Sunday, May 1, 2016

A poem I wrote today. I hope you like it.
Fun Fact: If you listen to jazz while reading, It feels personal, at least to me.

The Dreamers Call

Tell me how do you see yourself on the mountaintop.
Mr. Dreamer, Boy Willie, drifting on the August wind,
Sailing ships on clouds, tasting each raisin in the sun. Dried up on the grapevine and I heard it,
Calling out for you. Rap God Supreme, shattering sound waves with do-wop, jazz, rough and black, the cakewalk. With my ragtime piano tunes, rocking and rolling pass the blues.
Mr. Walter Lee Younger, I’m calling you, back in 1961, back on every momma on the couch play, dancing in the street to African drums. Graceful voices of Holidays, Dukes and

I’m shouting to you men at Morehouse, Howard, and HBCU.
Negro, colored, niggas of the good times, counting your numbers and throwing your craps, 7, 7, snake eyes
And I’m putting all on this dream. Dollar bills with dead white men and white papers inked with dotted lines and waiting for you. Dreamer. Nick and dime keeper, Blues, Blues, Years, and Time.

Tell me how you see yourself, man in the mirror, smoother and clearer, what became
Of the dream, movement of the people, love
Movement of the people liberation
Rights, Change, Aren’t I a strong black man.
Aren’t I a black man
Black. Man. Dreamer, dreams. Dropping instrumentals with auto tunes walls  of Billboards and Grammys.  Uncle Sammies and chicken George's
Augusta paintings smear red roses across the canvass, elegant strokes of Georgia Boys in the fields with water girls in orange horizons.
Dreamers can you hear me now, I’m calling you before my time.
Before the creation of the creators of me came, Where you here then,during the rise of the formerly known prince who soaked in the purple rain,staring up at spotlights on rooftops for it to happen for you/I say, dreamers, best friends of mine,
Look at how old you stories are,sitting with smokes and drinks, scars of mending in doses and blending emotions.
God, give me strength, God ,Aren’t I a black man.
Regardless of my pasts sin. Who am I too? Who am I?
And he says “Tell me how you see yourself from within?”
I answer a dreamer loudly. Not carrying about why.
No reason
Fucking Right
No cause or illusion of success
Just a need to do it.
Just a want, That’s all I have
Just this moment. Dream, Dreamer. I am a Black Dreamer. Dreamers come and be heard.


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