When I watch for the next killing, the next mourning in a hashtag. Am I next? Am I next if I step outside and demand my space as a human being? Will I be next because my fight/flight/freeze mode is at a vigilance, so my actions are seen as a danger, while you have been so dangerous to me!
Ignited moon gaze
ricocheting in waves of
Us, Oh the glory
We’re at the same juncture where Black people are met with the same struggle, one which seems to never end. We’re still fighting for our lives to matter. We still can’t breathe as the knees of oppression bends into our necks, killing us. We’ve peacefully marched, we’ve walked with our anger boiling beneath our rich and beautiful skin, but yet this ugly history of us being beaten down, being hosed down still continues today. A reflection of us standing up against the fences, the faces of an established denial of my place in the world, where I dream as much as you do. I wish to sing my troubles. But it is the same tune. What else is there for us to say out loud, write down and shout, We shall over come… Should I tell the next generation it’s up to them now, to carry this anger, this despair, this anxiety of living outside, while I can’t even escape it myself? My life is ordinary like the songs of any bird-call voicing an incandescent sound, but because of the hatred of my existence I am martyred for my race, for my color: Black!
Black is the beauty
of the night forever and ever
Black is what brings light
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