“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.
Slow-witted Joe Biden appears to think that we’re still in the age of the sole superpower, when in fact that era has come and gone.
Neither AOC nor the rest of the Squad has mounted any significant challenge to the party’s corporate leadership, despite being elected for this exact purpose.
A pamphlet written 70 years ago by an exiled Black American communist reveals an African continent seething to break free from European colonization.
The real story of the Rwandan genocide begins in 1990, when exiled Tutsis from Uganda invaded northern Rwanda, unleashing a deadly campaign that uprooted a million Hutu peasants and set ethnic tens
Northeast, midwest, southwest, south, down south, up south, out south—south of the Canadian border—Slouched down in his cruiser, slow-rollin’ the ‘hood; Or a-
