A song for the oppressed. Rise my people, rise up and dance! Lift your voices and sing! Sing the songs of your fathers and remember the smile and beauty of your mothers. Let the sun reflect on your brown skin and energize your melanin; let the sun’s rays kiss and bless your lovely hue! Sing my people, sing! Let your voices rise to the heavens and shake the earth! Sing my people, sing! Sing because we are sanguine, and because our people are of a beautiful brown hue. The melanin within us reverberate and jump to the rhythm of our ancient songs and cadences. Women, let your octaves drift through the generations, and men let your baritones vibrate through the bones of the dead! Sing children, sing! Let your voices ripple through the universe and the vast galaxies! Sing the songs of freedom, and hum the hymns of rebellion! We are not a defeated people; we have life in us yet! Sing you generations of the oppressed, sing a new song of hope and triumph! Let the ancestors in the spirit world hear it, and dance again! Let them move with vigor and rhythm. Dance, my ancestors, dance! Pound the drums and move your feet! Oh, those old songs of rebellion, and those beautiful songs of uprising! Let loose of your shackles, overtake your oppressors, and let us live, but if we must die, we die in insurrection, and we die side by side. Our eternal souls shall still sing! We shall be remembered.
Category: Poetry
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In the world of microsleep, there is a realm of untapped ideas. A dream world of unlimited creativity and endless visions. Dealing with bouts of insomnia for the last few years has exposed me to this hidden and seldom visited realm. On occasion I may have been without sleep for two to three days. Having to take care of day to day activities and the daily stresses of life, I find that adrenaline takes over and I am able to complete tasks even when running on virtually an empty tank of energy completely drained and in desperate need of sleep. Without any complete scientific information and solely based off my own self observations, I have come to believe that the mind and body go into automatic pilot mode and everything becomes surreal. It’s like you’re moving without knowing you’re moving. For example, the phone may ring and I answer it without even knowing I had picked up the phone to answer it in the first place, or completing a task and minutes later not remembering I had completed said task. It’s as if the mind becomes super focused at intervals throughout the day depending on what I’m doing at the moment. Now here is where things get really interesting. During these periods, if I didn’t stay occupied, I would fall into periods or segments of microsleep. Microsleep is an involuntary action of unconsciousness (sleep), for a very brief period of time, usually several seconds, due to sleep deprivation. It was in this state that I had the most vivid dreams and ideas flowing through my mind. Though very brief, in an analogy, I think it could be compared to something very small but with high potency. Very vivid, very colorful, directly in your face like an action packed 3D movie.
The drawbacks of this wonderful dream state are obviously the sleep deprivation, the risks associated with microsleep, especially for people who operate heavy machinery, and those that spend large amounts of time behind the wheel. The thing is, when you go into microsleep, most times you’re not aware that your eyes have been closed for several seconds, or that you have actually slept for several seconds. I have been embarrassed on more than one occasion by someone waking me up, only to tell me that I had been snoring. Another issue with these dreams and visions is that as beautiful as they are, they are hard to capture and be retained in my memory. As hard as I had tried, I never could remember all or most of these vivid dreams; usually just a fraction of them could be retained. Nonetheless, vivid, prolific, creative, and colorful they are. I found that usually after two to three days without rest, on that second or third night, I would get at least six to seven hours of deep sleep. On other nights without the bouts of insomnia, I would and can have vivid dreams, but not nearly as vivid as my dreams during microsleep. I attribute these dreams during my normal sleeping patterns to REM sleep. In conclusion, I would say that the trade-off of insomnia and sleep deprivation, for an extremely vivid dream world with an ethereal undertone, is totally subjective. As for me, I’m still pondering this very question as I write. Insomnia is not pleasant, but just a glimpse into that heavenly dream world is more than inviting to this author.
