Roots For Alex Haley

Pensile clouds of a new Truth loom. With them are selected versions of Extinct grief. Looking through the yellowness of a Dog’s eyes, this aura of Truth, pervasive, Sours my palate. What say the bulletins and tabloids In their speech potency? Have they recoiled on the sudden encroachment Of stale seas Or have they rolled out drums for Haley’s ROOTS? Between Kamby Bolongo of watery essence And the forested, warm plains of Juffure, ROOTS! And drums fashion themselves out for Kinte, Who must tap gently the face of the drum For earthly summons. From sinuous, valleysome frontiers backward, We yodel loud, Fronting bands of ROOTS.