On Journeying.

Do not doubt possibility
in the scheme of things.
There is laid before all opportunity
to see with own eyes the unseen.

Do not doubt faith
To which each man is given
a measure; to apply the force of
belief amidst a climate of pressure.

What remains is the challenge
and boldness to answer the call
and stand Righteous and unchanged
though others journey to a fall.

© Copyright 2015 by Malcolm Jarell

Who Shall Speak for Him?

Children, the days of life
are as seeds to be planted
wisely; in truth and in deed.

There will be no glory for
the young one slain, hearing
Destruction calling his name.

Decision would be the cause
to blame, gone from existence
like smoke departing a flame.

These, veiled in mourning, shall
cease their tears, and from their
minds will go the memory of his
years.

He who sows sparingly…

© Copyright 2015 Malcolm Jarell

Great Kings.

Part 1:
When a king passes in the street
Children cease their playing.
They hurry to catch a glimpse
And bless him with their smiles;
Warm and innocent to give
Him peace along the mile.

When a king is come,
People halt their busy work
And hasten to meet him.
They cast their coats in the way;
Their woven tapestries for
Him to walk upon as they
Honor him with pleasantries.

There, amidst the citadel,
They await his voice. From the
Lowest place he meets them
And beckons them near.
Sharing with them the wisdom
Of the Eternal Father, he removes
Their doubt, question, and fear.

Loved is he by those who revere him
Feared by those who reject him for
They are those who misunderstand him.

© 2015 Malcolm Jarell

The Times.

For Freddie Gray and Baltimore

They say the thinkers are crazy
and the dreamers have lost their minds.

I say we know truth and are
aware of the times.

Open minds seek solution in
amidst chaos while ignorance
enjoys company.

One seeking peace creates
peaceful situations while one
seeking drama diggeth a pit
and shall fall it.

Foolishness brings the world
to its knees.

Who would dare to be free?

 
© 2012 Malcolm Jarell

Black Mother Woman by Audre Lorde 1971

I cannot recall you gentle
yet through your heavy love
I have become
an image of your once-delicate flesh
split with deceitful longings.

When strangers come and compliment me
your aged spirit takes a bow
jingling with pride
but once you hid that secret
in the center of your fury
hanging me
with deep breasts and wiry hair
your own split flesh
and long-suffering eyes
buried in myths of little worth.

But I have peeled away your anger
down to its core of love
and look mother
I am a dark temple
where your true spirit rises
beautiful     tough as chestnut
stanchion against nightmares of weakness
and if my eyes conceal
a squadron of conflicting rebellions
I learned from you
to define myself
through your denials.

Good Morning.

You are my light.
I need you to shine for me.

From the desolation
of my heart,
I need you to save me.

There aren’t many easy days.
But if we love righteously,
complaints will fade away.

My life, my love, my beauty,
I’d give all to kiss
your awaiting lips.

© 2010 Malcolm Jarell

Rebel Perspective.

When the poet speaks
you can hear Revolution,
all power to the people
and Right On!’

Right on time for this
perilous time we are in;
the brothers grow weary
still, we push to win.

Let the world gaze on and
misunderstand, we neither beg
nor steal from any man.

Making our living honest,
toiling with our own hands,
seeking to survive daily
In this vast and barren land.

Suffering through brutality,
we keep our families fed.
Bending to their system as
they seek to have our heads.

© 2015 Malcolm Jarell

Young Black Blues.

The knot in my throat
        says I should be crying;
chokes so bad you
        would think I were dying.

While searching for
        peace amidst this despair
You would think I’d
        gone mad, screaming at the air.

Some believe I am wrong
        Still, I chase my dreams.
None of what they think
        is ever what it seems.

When folks see me coming
        they glare with such disdain.
I know they know no better
        so I smile to mask the pain.

For those who war after me,
        sorrow will be their gain if
tomorrow’s bulletin reads: Another,
        Young, Black, and Slain.

Song for the Old Ones by Maya Angelou

My fathers sit on benches
        their flesh counts every plank
        the slats leave dents of darkness
deep in their withered flanks.

They nod like broken candles
        all waxed and burnt profound
        they say “It’s understanding
That makes the world go round.”

There in those pleated faces
        I see the auction block
        the chains and slavery’s coffles
the whip and lash and stock.

My fathers speak in voices
        that shred my fact and sound
        they say “It’s our submission
that makes the world go round.”

They used the finest cunning
        their naked wits and wiles
        the lowly Uncle Tomming
and Aunt Jemimas’ smiles.

They’ve laughed to shield their crying
        then shuffled through their dreams
        and stepped ‘n’ fetched a country
to write the blues with screams.

I understand their meaning
        it could and did derive
        from living on the edge of death
They kept my race alive.

Portrait of a Rebel Poet.

Artwork by Dutch Artist Alexander Kok circa 2014.