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Sitting here flowing
through the meters of time
like a smooth spring stream
meandering through forest greens,
I peruse the convolutions
of the caverns of this mind
of mind---searching for words
in the precincts of ancestral souls
to tell the stories of our dreams
visions and realities---married
to our creation as supreme
manifestation of the reflections
of the Giver of all that is
and the spirits there of.
Life can sometimes be seemingly void,
emotionless and somewhat stoic;
but such cannot be the confused condition
nor position, of the darker hued poet---
we are chosen to tell our stories
of then and there; of here and now; and
the coming of what must be.
So let us rise up like the griots---
vocal libraries---and like the parchment
writers of old---weaving our stories
of great queens and kings---
young fertile minds need to know.
Come brethren, let us word the fighting spirits
of our new beginnings here---landing
like sardines in a can---we have survived;
what a legacy of the freedom spirit struggle
our fore parents have bequeathed us.
And now here we stand; rooted in this strange land
no longer shrouded by the veil of fear---
body and soul---we are still here---here to stay.
Come brethren, let us beat the ancestral drums:
Ba Doom! Ba Doom! Ba Doom! Doom! Dum!
A new day has dawned and we’ve arrived again.
Come children, beat the ancestral drums!:
Ba Doom! Ba Doom! Ba Doom! Doom! Dum!
It’s jubilee time! Liberation time!
Beat the ancestral drums!
Redemption time!
Ba Doom! Dum Doom! De Doom! Doom Dum!
Ba Doom! Doom! Doom!
De Dum! De Dum Doom Dum!
Doom! Doom! Doom! Doom! Doom! Dum!
