cazembe aruwali
Crazy Boy
Born a child full of promise
Everyone says he can be great
Sadly, he knows not that his dreams are pumice
Buried in the rafters a day too late
Malformed in mind, in spirit, and in heart
He suffers from the essentials of life
His family is worried as to where he will start
Not realizing his impending years of strife
Sorrow in childhood, bedecked by ridicule
Insults, laughs, and beatings fill his early years
Rosy cheeks, busted noses, and taunts were the rule
And many moments of duress ended in tears
What did he do to deserve such humiliation?
Rich in his mind years later as an adult
Perhaps, the way he talks whitely with anticipation
And not being Black enough was his fault
Another theory suggests his air was low
Filled with strange and bizarre activities
Often his love of action figures, drawing, was a blow
That sent desire and passion into his proclivities.
Shocking anti-social fairs with others of the opposite sex
Made him a candidate for the funny farm
Others expressed concern about his identity’s hex
And wondered who would change this frizzled charm
One thought never entered their minds
For to them it was never a matter of sanity
But, this boy who is now a man is one of kinds
Of individual souls who is far reaching in mental vanity
His physical was not fit, his look not liking
All who saw him passed and did not return
For this soul lost to foundling dreams of hiking
Has reached the mountain of promise away from the fire’s burn
Crazy, you say; Are you sure it is he?
I believe he is beyond sane distinction
Many would call him a blessing on foot without degree
Flashing from descriptions so grand I cannot mention
But, alas to him his past holds the key to his heart
A riddled mess of trouble, turmoil, and travesty
But, who can rival him now as his soul departs
Smiling at those doubters and name callers with irony
Ghetto Boy White
Where I lived, no man called "white" a good
Whether it was a man or woman, and that’s as it should
But, surprising to many, who knew it not
For a white woman I was definitely hot
Her name was Gidget, short for girl midget
She was a dark haired sprite of principled fidget
She spoke her mind, stood for her convictions
Occasionally went out on dates with famous and ordinary depictions
A lesson was the root of her purpose
A sad song when this crush came to the surface.
But, dear Gidget was a character on a show
The same title was what made it go.
It was a popular young person’s affair
With beaches, books, and boys who were there.
This sickness, which I call it today continued
With me referring to myself in European named retinue
From Darwin Lieuchenski to D.W. Cunningham III
I was a Ghetto Boy White, pretty absurd.
How I changed was as bizarre as it was brilliant
I rediscovered my people and myself by the millionth
I became a pro-Black advocate, a writer, and social protester
Involving myself in debates, stories, and discussions like an investor
The investment was in myself and it paid off
Now, I am a graduate of a HBCU
With a degree in African American History, thank you!
A Ghetto Boy White is now a prominent African Black
With a goal to put the Afropean disease on its back.
But, to do that I must remember who I was before now
And show that I understand the attraction of the White World’s wow
But, I remember and realize that the disease I had has residual effects
As I heal others, I cannot fall or have them become suspects
For being a Ghetto Boy White is not the end
Nor will it cause a crisis where you lose your friend
But in the future, it can cause irreversible damage to view
Where the results are a people who don’t know you.
Ghetto Boy White II
Who can imagine being white in a black body?
A vision so filled with dread
But, yet it is true and not shoddy
As the thought soon fills your head
As kids, we saw fire hydrants gushing
Street corners blushing, pavements littered with trash
As teens, we saw ice cream, and dates flushing
Their fake makeup pads for cash
Yet, to me the subject I dwelled upon was strange
And captivated nothing more than dreamlike fantasy
About objects that I would arrange
As heroic or plain as can be
These objects and figures were not seen to me yet
Until later I was shocked by my decision
That every object or figure that I created or set
Was not black or African as a precision
Was I sure that my eyes saw nothing
But a glow that was pale and clear?
Or was I laughing outside and bluffing
As my heart began to tear
Until 1988, no object appeared
To show my people’s glory
Until I found myself and my soul endeared
By a responsibility to tell their story
They awakened the warrior in me
And set fire to the Afropean that I was
And made the truth of reality
Providing fuel for my creative buzz
Now, I am an adult
Whose eyes, ears, and mind focus on the truth in Black and White
And reveal to my people of an Ancient African cult
That I am free to continue their fight
Wings of the Heart
What is it like to feel?
Is it like a bird that is real?
Does it fly in with one intention?
Or does it leave, before I stop to mention?
No one knows and yet we ponder
To discover the answer and wonder,
Why such information is necessary for life?
Because many of our hearts cut like a knife
We are not kind, gentle or sweet
We are cruel, selfish, and meek.
We don’t ask, borrow, or cry.
We just laugh, ridicule, and deny.
So you see, if the heart is not crazy?
Or if it is not in the least lazy?
Why does it fly from you like a dove?
Why does it not show you how to love?
What is its purpose, if not to teach?
Perhaps, that explanation is beyond our reach.
Was My Culture Ever Mine?
A question I ponder
As I learn who I am
Perhaps the answer will come as
Toast is spread with jam.
Quite a treat it is
Yet the alternative is not
It is filled with bitterness and an ancient rot
I have read the journals,
Books and manuscripts
I have learned the procedures, the techniques,
And names of affiliates
No one or no item has ushered the truth
Is this my culture as your name is Ruth?
Perhaps, I ask the wrong question
For what I seek is not in your hands
But may be in your possession
In far away lands
Lands like Africa,
Asia and Australia
May hold the key to my cultural failure.
