#032 Jessica Care Moore, 1997

 This is not an instrumental 
To real MC's and Poets across the globe

Recorded for Japanese recording artists, Silent Poets, 

"For Nothing" Album. . Toy Factory '98. 

From Japan to Motown

Seven mile to Fulton Street

There is the word unrehearsed - hungry for truth

Not always found in the poetry scene

Without a musical backdrop to make your head get loose

Cause it's the words we speak leaking messages to and - From our youth

Poetry shows how verse is always fundamental

In case you're confused, this is not an instrumental

Thee is an afro ready to bloom and a flower waiting to die

Maybe's killing maybe's and somebody knows why

In slavery we trust complacent with nothing much

Eat your people's humanity over politics at lunch

I gotta hunch your gonna make it the big time

We didn't create it

Yet we think we have the right to desecrate the rhyme

With rights come responsibility

Bring the truth with a prophets humility

You be killing me!

And killing you and those other two that came with you

who thought they knew

A rhyme was about talking about your silly crew

In lieu of all the death they'll soon be nothing left

The because of things will be taught to the blind and the once def

Lyrics are already outlawed on major radio stations

Conversations are a fantasy and there's a chocolate candy named

after the Temptations

Follow me to where the music always plays

The bouncing ball is tripping cause the world cares what you say

Lyrical police are unleashed as we try hard to say the least

Still there is no such thing as silence before the peace

Musical inflation on the rise, watch the voice increase

Keep me out your stores, I'll kick my poetry on the street

In my pants there is no crease

Academically elite please take a seat

Welcome to the reality of the poor and the nameless

To poetic to get famous

Suck in a daily dose of Dean

Sitting on the broken knees of uncle remus*

Blame us, the Hip Hop generation, for taking poetry back to where it

started

Corners of city blocks, rolling dice, on a hill

In the alley, in your aunts basement, at a protest in Harlem

Prepared to be killed

It was about politics and courage and the integrity of being an artist

Sonia, Gil and The Last Poets still talk about it

My name is grace and I'm married to Hip Hop, buried under slow sand

Dirty round my knees I draw with brown hands

choke for air

breathe for no one unless the mic's checked

Turn off the light, raise my head give the sun love

It isn't here yet

Reach in my pocket watch the real clock with my eyes closed

I hear the tick, I grab my bic

Least that's how the story goes 

Traveling with full pockets just trying to find my way home

But all I got is the sun, two pieces of lent and four new poems

On my journey there will be many that I meet

Sniff out the vibe, check the label closely

For the other white meat

I press delete and a new poem begins

It's not a coincidence, since without a princess there is no prince

And cinderella's left shoe has been missing ever since

She went commercial and thought she'd be better off alone

She drove herself to the mall, sold her carriage for tiny stones

Some called them diamonds, she traded them for her blue yes

And now when she blinks truth sounds like lies

When I go home to Detroit I love eating chili fries

And I hope that all this sounds written and rehearsed

When you think of poetry

please listen both ways before crossing the verse

Sign my name in she-brew black girl juice can heal you

It doesn't matter how big your words

If the people can't feel you

written by Jessica Care Moore, The Words Don't Fit in my Mouth, 1997.

*see: Uncle Remus folktales

#031 Jessica Care Moore, 1997

 BLACKGIRL JUICE

Maple syrup

In the morning

Brown Sugar that sweetens

Cinnamon twists in apple cider

Magic Black dust is inside her

Wheat bread with homemade spread

This juice goes straight to the head

Coffee without dairy cream

Any man's dream

Black cat That will bring you luck

Aphrodisiac you'd love to suck!

You wish! Black twisted licorice. 

Cooking black-eyed-peas.

Wearing black knee-high stockings

Black pumps. black hair. black dress.

black eyes.

This juice makes you wise

Allows the sun to shine

Black eagle. black butterfly.

