Nonsense Makes Sense
We tango sambo
Delinquency to the tune
Ditto machito & his afro-cubans
Cruz middle passage
Sherbro sho bro
Talk that talk
Until p diddyâ€™s umbrella
Paper tigers like Swans, geishas, Gertrude
In a room of her own
But Iâ€™da b well damned
If that be my destiny.
ashes spread across seven skies
And I, sis, come looking
Canâ€™t flub it
Or fuck with it
Untouchable like beloved
Embraces total nut
And itâ€™s on
Like donkey kong
Or king kong.
who ainâ€™t got nuttin on me
Cept extended stomach
Full and fecund
Digging the ground
Sooty black foots my only carriage
But divorce not marriage
That be how I do it do i
While you try to woo it
only to end up rueing it
behind some foolish shit
but that ainâ€™t the end
as I extend into tomorrow
as I search the world round
for the proper noun
to give my seed
P.A.C vs my history
sobukwe no way
Dahomey da homey
Africa to america
Get it on, Gat it on
get get gone
only grass seen
don 3 of 4
And yeah, fauna
Has his name
Nowhere near lame
And I reclaim my fame
Signing my true name
I, Sis, You, Bro, San, Son
Isis Osiris and Horus
Â©2006 Tichaona M. Chinyelu
Armed men with weapons
of educational projections
to combat societies false prejudices
to be dismantled upon discovery of our youth
never has this truth been in such great demand
you can be what you want to be per Nas
not necessarily ghetto superstars sing Pras
but men of substance
these men must disarm their love for the streets
with siren filled beats
which is always followed by prison bars
learn the difference between right and wrong
know that your strength does not lie
in your trigger finger
or your ability to pull it
excercise control and use it
live life with a laugh
not a 9 millimeter
honor life and death
the last breath is final
substitute violence with silence
acknowledge God each day and pray
respect and protect your community
by not being the problem
but part of the solution
the leader of this Revolution
stay focused and centered
lessons learnt by boys turned MENtors.
While enjoying the sun shine and letting the breeze massage my soul
You walked by… His name… Black Gold
Fine as aged wine and smooth like it’s taste
Black Gold I love you can I sit on your face?
His arms so strong
His eyes full of pride
Can I spend a night?
Just give me one night… I promise I’ll act right
I promise to treat you to the finer things in this life
Not just materially but I’ll welcome you into my palace
Where warm loving awaits you… with no strife… no malice
I need you Black Gold just like you need me
Come home to love
Come home to your Queen
The thought of us together
Used to send me thoughts of pleasure
Iâ€™d give anything to trust you again
But you’ve committed the unforgivable sin
Iâ€™m sorry baby what more can I say
We both know you fucked up in a major way
The love we shared, you’ve definately killed
Don’t worry my heart was very quickly healed
You say you’re no longer interested in other women
And that if I forgive you, you’ll never do it again
I know you’ve said it over and over
It only happened because you weren’t sober
You said I was the only one who owned your heart
I remember when I thought that weâ€™d never part
You say you still havenâ€™t found a better lover
Maybe itâ€™s because you’re supposed to suffer
And that you wish you hadnâ€™t put our love to the test
Because now you’ve realized now that I was the best
You say you know better now,
And you ask if I can tell
But all I want to say “Go Directly to Hell!”
You say itâ€™s gettinâ€™ harder for you just livinâ€™
But you dont need to wonder if you will ever be forgiven?
The answer is no! I just can’t let that happen
So all I can do is suggest you keep on steppin’.
The wolves may huff and puff
but they ainâ€™t got nothing on
apple sized cheeks
that blew sounds just as sweet
as the juice.
It donâ€™t mean a thing
if you donâ€™t take the A train
and hear the lady from baltimore
with the sanitizing stench of bleach on her
from scrubbing those damn white steps.
From ladyâ€™s maid to lady day
from the whorehouse to
covering the waterfront
it was heroin, not her man
that had lady singing the blues.
A trumpeter walks in front of a horse
leading a perennial procession for you.
Thatâ€™s the image that comes to mind
when I think of you.
Your smile derided.
Your character declared a caricature
but Ghana loved you.
You were pops to the world.
In a mining township
a hundred miles from Johannesburg
exposed to jazz, traditional music
a horn player was growing up.
In a jim-crow dominated township
it was designed to be impossible
to graze in the grass
And now, it is said
we donâ€™t love the music.
Our faces are not in the audiences
of those who carry it on.
Our dollars arenâ€™t spent on it.
We have allowed it to leave
and because of that
it no longer belongs to us.
But this is simply not true.
Â© 2004 Tichaona Chinyelu
poetry and photography
they share the same imaginative
and body space
said to be worth a thousand words
well written, felt in the heart
they can be gazed upon for centuries
sampled and forged
recited in infinitum
analyzed criticized and even burned
those that escape censorship
bridge the divide between canvas and calligraphy
dispensing with margins
and discarding frames
are treasured from the heart
as something new
(c) Jesse Sharpe 2006
Man: It was evil.
Woman: It was insidious.
Man/Woman (together): We each thought it was the other until it spoke to us
in our own voices and then we knew we had a vampire.
It flew at us like the past, made a mockery of the future we
Man: Had me thinking she wasnâ€™t the sky I flew in.
Woman: Had me thinking he wasnâ€™t the rock I stood on.
Man/Woman (together): Had us thinking we were each otherâ€™s enemy.
Man: Loaded and cocked. My words were fists.
Woman: Stealth bomber. Appeared out of nowhere. Disappeared into pain.
Man: I lost my job.
Woman: I got a promotion.
Man: Attitude problems. I spoke a black manâ€™s language.
Woman: Thereâ€™s a time and a place. Mouths to feed.
Man/Woman: Thatâ€™s when it bit.
Man: Damn mosquitoesâ€¦
Woman: â€¦sucking our blood.
Man: I slapped at them.
Woman: I sprayed repellant.
Man/Woman: But it wasnâ€™t mosquitoes. Our blood was being drained.
Vampire: The blood was rich. Full of love and life. They had no right to it.
I made it mine. Became big and strong. Starting eyeing the children.
Man/Woman: We stood looking at the couple in the mirror.
Man: Fighting lean.
Man: Fuck this shit.
Woman: My nameâ€™s not Kendra.
Man: You love me?
Woman: I love you.
Man: You ready?
Woman: Iâ€™m ready.
I weave words
like a west african market woman
selling you my vision, my mangoes, my papayas
even my coconuts.
My finished product can be held up to the sun
illuminated, made to shine.
The skins of my poems have been submerged in mud
then laid at the bottom of the baobob tree to dry
The blood of my poems can be as dry as the sahara
as wet as monsoons
as cutting as a machete in the hands of the mau mau.
I weave blood into my words:
red blood, dried blood, young blood.
An oversaturation of blood decorates my words
makes them pulse red.
My words hang from trees
like the bitterest kind of strange fruit.
My words find the peruvian revolutionaries
murdered while hogtied
and then buried in criminal secrecy.
My words were inspired by rigoberta menchu.
I roots rock reggae with my words
have them jamming to the heart beat rhythm
of the warmest music.
The fabric of my words is at its lightest
when theyâ€™re in the dancehall or the yard.
My words sweep over people
like the softest caribbean breezes.
My words will have you dreaming of blue skies
white sands and coral reefs
and while youâ€™re dreaming
i weave black people into my words
and i am done.
My finished product can be held up to the sun
illuminated, made to shine.
Â© 2005 Tichaona Chinyelu