A failure, I say because
I linger for my past
Which has staggered from my present?
and its remnants are vast
Why do I want it?
What purpose will it serve?
Perhaps, it will motivate my return
From my cowardice to nerve
Maybe it will startle me
Like a kid struck by lightning
And show me the meaning
Behind the shadows of evil that’s frightening.
If it shows promise
I will remember what I find
I need to call high up
And ask the divine
"Help me find myself/"
"Please Almighty God of mercy"
I hope the answer will be tender
And not hurt me
Because I feel the answer
Will bring about a fury
Of the ancient African
Who will damn all responsible to bury
And fashion a punishment
That will cost less than a dime
But be reinforced with a magnitude
To be felt for all time.
The Eyes of the Soulful Wanderer
It was like a light,
Burning large and bright,
Soaring with heat,
Vast, swift, and complete
A solar entity,
With charm, grace, and identity
Magnificence with wonder,
A globe with much to ponder
What are those flares that reflect?
Great heavens like a prophet that did connect,
First with insight,
Next with foresight,
A light with personality
That is bright.
Ah, bright with warm and austerity,
Far reaching in pride and prosperity,
A watcher that grows,
A sphere that knows
To provide passion, poise, and definition
Growth, distance, and ignition
Not a man, but mortal by standard
A proclivity of verse, melody, and Blanchard
Not death, but life
Not darkness or dullness of a fight
A stance, a view,
A distance in the stars from me or you
These eyes, these eyes
No one watched can deny
As the heat of the soulful wanderer cries
The Traveler with My Soul
The white lights shined, but the darkness dawned
My spirit was at rest, but my life gone
Many did ask, but few did know
Where and with whom did my soul go?
Did it fly high in sky and fall?
Did a specter come and take it all?
Perhaps a crow paid me a visit and off he went,
Or maybe a Grim Reaper came by and with him, I‘m sent
Doubtless, I know where my soul is
It is high, but not above the skids.
It is within the heights of divine glory
If it was a book, it would tell quite a story
It would reveal the pleasure and the pain,
The uncollected and the gain,
The worthiness and desolate,
The friendly and friendless
A person came to collect me one day,
Wearing the white of the light, and the glory of May
It could have been a he, walking with a hood
There was no way to tell, and that’s as it should
For whoever it was, it whisked me away
And now, in this place of Pearly Gates I stay
Blind as a Red Owl
Whose eyes do you use to see the blue in the sky?
Whose eyes were confused when the sounds of babies cry?
Perhaps, a sound not sight confused you further,
With negligence of numbness swung from a steel girder
Relax, the sight you fear is not lost
It is merely blended with colds of the Frost
It is tangled with the strings of Liars,
Bellowed by the embers of midnight fires
Do not forget the flight of the Owl Above
Who flies without the sight of love?
He flies with the sight of swollen truth,
Aching to give doubters solid proof
Crazy eyes of brown and turquoise
Shifted in the direction of Booker T. and Dubois
These eyes are bright as the sun’s solar flare
But no sight can ever exist there
The feathers are red with the scowl of dread,
Like the ripe and rosy blend of danger and dead.
Traveling through these eyes one finds horror
And those who were rich now are poorer.
They suffer from the pains of old, sick men
They stumble like winos with a devilish grin.
What can be said, or seen by now
The view is clear, but sight is nowhere; how?
What can you do to envision victory’s wow?
Or who can relieve the curse of the Red owl?
Once Traveled, Now Drawn
On a path to glory it appears,
No rain dropping filled with salty tears,
A drawing in the sun of a road
Not near a hamlet, house, or foreign abode.
This path drawn once by a traveler
Given sigh, a peak, and a flatterer
Why, it is not what you think?
It is not, not putrid, puny, nor does it stink?
Call it a tuft of sand, a layout of wood, or a slab of stone
A poodle extending from coast alone
A stray area, grayer than most can see
Perhaps, no one more visibly than He
If it be so, does it travel once?
Where are the other travelers, and the dunce?
They will explain why the sane are insane
Why you lost sight of the gain?
Who drew it up, who said it was so?
Speak of the Devil and go!
Blast not off those eyes of light
Close them and behold fear this night
Your way is set denied only by truth’s vital wall
A cornerstone of lies where each human will fall
Gallantry is dead no way will it spawn
To travel higher than once traveled, now drawn
Travels through the Hearts at Night
How well do I travel at night, I ask?
Is it an easy or difficult task?
The answer, you seek is neither of course
The reader will find this info in sorts
Search and locate the heart as your path
Spring to its cleanser like a child taking a bath
Wipe thy mind free of iniquity and scorn
Use the thoughts of love to make you reborn
Covet only learning and thy fuel will cover ground
Allowing you to fly distances above and beyond sound
Next, fly high into the mind as a buffer of reason
Make your passion felt in any season
Do not wait for stop signs to deny your advance
Go out and live; take a chance!
Need not worry; your life is at hand
For those who know you, they will understand
Usher in your travel plans and proceed with your fun
Do not carry any distractions including a gun
Allow yourself time to process your vacation
Away and free with your significant fascination
Notice only the clouds and the trees
Look away from the hornets and the bees
Nature is in full bloom and growth has commenced
It is time to sacrifice all modes of common sense
Because your duty on this traveling band of brothers
Is to look out for you group members and one another.
Disclaimer: Only intended for entertainment only
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