Black tears she sometimes cries

But one sip and you'll believe

Braided hair natural cut or curly weave

Nails with acrylic tips, and wide-shaped hips

Most men fiend to hump her

Nails cut off she has a nice touch on her jumper.

Revolutionary waters she's your mother, 

auntie, sister-friend and daughter

You oughta recognize her eyes

She rolls them when she's mad and

she keeps her eyes wide open when she makes love

Cause she's bad to the BONE!

Blackgirl Juice is a nutritional boost

Bananas Strawberries and Melanin Nectar

No average man can affect her

Ingredients are Spicy-Mild-Sweet

Burns your tongue like an Jalapeno

Pepper steak with authentic chopsticks

First round draft pick. Black Afro Pic.

The one with the fist!

    Tight.

Deep.

Loose. 

 Have you ever tasted Black Girl Juice? 

You might want to pour some inside a jar 

let it linger on your top lip 

Take it on a trip 

 

Or dab small circles of it on your wrist ankles or ear

And if you're daring enough to ask...
I've got some Black Girl Juice
If you have an empty glass

written by Jessica Care Moore, The Words Don't Fit in my Mouth, 1997. 

 

 

#030 Jessica Care Moore, 1997

Detroit native Jessica Care Moore is a renowned poet, author, playwright, performance artist/producer, and community activist. She is the CEO of Moore Black Press, executive producer of Black Women ROCK!, and founder of the literacy-driven Jess Care Moore Foundation. Her poetry has echoed throughout Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, and the London Institute of Contemporary Arts. 

Thank you Jessica, for sharing your work with the world...

I Bet You Want Me To Write About Fiction

I could paint my front porch green

Smile through my teeth so I didn't seem so mean

Give you a glass of water so you could swallow my reality

Without Guilt

Warm your heart

Spend time showing you how to sew up the holes of my

African Quilt

Guess I could write a thesis on why I write

With Black dialect or diction

I bet you want me to write fiction

Cause you can't handle my truth!

You want novellas that tella pretend made up existence

With fairies

When I fly without wings on the weekend

And you want me to wear a costume on stage

Depict a fictionary tale that deals with Black rage

On an island far far away

On a planet that no one's every heard of

Want me to chop off my female into

Carefully constructed chapters

With titles like Snow Black and my seven boys

Or Mary had just a little ham

But I don't own shiny red shoes and 

the green witch melted

So when you read my work you felt it

Now you want me to write fiction

With happy endings

Typical beginnings

Want to imagine my existence

Is a figment of your twisted imagination

With lots of exhaling and no breathing

You want a black women's story bout how she's so alone

But I got a good man at home

Think I can't compete with those who test my black power temperature

With panting wet dog tongues

You think I'm too young to have a relevant truth

You want to paint my experience in bright pastels

As if my brown is lacking color

And you want me to speak to my audience

Lying on my back

On top of a long Black couch

As publishers posing as psychologists

Analyze my analogies and antonyms

Trying to figure out where the hell I've been

But Black women don't have time for therapy!

 

You want to marry ketchup with my blood

Too thick

Pouring so slow drops of my watered-down life

So you can enjoy a glass of black girl juice

With your morning paper without choking

You want me to write fiction

So there's no way of connecting my words to

something tangible

Down the road you can write me off

Calling my characters fictional

Their lives false

My afro grows too thick to please the animated cartoon

You've outlines in one-dimensional crayons

Representing a generation without a last name

Building wooden tables of continents

Take a valium

This is only my first

And there are others like me

I have their phone numbers and bra sizes

And the fact is your fiction can't be created without my blue print

Dipped in fresh Black ink

Cause this poem is real

And if you're really afraid

Why are you here?

At the end of my poems life

And she doesn't commit suicide

She survives

With a wicked smile

And the story never ends cause my girl

T.Tara Turk said

In real life nothing ever does

And I believe her

Writing her way out of fiction

Sitting on a green porch in Harlem

recreating the spirit of a woman named Sugar

Ain't our reality a sweet thing

A taste you can't seem to place

Can't pretend not to know

But we exist

Yes we do

It's a fact. 

written by Jessica Care Moore, The Words Don't Fit in my Mouth, 1997.

