DSB Rhapsody©2008 All rights reserved….

You and I
long to live like the wind upon the water.
If we close our eyes, we'll maybe realize
there's more to life than what we have known.
And I can't believe I've spent so long
living lies I know were wrong inside,
I've just begun to see the light.

Long ago there was a dream,
had to make a choice or two.
Leaving all I loved behind,
for what nobody knew.
Stepped out on the stage, a life
under lights and judging eyes.
Now the applause has died and I
can dream again...

Is there anybody listening?
Is there anyone that sees what's going on?
Read between the lines,
criticize the words they're selling.
Think for yourself and feel the walls
become sand beneath your feet

Feel the breeze?
Time's so near you can almost taste the freedom.
There's a warm wind from the south.
Hoist the sail and we'll be gone,
by morning this will all seem like a dream.
And if you don't return to sing the song,
maybe just as well.
I've seen the news and there's
not much I can do...alone

Is there anybody listening?
Is there anyone who smiles without a mask?
What's behind the words--images
they know will please us?
I'll take what's real. Bring up the lights.

Is there anybody listening?
Is there anyone that sees what's going on?
Read between the lines,
criticize the words they're selling.
Think for yourself and feel the walls...
become sand beneath your feet.

Anybody Listening

~Queensryche

A face in the Mirror

When I look in the mirror

I see someone looking back and wonder,

is it the same someone everyone else sees.

For the face seems to change every time I look.

Sometimes the eyes looking back at me do seem to be

the face I think must belong to someone other than me.

Especially when the face I see

seems so much prettier than me.

Sometimes the person in the mirror

seems so very far away,

a visitor from another time,

some other place,

and I hope it is me.

Sometimes the eyes look so much more wise

than I know I am,

sometimes happier, sadder,

but never do I see the face everyone else seems to see.

I may see a monster, an angel,

or princess from another world.

But do I ever see,

have I ever seen,

me?

Was Not Was

     Daddy Blue sure liked to be the center of attention.

     Today was no different.  He was wearing his only Sunday suit.  It was a faded blue with skinny silver lines that started at his large shoulders and went all the way down to the bottom of his pants.  (I could not see his lower half, but I guess he had his pants on.)  The white shirt he had on was boiled clean and neatly pressed. Grand Em sure laid her good arm in that starch!  Daddy’s best tie was wrapped around his neck, making him look important.  I’m betting he had his fancy black shoes on his feet.  He wore them on his night out with the misters.  He would spread that shoe past real thick on the toes.  Then he would rub and buff them until he could see his face in each.  I knew that when he did that, I would not see him again until the next day.  Grand Em could not go with him, and my aunties could not go out with the misters. 

     “A good colored woman would not be up on Sin Street anyway” she would snap at his retreating back.

     Daddy laid there with a small green bible in his rigid hands.  I shivered.  God was sure going to be mad!  He knew Daddy did not read the good book.  What was He going to say when Daddy got to Glory?  Wasn’t that a lie, sending Daddy up there like that?  I was always told not to lie!  God might knock the church down.

      His bear-like paws was shiny with Vaseline.  It sure took the ash off of them, but it did not cover his bruised knuckles.  I wondered how he hurt himself, but I didn’t know who I would ask about it.   His hands would catch my legs when I talked back to him. 

      The cloying stench of gardenias made me sick to the stomach.  Spit pooled in the back of my throat, and it stuck there as I tried to swallow.  It tasted nasty.  The flowers were clustered around Daddy Blue like miniature angels, but those angels were up to no good.  Blackjacks were His face looked chalky and powdery.  It wasn’t him.  I couldn’t be.   I was frightened and I did not want to be there.

     We were in the Good News Baptist church.  Everyone from Julian Street and up the Hill was squeezed shoulder to shoulder on hard benches.  Rowan County family came, too, but I did not know them.  We were under and on top of each other, and everyone was wearing their Sunday best.  In a Saturday afternoon during the summer, it was hot as hell in there!   Ouch!  Grand Em (My grandma’s real name is Emily, but everyone called her Grand Em!) pinched me.   Did she hear my thoughts?

