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Poem
(Apropos of Black Poetic Griots)

We may not be deemed apostolic recorders
But we poets, guided with divine wisdom, are
The lay scribes thereof in the chronicling of
Our life’s sojourn in the shadowing times
we spend here on this parcel of what is
An example of planetary creation;

And we Poet-Griots who are of the hue of what was
Before it was declared, “…Let there be light…” are
Bound by sacred conscience to ensure that there
Be no doubt, shadowing, or omission of the
Identity and reality of whose, who, or what
Is rhythmically, metaphorically, and allegorically 
Scribed and mirrored in the reality we artfully canvas.

Indeed, in our varied Griot-poetic renderings,
We are sacredly bound to ensure that the clipped links
In chained psalms of ourstory are reinserted and paralleled
Equally with those which are of history; indeed we are sacredly
And spiritually impregnated to give birth to the tell-trail truth of the rape
Of the womb of our Genesis and the abduction of its Middle Passage
Children and their trials and tribulations which led to our Exodus
From the shadowed valley of death of institutionalized slavery:-

Yes, we must score the melodic word symphonies of ourstory’s
Modern-day biblical-like experiences of fiery furnaces, lion den
Encounters, ladder Climbing Challenges, Babylonian times, Noah-like
Sailing and moorings, and bush burnings. Indeed, for the sake of modern-
Day generations of parents and their children, we must melodiously—with 
African-base rhythmic beats raise staccato awareness of our sacred African
Kingdoms and Empires that gave rise to great civilizations; and in doing so,
we must nobly unveil the sacred presence and truth of our African royalty.


Indeed, we Poet-Griots must be lay apostolic scribes of easy past
And present messaging; unveiling their divine wisdom, guidance,
And spiritual inspirations enabling us to conjure up biblical hope
And faith rooted in our womb identity of a culture that cannot
Be denied its role in the chronicling of humankind’s sojourn;

Taking our clue from Diakhate, we must not be welled into
being nostalgic with the past but with the winding-up
Of the bucket of ourstorical perspective; leaving the
So-called exotic to the thrashers—seeking relief:-

Therefore, stomping cautiously along the erratic cadences
Of slave-based racism and its quarter note overtones, let us
Groove from one oppressive barred beat to another; scoring
Our freedom’s sojourn filled with negative rest stops designed
To decrescendo wailing staccato rhythmic screams of jazz-blues
And hip-hop loud echoed notes with defiant metered sound.

Bypassing silent apathetic rest stops with the crescendo of
Rumbling faith and the audacious melody of hope, let renewed
Blooming sounds of liberation—voided of waning half note—burst  
Into resounding whole notes of modulated determination of a never
Ending symphony of emancipation conducted by the Cosmic Director
 Demanding repeated melodic notes of ultrasonic pulsing echoers heard
Throughout the worldly concert hall built upon life’s foundation of liberty.
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