#029 Jessica Care Moore, 1997

Wherever you are, and whatever you woke up feeling like, know that you are loved, and know that you have what it takes to make the world around you a better place. You have ancestral intelligence, passion, and rhythm pumping through your body with every breath you take. 

Follow the movement on Instagram!

Explore ways to let poetry inspire your everyday lifestyle: 

 @WRITESIS

I'm still on a high from indulging in so much of Nikki Giovanni's incredible poetry, but as of late I've been buried in the work of Detroit native Jessica Care Moore. Sis has such a down to earth writing style that reminds me that poetry is a transformational tool that provides clear and relatable communication about what is going in our current world. 

Thanks to Amazon, I was able to start reading "The Words Don't Fit in my Mouth" which was published in 1997, however, I plan to work my way through "Sunlight through Bullet Holes" (published in 2014), and then listen to "We Want Our Bodies Back" (first published in 2020) on Audible.

I'm Done Dating D.J.'s

I'm done waiting around

at the end of the night

as the club clears

For the very last time

I'm done being the supportive sista

willing to hear your latest

Craziest track chime

I have NO more requests

Take me off the guest list

Before I have a fit

I'm pretending like it was a mirage

How's it feel to sabotage someone's heart

Then sample the sound on a new track?

Musical heart attack

I'm tired of conversations at the club where you spin

We're always vibin' about the world

fake people and jinns

No more saying yes

to late night invitations to listen

Wishing

You were putting ME on wax

Throwing my heartbeat on your headphones

So, you'll never be alone

A loving lyric

If you payed attention

you would hear it

No more sitting at the sidelines

laying my heart and soul

on your turntable

So you're able to create a fate

you're afraid to recognize

Dee-jaying with closed eyes

Is a cute trick

But, it's wic-wic-wack!

As you concentrate on your bobcat

To ignore a sista's that got your back

We're a perfect blend

Don't flex

Cause I can make you flutter

Sound smooth like butter

Won't tell me how you feel

I admire your passion

Trying to make cash and

Your blend is truly tight

But I kept you warm last night

Don't know what you're cuing, screwing or doing

With your "phat" party tricks

On stage doing tricks

I never gave you ultimatums

You gave me your milk crate full of records

And I played them

Hey, Mister DJ with your trunk full of vinyl

This song is final

You've lost the light in your better days

I'm done dating DJ's

written by Jessica Care Moore, The Words Don't Fit in my Mouth, 1997.

#028 Nikki Giovanni, 1997

Kidnap Poem

ever been kidnapped

by a poet

if i were a poet

i'd kidnap you

put you in my phrases and meter

you to jones beach

or maybe coney island

or maybe just to my house

lyric you in lilacs

dash you in the rain

blend into the beach

to complement my see

play the lyre for you

ode you with my love song

anything to win you

wrap you in the red Black green

show you off to mama

yeah if i were a poet i'd kid 

nap you

written by Nikki Giovanni, Love Poems, 1997

#027 Nikki Giovanni, 1997

I Wrote a Good Omelet

I wrote a good omelet...and ate a hot poem...

after loving you

Buttoned my car...and drove my coat home...in the

rain...

after loving you

I goed on red...and stopped on green...floating

somewhere in between...

being here and being there...

after loving you

I rolled my bed...turned down my hair...slightly

confused but...I don't care...

Laid out my teeth...and gargled my gown...then I stood

...and laid me down...

to sleep...

after loving you

written by Nikki Giovanni, Love Poems, 1997

#026 Nikki Giovanni, 1997

When is the last time you took a day to admire how beautiful, how exciting, and how inspiring it feels to love? Not just romantically, but unconditionally. Let's practice the art of being in love with just being. Love the little moments just as big as the grand ones. Love because you can!

