An Ode To Seven Prophets

Written by: Woodrow Lucas

When I was younger, stronger, faster, phatter!
I saw Bayard Rustin, ascending and descending on bell hooks’ reveries,
And I screamed, from artistic insights,
Of plights and rights, citing Mumia Abu the Baptist,
“MOVING” SOULS to awakening, writing like Melchidezek in a Birmingham Jail,
Christ in Communist imagery,
Mohammed quoting Amos and speaking Barack into the “real”,
The World unknown to slaves of Matrix Madness,
Sad yet Strident,
Che and Jesus, encased in Chrystal prisms,
Of John the Baptist’s prison, 
Different shades of the same spirit,
Freeing seekers from Oppressed Pedagogy,
But the sounds of naked children,
Screaming from the shattered images of Native Prophets denied their right to subdue the earth,
Enraptured my brain, and the thousands slain by South African Nazis,
Brought me to the brink of new beginnings,
Wherein, I war from the inside out,
Watching the sunrise of lies exposed, and young prophets forging emergent imagery,
“Christian”, teaching on the front lines of minds that can breathe anew,
“Dr. T”, slayin’ nightmares of myopic minions clouding the light of the almighty,
“Eli”, the young Jedi, facin’ Dark Forces with a saber tooth intellect,
“Melissa”, demandin’ respect for the forgotten and makin’ miracles for the downtrodden,
“Hugo”, the only begotten of Chi-town expression, taggin spiritual secrets on the backs of
abandoned day dreams,
“Viv”, teachin’ lessons of stress silenced by the strident freedom of angels bustin’ forth
from cocoons of plastic consciousness,
“Leber”, the dreama, of new market creation, in the image of acts, where none know lack, 
And the facts, smack, cracks, in the faces of fat cats who feed on the blindness of hatred,
 These are the prophets of my generation,
And as I weave my seeds of transformation, from a tower of sanctuary,
I look to them on the streets, reaping the harvest renaissance,
And know joy!