      “Sit still, gal!” she hissed.   I could not help squirming around.  It was so humid, the back of my legs stuck to the pew.    Damn!  Someone forgot to use Ivory Soap!  Grand’s doughy arm kept hitting my head as she furiously waved her Hargett Funeral Home fan.  She was delicately scented with bacon and collard greens.  In spite of her hard elbow, I snuggled closer to Grand Em.  Maybe I would catch a breeze.  Her face was impassive.  I could not tell if she was sad or not.  I wanted to ask her, but I didn’t.  Sweat ran down the side of her face.  I wanted to wipe it off her face, but I didn’t. 

      The congregation swayed to a mournful rendition of “Near the Cross”.  Sister Lewis, a floppy, blood red hat atop her head, hurt that organ so bad.  Uncle Claude stared woodenly at his only brother.  He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world but here.  Aunt Minnie wailed in sorrow.  She never liked Daddy Blue, but she cried anyway.  It was the Baptist thing to do!  She must’ve lost her breath because she fainted on the floor!  Some ushers rushed forward to help poor Uncle Claude drag her outside.      Pastor Lewis delivered a fire and brimstone sermon at the pool pit above my granddaddy.  He sprayed spit from his mouth when he shouted.  Pastor mopped sweat off his bald head.  He sang and hummed and everyone tried to shout “amen” louder than anyone else.  Miss Lucille broke out in tongues, a strange, guttural chant only the most sanctified was privy to.  Grand Em glared at her, but cut her eyes back so fast so fast, I thought I just imagined it.  Chilly fingers caressed my spine.  Even though it was sweltering hot, I felt cold.  I just knew God was going to snatch me for being bad!

Revised © March 2008 by CC Gill.  All rights reserved.

              a renaissance for the new millennium

here is

a renaissance

for the new millennium;

now is a time of literary finesse.

ours is the time

for new paths to be blazed,

a time for palpable ideas

to be raised.

we contemplate the

future that lies

with our next generation.

we question the choices

of our past,

and criticize the errors

that have brought us to

this place of turmoil.

a renaissance,

a new millennium,

a consciousness of grand proportion.

we press pen to paper

and social awareness is revived.

we debate

the topics to which

blind eyes had once been turned.

we answer the questions

of ages gone by,

and set the tone for those who

sit in silence, teeming with anticipation.

our renaissance.

our millennium.

our consciousness of grand proportion.

sharpen the blade

of intellectuality,

and let its acuteness

and accuracy

run us through

until the blood of truth

flows freely from our minds.

then, let the wounds of incivility

be healed by the power of commonalities.

now is the time of literary finesse.

there are new paths to be blazed,

and fathomable ideas that need to be raised.

a renaissance.

a new millennium.

a consciousness of grand proportion.

behold: a renaissance

for the new millennium.

copyright  2008  blackstarr

 

As I happened upon the definition of “rhapsody”, I found the perfect definition to salute our newest artist, Rhapsody Fabulicious::

1. Exalted or excessively enthusiastic expression of feeling in speech or writing.

2. A literary work written in an impassioned or exalted style.

3. A state of elated bliss; ecstasy.

 

Nothing more can be said! Enjoy his wisdom.  I sure did!  Blessings!

* * * * * * * * * * 

LIFE

Life is a paradox

Multifaceted,

Systole and diastole.
It's a sequence of experiences with complex fluctuations.

It can be breathtakingly suburb,

Hellishly masticating,

Sensuously intoxicating,

Atriciously devastating

It is a maelstrom combination of

The good;

The bad,

The sublime;

The ridiculous,

The ugly;

The elegant,

The love;

The hate,

The passion;

The Indifference,

The lessons;

The warnings,

The ideology;

The depravity

All eloquently intertwined,

Exposing our humanity 

Constantly exigent,

Taxing the psyche,

Vacillating confidence;

Threatening to dismantle hard earned faith,

Courage and dignity
Life is a paradox;

A complex harmony of realities,

Juxtapose in a melodic symphony to maintain sanity

DSB Rhapsody © February 2005

Rolled outta bed and picked up the paper,

And, some chick claims that Kobe tried to rape her.