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She cries for him. The deep lacerations on his back make it hard for him to work, and he is in severe pain. He must carry on or risk even more torture and suffering. He dreams of the day that he can be free, a day when all suffering and pain will cease and his people will no longer be under the hand of the oppressor. He looks over to her and the pain in their eyes communicate their thoughts. He loves her and she loves him, even though they are in bondage, somehow the beauty in their hearts persevere. The love between them is made even stronger with every crack of the whip, with every atrocity, with every abuse, with every unspeakable act, their love, their bond, is made stronger. They find comfort and love in each other. They find hope and resolve in each others dreams. Tattered clothes, scraps of food, not enough to eat, they sit by a warm fire and embrace each other. She holds on to him tight, with somber eyes that carry a deep pain and tell the story of what once was, and what is. Eyes that can only be read by her people; a people who’s story is the same and who’s hopes and dreams are the same. He kisses her and begins to sing the songs of his fathers. She joins in and they sing in harmony together, they remember their homeland, their royalty and their tradition, and they hold on to it, and it is carried in their hearts. He is a strong man, big in stature, with the heart of a lion.
She is a strong woman, a nurse to her man and many more. A comforter, a soft touch, a beautiful rose in the wilderness, an oasis in the desert. In their worst suffering they vow to die together and to be eternally inseparable. Even when she is raped by the oppressor, she may let out tears, but her resolve is not shaken. Her heart and mind belong to her one true love. She will not be moved and she will not be broken. Her mind drifts to a place of peace, the land of her ancestors, and once again she is able to bear it. Once again she joins her true love in their small structure and they are quiet, for he knows her pain and the ordeals of the day and silence is all he can give. She sees his pain and anger, his eyes red with both fury and hurt, and she is strong enough to carry it. She places her arms around his shoulders and comforts him; he slowly places his strong arm, around her waist and brings her in closer to him. They both stare out of their small window and into the dark night; the moon and the stars brightly lit, she looks into his eyes and all emotion is communicated. He holds her even more tightly and says a silent prayer from the depths of his soul. He kisses her on the crown of her head and the love he has for her is immeasurable. They refuse to give up, they refuse to be broken. One day freedom will come, either in this life or the next.
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You betrayed me. I loved you and you betrayed me. You said you cared for me, but you didn’t. Your love was not true. It was not real. I saw the signs but chose to ignore them; the writing was on the wall but I refused to accept what I already knew. My soul, my inner being, everything in me wanted to trust you; I needed to believe you loved me, but I had to face it. I relented, but the truth refused to leave me Truth stared me in the face when I saw clearly and without any doubt, that not only, had you not loved me, but even more so, you turned on me, you tried to hurt me. I gave of myself to you, I didn’t have much, but I gave you what I had. I gave you love, I gave you affection, I gave you understanding. Some questions still have to be asked, so I ask: Why did you turn on me? Was it the love I gave you? Was it the money I sent you? Was it the understanding I had for you? Was it the affection I showed you? Was it the feelings I poured out to you? Was it the flowers I brought home for you? Was it the belief I had in you? Was it the nights you cried and I consoled you? Was it the confidence I instilled in you? Was it the beauty I saw in you? Was it the way I cared for you?
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Dear Mother,
For carrying me in your womb, and for your love. Thank you. I was only three years old when you were taken away from me. I asked God why. I pleaded for a reason. Nights I sat on my bed and cried, fighting to recapture the memories of you and I, or at least a mental picture of your beautiful face, but there were none. Why did you have to go? Even now I ponder this profound question. A bastard child. No mother. No father. I look at old photos of my youth and remember the mental pain no child should have to endure and I cry for that young boy; for that child trying to find his way through the world. I cry for him because no one else will; I shed tears for him because he was lost and had no outlet for his pain. One day he will see them again: his mother and grandmother. The women in his life that he lost, reunited once more. Until then, mom I love you and I need you more than ever. I swear I will never forget you and I will always carry you in my heart. Mom if you can hear me, I love you.
Intimate Compositions 