“If Ever I Would Leave You–”
Her promise, implied, to never
Leave this jagged hole in my
Soul was just shredded—
Gooseflesh from her growls,
swoops, screams, leaps is
Left; but her voice belongs to the
Universe for other planets to marvel at
I don’t wanna “Say
Her Name” today, not now…
Don’t wanna hear headlines—
See scribblers, talking heads who‘
Feel your pain,’ yet tear flesh from
Black bones most weekdays
It’s not business, it’s personal—
Like losing some soundtrack
When Bro. Ray checked out—or
My two week depression when
Sass stepped off stage; But,
If, There’s A Place For us
Outside plantations,
beyond bullwhips’ call
and response
If, There’s A Place For us
above gun towers
and concertina wire, our
Ma Raineys, Bessie Smiths,
Lady Days, Ninas and
Arethas
Take us there…
So, I tip my cap and
Sing praise not to
Monarchy propped
up on a throne—on
dried blood, skulls and bone;
a rusty “Chain of Fools…”
I tip my cap and
Sing praise—Panther-style—
to my Minister of Medicine,
Servant of The People,
darling “Dr. Feelgood—”
practicing Universal Healthcare
from a Spiritual Free Clinic
In her throat
I tip my cap and
Sing praise—Grammys,
medals, honorary degrees,
halls of fame, streets bearing the
name "Aretha Franklin Way”
speak for themselves.
I tip my cap and
Sing praise—a medley—and
“Think” of telling teams
“Don’t Play That Song…”
Of being a
“Bridge Over Troubled
Water” in Flint—
Making water weaponizers
“Jump To It,” getting the lead out;
Of telling ICE kidnappers—
“Ain’t No Way…”
© 2018. Raymond Nat Turner, The Town Crier. All Rights Reserved.
BAR's poet in residence Raymond Nat Turner is an accomplished performing artist. You can find much more of his work at http://upsurgejazz.com.
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White supremacy shapes every aspect of imperialism and must be understood from a dialectical perspective if socialism is to ever become a possibility in the United States.
The Trump administration is determined to “put China in its place,” a white supremacist mindset that will inevitably lead to monumental errors of judgement.
The current season of sickness – biological and political – is, indeed, strange, with no hint of a better day any time soon.
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