Starting my day with some juicy Love Poems from the notorious Nikki Giovanni.

That Day

if you've got the key

then i've got the door

let's do what we did

when we did it before

if you've got the time

i've got the way

let's do what we did

when we did it all day

you get the glass

i've got the wine

we'll do what we did

when we did it overtime

if you've got the dough

then i've got the heat

we can use my oven

til it's warm and sweet

i know i'm bold

coming on like this

but the good things in life

are too good to be missed

now time is money

and money is sweet

if you're busy baby

we can do it on our feet

we can do it on the floor

we can do it on the stair

we can do it on the couch

we can do it in the air

we can do it in the grass

and in case we get an itch

i can scratch it with my left hand

cause i'm really quite a witch

if we do it once a month

we can do it in time

if we do it once a week

we can do it in rhyme

if we do it every day

we can do it everyway

we can do it like we did it

when we did it

that day

written by Nikki Giovanni, Love Poems, 1997

Oop! Let me go...#WRITESIS LOL

#025 Nekhena Evans, 2000

This poem made me cry when I first read it. 

Nekhena Evans is an author, poet, producer, speaker, and founder of NewBein' Hair Care Product line.

www.newbein.com

Discover her written work on natural hair care via Amazon today!: Nekhena Evans Literature

AND I CALL MYSELF A WOMBMAN

How can I become a "Wombman"

when I don't know my womb?

I have never had a conversation with my womb

so how can I consider myself a Wombman?

I have been with you...grown with you,

been through Rites of Passage with you

from childhood, to adolescence, to adulthood, and yet...

I have never had a conversation with you.

You have been a victim. A consequence to an action. 

A symptom of a disease. 

An effect of my action.

I have never spoken to you. Consulted with you. 

Inquired of you. Cared for you.

Or understood you.

And I call myself a grown Wombman.

Where have I grown? How could I have grown without talking with you?

Without acknowledging your presence and your works?

And I call myself a Wombman.

I have put you through dozens of men...

alien spirits/beings/entities...of all dimensions,

from all places and stations.

I have created and destroyed babies through you.

I have fed you all kinds of poisons, thereby creating diseases---

fibroids, tumors, cysts, and the like.

I have sexually abused you, thereby creating sexually transmitted diseases...

infections of all types, itching...burning...hurting...PAIN!

I have used you for my own purposes...

money, favors, alleged self-esteem, beauty, clothing, food.

I have allowed men to probe you, 

doctors to drug you, while I held you down.

If I had known someone who had done all these things

I would call them the names I despise the most-

MURDERER, THIEF, LIAR, BETRAYER, DEMON.

Yes I would...

And I call myself a Wombman,

Time to release. RELEASE, RELEASE.

FORGIVE ME. FORGIVE ME. FORGIVE ME.

I am complete.

I will be responsible for you, for myself...for my womb. 

We are in relationship together.

We have been from the very, very beginning.

I will commune and communicate with you. 

I will listen to you.

I will wash, cleanse, and purify you. 

I will pay attention to your patterns, your moods, your signs and wonders.

I will...I will...I will...become the Wombman that you made

me from the beginning.  

written in Queen Afua's Sacred Woman: A Guide to Healing the Feminine Body, Mind, and Spirit, 2000.

#024 NYA AKOMA via Autumn LaBella

💟💟💟 

I'm wishing each of you a warm transition into this frosty new month!

I'm reminded of a Kwanzaa celebration I attended some time ago in SE, Washington D.C with a good friend of mine. I attended an African Methodist Episcopal church growing up, so I had been exposed to some Pan-African customs early and to some extent was observing the holiday, but I had never actually attended a community based Kwanzaa experience as an adult. 