Didn’t want to hear it, so I turned the radio on,

And, some fool tried to tell me that Luther was gone.

I turned that off, and decided to watch TV –

No comedy, no drama, just some dumb*ss reality.

I went for a walk so that I could clear my head,

And “Assume the position!” is what he said.

He let me slide because he knew he was wrong,

Along came a junkie with a dance and a song.

I gave him two quarters and sent him on his way,

But here comes my ex – please, Lord - not today!

I ducked into a store (” you gotta keep it all hid”),

And found myself staring at a stick-up kid.

By now, I’d had it, I’m talkin’ way up to here,

So, I grabbed the young boy by his newly pierced ear.

The pain was so awful that his knife hit the ground,

I said “Yeah, that’s what’s up, son – See you around.”

Newspaper, television, radio, and such,

I really didn’t think I was asking that much.

You can’t win for losing, it’s just like they say;

It took all that I had in me just to keep ‘em at bay.

In case you still don’t know that this ain’t no drill,

I’m tellin’ you, my friend, this $*#t  is for real!

copyright  2005 blackstarr

(revised 2008)

    Poetry is so much that it cannot be described under the usual norms.  Poetry is who we are inside.  Poetry is what we believe.  Poetry is speaking out against social injustice.

    Miss Zada is an activist from the western United States.  She will tell it like it is about the darker sides of humanity.  It the balance we exist in, some ugly has to exist with beauty.  Listen, family, to her truth.  Listen, family, to her wisdom.  Welcome to the true knowledge of Miss Zada .. blessings!

         * * * * * * * *

Assault

I found this article enchanting.  These young, unrestricted minds came together to make beautiful poetry.  Peruse this article and click on the link to hear a sampling of the spoken word of the Bennett College Belles.  Blessings!

* * * * * * * * *

Bennett Belles bare souls with a spoken word CD

Credit: H. Scott Hoffmann/News & Record

Tarshai Peterson looks at one of the CDs.

 3 students share their spoken word art (Audio)

GREENSBORO — These Bennett Belles paint word pictures about their culture, history and sexuality that are as revealing as any diary and as defiant as any verse from Langston Hughes.

They long for conversations that make, as Bennett College freshman JaNee Fair says, "your body weak and your words slur.''

They call their 15-track CD "Conversations,'' and it's Bennett's second recording of spoken word performances.

The title fits.

"Conversations'' feeds into the long-standing literary tradition of Greensboro that gained steam a century ago with O. Henry.

Today, you'd think we have a writer and poet behind every oak and every keyboard, with our city's many publications, its 37,000 college students, its hyperactive blogosphere and one of the country's oldest creative writing programs at UNCG.

Yet, "Conversations'' separates itself from the many wordsmiths within our borders. These poems, written by women barely old enough to vote, unveil an honesty and a courage that speaks to the strong sisterhood at Bennett.

The titles say everything: Tarshai Peterson's "Secret Motivation,'' Dezerae Moore's "Misconceived Conceptions,'' Jasmine's Faison's "History.''

"Spoken word unlocks who they are,'' says Steve Willis, a Bennett theater professor who produced the CD with local poet Josephus Thompson III.

Tarshai, a freshman from Landover, Md., majoring in theater, wrote her spoken word poem last year while still in high school. She was struggling to remain celibate as her friends were having sex, and she kept hearing, "There is no way you can wait.''

A conversation with a close friend — a close male friend — helped. He told her, "Believe in yourself.'' She did. And still does.

Dezerae, a junior from Stockton, Calif., majoring in chemistry, was working toward her pharmacy technician certificate nearly three years ago when she wondered, "How do you know what is right?''

She turned over a page from her homework — calculating how much medication to put in an IV bag — and put down her thoughts about God and a judgmental religion that claimed all gay people were hell-bound.

Dezerae knows of what she writes. She's a lesbian.