We were saturated with high vibrations as soon as we walked into the community center where the event was being held. All types of freshly garnished ital eats and fruit juices lined the back of the joint. Neatly cut and colored fabrics and tapestries, beauty bars, and butters sold by sisters, crystals and copper work advertised by incense carrying brothers adorned the east and west corners of the room. Rows of chairs in the mouth of the room were swallowed by a sea of melanated men, women, and children beaming with light and excitement. A sweet musk filled the air, mostly from the beautiful troupe of brothers who were striking djembes, congas, bongas, and cajons in a hypnotic, syncopated rhythm. The drummers were encouraging guests to chant or dance on stage with dancers that were letting Spirit lead releasing movements (yes yours truly ended up on stage getting LOOSE). It was a gift to feel welcomed by every guest in the room. 

My eyes grew wide with anticipation as I watched the drummers shout African affirmations while striking their drums even more powerfully. I skimmed the stage and focused on a lone woman, a slender chocolate skinned sister with revolution in her eyes, chanting and dancing freely with a cowrie shell covered shaker. Her confidence, her rhythm, and might I add, her agility for a woman in upper years, was breathtaking.

I laughed to myself, "That will be me in my golden years."

Needless to say by the end of the night, I worked up the courage to introduce myself to this intriguing woman draped in different shades of lavender. I felt like a moth being drawn to an elegant ember. When I humbly approached her, she finished her previous banter with another guest, looked me in my eyes, and with a wide smile led with:

"My you are a beautiful young sister."

I'm sure I blushed, but it didn't matter because she immediately embraced me and whispered, "Welcome."

After thanking her, I found that this lady in lavender was none other than Mama Ayo Handy Kendi: author, poet, lecturer, entrepreneur, Founder/Director of the African American Holiday Association, Founder of Black Love Day (which is celebrated on February 13th), cultural presenter, community organizer, and Certified Transformational Breath Facilitator. Since 1989, Mama Ayo has been a champion for human rights, justice, and wholistic health. 

We briefly discussed the importance of her established holiday, and she lovingly quizzed me on my perspectives in regards to my love relationship with my Creator, my self, and my community, which she deemed as some of the five 'tenants' of love (see "The Black Love Book: An Anthology on Love and Guide to the "wholyday" Feb 13th --Black Love Day", pg. 24). 

According to Mama Ayo, she founded Black Love Day as a way to help our community understand that "we must love ourselves enough as a people to want to reclaim our legacy, to study our history and culture...we need not to be ashamed of anything, only proud of how far we've come and proud of our many contributions!"  

Mama Ayo explains in her anthology on Black Love Day what NYA AKOMA means:    

We know of the heart as a symbol for Valentine's Day. Yet, long before Europeans used decorative, lace hearts to symbolize romance, this ancient, African Adinkra symbol was called the Akoma (pronounced Ah-co-mah). The Akoma literally means "the heart" and symbolizes love, patience, goodwill, faithfulness, and endurance, with its origin traced to the Asante people of Ghana and the Gyaman people of the Cote' d'Ivoire. The literal translation for NYA AKOMA is "Be patient, get a heart". The ritual and symbols of Black Love Day are a "synthesis of spiritual, metaphysical, African and African American customs which aid in heightening Black cultural pride and self-esteem. Gifts can be given if one desires to express their love, however, gifts must be purchased only from Black merchants, in the spirit of Ujamaa to recycle money within the Black community. It is recommended that gifts be made or chosen to enhance the spirit, mind and body, or chosen to reflect the love of African Diaspora culture and heritage, instead of impractical trinkets and unhealthy, sugar-laden gifts traditionally given for Valentine's Day."

If you can remember on February 13th, take 24 hours to be more mindful of how you are loving on those around you. Take time to rejuvenate your relationships and nourish the parts of life that mean the most to you in the spirit of Akoma. 

Interested in discussing or learning more about Black Love Day traditions? 

EMAIL AUTUMN LABELLA 

Special thanks to Mama Ayo Kendi of the African American Holiday Association (AAHA)