Jasmine, a junior from Columbia, Md., majoring in theater, was watching MTV two years ago when she caught a video featuring half-naked girls and a bejeweled hip-hop star, surrounded by cars, spouting out verse in which every other word was "BLEEP!''

Those images ticked her off. She picked up her composition notebook and began to write — from the back page to the front page, her style. She riffed on what her generation had become: a culture driven by money, with no concept of their ancestors' historical struggle.

"We have to realize certain behaviors are not acceptable,'' she says. "I mean, what are we going to do about it?''

The CD, paid for by a $5,000 grant from the Johnnetta B. Cole Institute, will raise money for the Bennett Players and recruit students to Guilford County's smallest college. You have to think the students will come.

The on-campus popularity of spoken word has helped quadruple Bennett's theater program — from five to 20 theater majors — lead to two CDs, set the college apart from its peers and helped pave the way for student performances from here to South Africa.

Last week, during an on-campus CD release party for "Conversations,'' a few performers gave verse to emotions they once hid from the world.

Among them were Jasmine, in her gold loop earrings; Dezerae, in her black sneakers; Jasmine, in her blue Polo shirt, with rolled-up sleeves and a cell phone in her back pocket.

They stepped onto a maroon carpet, spoke in staccato rhythms and let the words fly.

Some strong stuff.

But some necessary stuff, too.

While You Were Sleeping

The lights of the city streets

softly illuminated the room.

You lay there sleeping

just moments after we had

made love for the very first time.

Still glistening with perspiration

from the passion we had just shared,

a gentle smile graced your lovely face,

which seemed to glow in the early morning light.

It was if I were seeing you for the very first time.

Your emerald green eyes, the curve of your lips

the roundness of your face, your long flowing hair.

I traced the outline of your body with my fingertips,

starting with your face, the nape of your neck,

the slope of your shoulders, getting to know every curve,

every inch, every part of you.

I held you close, measuring every breath, every heartbeat,

every soft sound you made while you slept.

The world around us was starting to stir,

The city lights giving way to the new day sun.

I fell madly in love that morning.

While you were sleeping.

                                                  Tenthltr2u © July 2006

As An Eagle

God gave me wings that I might fly

high above forest and field,

high above man.

I want to watch the world as it slowly turns,

ever changing,

day into night,

night into day,

so far below me.

With my wings I will soar,

high over land and sea,

watching all that takes place,

far below me.

Guarding all life,

enjoying everything.

God gave me wings

that I might fly,

so all who see me,

may have hope and peace.

      My dance partner, Vaughn, has a natural style of writing, taking the ordinary into something wonderful!   As he, I love storms (from inside, of course!)  It reminds me how truly small I am in His world.  Vaughn, darling .. lay some of those thoughts on me, chile!

A Cozy Storm

I hope .. I hope .. I hope.  Family, I hope your eyes will melt after receiving the message from Jay.  (I Hope)  Welcome, my friend, welcome!

Hungry

N2MahC

When I was younger,

Intimacy was stolen moments in a car,

And running afar

Snubbing my roots that did not rhyme

With my frame of mind

At the time. 

I did not want to be old and cold!

I needed to be wild and bold,

And courageous!  I needed to unfold

All the things I wanted to be.

Rebellion was a jagged smear

Of all the things I didn’t want to hear.

According to Cosmo,

Sex was the treat,

Pure abandonment in the sheets,

That should make my dreams complete.

The physical refused to remain fun,

It I tried to outrun,

When all is said and done,

Being me truly has not begun.

In me,

For me.

N2MahC,

I am more than a sister with delicious curves,

Or a mama lioness,

I need no envy or rivalry,

I am a chant his lips,

And a whisper to his soul,

I am delicate word,

A loving chant to his ears,

I am hugs too many,

And desire aplenty

I am a Whisper

And a Silence,

And a passing Glance,

I have perfected loving me

So I can love unselfishly,

And openly,

And completely. 

My heart is what it has

Always was.

Is.

N2MahC.

                      Copyright © December, 2007 by CCGill