 Hi everyone. I am so happy to see you here tonight. And as you know, this is our ninth annual Bayview-Wadden Branch Poetry Recital. It is always hosted by our friend and our neighborhood library advocate, Larry Ware. Here's Larry, give him a big hand. He always does a wonderful job. He knows lots of wonderful poets and I'm sure you're going to have a nice evening tonight. Thank you, Allison, for that. That was a wonderful introduction. Good evening and welcome to our ninth annual Bayview-Wadden Poetry Recital. It is indeed a pleasure to be the host again and see a lot of wonderful people out again tonight. And it is a customary that we pay tribute to those who are not with us to share this evening with us. And I would like to take a very special tribute to my aunt, Ida, my mother's next oldest sister. She passed away this summer and she was really, she was really wonderful and we're going to really miss her. And also a good friend of the family, Bernie McGee. Our families go back about 40 years and she was a wonderful lady and we sent our best to the McGee family. And also those who are not present, many, there are many, we wish them and their families well and we ask that they keep the faith. Also I'd like to take a time to pay tribute to Dr. Wayland C. Fuller. He just retired from the pharmaceutical business. What a treasure, the gentleman and Mrs. Fuller been in this business over 60 years. And also we wish Mr. Sam Jordan Well, Sam Jordan Night Club, he's another pillar in the community. And also I have another aunt in Georgia, she's not doing too well, but we wish her well and we say a prayer for her. So we're going to get on with the show and our first poet is going to be Darling Roberts. She's a wonderful poet, so let's give Darling a great round of applause. Some paper with hot images of truth and love. But sometimes they get blinded by the lies that pollute the minds of otherwise wise men. So in the end, there's poem rhyme. But most of all, I want to make you mine. Get the room spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, then I want to blow your minds again. I want to hold you near and whisper sweet nothings in your ear. I want to make you laugh until I make you cry. And then I want to dry your weeping eyes. But I'm just a little bit too shy. And that's why I want to use the hot words that sizzle to burn up all the lies disguised as the truth. And then I want to love you and leave you. Can you get mother chair? Can you get mother, that's all right. That's all right, that's all right. Spirit of the blues, way across the tree, snuggled in the bosom of blacks. The blues woke up one Mississippi morning. I heard it was born way down yonder in a delta rainstorm. They called it stormy Monday. And they say that the blues began to holler, Lord Hampton, from beneath the muddy water. Because it slept out in a holler log wrapped up in poverty, deep down inside the Mississippi fog. Now, I heard that one day a long, long time ago, way over yonder the blues grew fond of its folks. Now, let's see. Gospel music was its mammy. A slave's misery was its puppet. And they watched their baby blues grow up famous, but unhappy. And they live way cross yonder down that old tobacco road. Well, baby blues cried, and oh, he cried when he realized his folks suffered from deadly defeats. But they rejoiced during supper over small victories. The blues, the living history of slaves. The blues represents the carriage of the brave. The blues represents brainwash Negroes who finally learned to grow. When blacks found pride and unity, you know, brothers and sisters by any means. The blues represents African-Americans fighting for freedom in a so-called free land. Proud descendants are the first man. The blues, revolution, evolution, our legacy of truth, our destiny, our dynasty, kings and queens are the blues. To tell the truth, the blues really got its roots from the genius attributes of the first man. We are the dominant culture trapped in a stolen land. But we inherited jungle rhythms that marks perfect time with the supreme and the divine spirit of the blues, spiritual wisdom, African roots. Born to bear witness to devastating hardships, the blues learn its moral sound from slave ships that testify to our undiamond hands. That's why the mighty blues reigns as our musical envoy. So we can lyrically be caught when folks try to steal or destroy our musical legacy. Truthfully, the blues is our baby, and it be witnessing afro-centricity through the spirit of the blues. Noway down yonder along that old tobacco road, America's Negro musical legend unfolds where the birth of them down home blues find color folks out there paying their dues. And all folks learn on that great getting up day to sing and dance they cares away. And they describe their pain to the beat of the rain, to the beat of the train, to the beat of wagon wheels totem color folks to them cotton fields. The blues reveals the whips, the chains, the misery, the bigotry, America's shame. The truth is contained deep inside the blues. So after the birth of the blues, color folks went out to spread the news by word of mouth all across the South. And then we're spread out from house to house because all folks down yonder was singing about black history through the spirit of the blues. I told y'all I was going to tell y'all the truth about the blues. All right there, darling. Me so mean. All right. OK. All right, our next poet is going to be Catherine Parker. She's a regular with us. So let's give Catherine Parker a great round of applause. I'm with us with my shoulders, my strong, strong shoulders that carry so many burdens, both yours and mine. And those burdens, they don't break me because my God, He never forsakes me. So I'm knocking down obstacles, I'm clearing a path, making a way, I'm pushing on through, both for me and for you. Yes, I'm breaking boulders with my shoulders, my lovely, smooth, graceful shoulders, where the heads of many loved ones have rested when they thought they'd been bested by those they trusted. I've dried their tears of pain and their tears of joy, and my proud and noble shoulders still continue to break down boulders, boulders that shroud the dark and ugly images that were created just to be the knowing fear of uncertainty, therefore blocking me from the knowledge that keeps me free. So I firmly set my shoulders that keep shattering those troublesome boulders. And as my determination grows stronger, my strides get a little longer. I lift my head a little higher and work harder to inspire a conscious burning desire to succeed in the new breed who follow behind me. You see, I don't allow silly people to get me rattled by the tall tales they choose to tell, by who they think I am, and where they think I'm coming from, because I've already endured every evil under the sun. But I don't allow that to spoil my fun. That's why I always set the tone when I artfully shrug my shoulder bone. And the funky message I send is that strong shoulders can bend without breaking. I can leave the whole world shaking with the ability of my boulder breaking shoulders. We live on stolen unholy land. And the evil that permeates it winds its way around us like a slowly writhing python. All fangs bear forked tongue visible and narrow yellow eyes. Like a mysterious fog, the evil rises. It blankets us in a cocoon of misguided complacency, all warm and cozy. And just like the fog, it hides things that would be better left undiscovered. Yes, those shrouded mysteries literally beg to be uncovered. Things we just don't know, don't want to know, don't need to know. Oh, no. We walk around in various stages of slumber, oftentimes oblivious to the obvious. And we observe our world through sleepy eyes and try to understand it all with tired minds. And through it all, we still pray, Lord, help us. Lord, save us. Lord, bless us. Lord, love us. So could somebody please explain to me why it is so hard to throw off the snake, walk out of the fog, rub the sleep from our eyes, and wake up. Yeah, Kathleen, all right, our next poet is going to be, this gentleman is outstanding, like heard some of his poetry last week. He's going to knock you out. Let's give a great round of applause to Khakanja. I don't know about knocking you out. I know after those two conscious sisters just came up here, and of course, life is consciousness. But after following those two conscious sisters, I'm going to try to give him my best shot. Oh, yeah, bro, my buddy with me. Let me make sure we get him up here. Yeah, I believe that life is consciousness. Of course, we wouldn't have positive images in our consciousness. Those who know me have heard this before, but there's a lot of people here I've never seen before, so I got to do it. Just call it's time. African people, why do we flee away from our own proud black history? Is it because their churches and schools have programmed us to think that we're fools or left up your eyes? A little higher, we'll see as our blackness that they desire. You see, I'm out in the sun, burning their skins, trying to acquire what they said was a sin. Well, for knowledge of self, I look to history, this will open my eyes and give me dignity. And it's read my mind. But it's time for you to learn your history and free your mind. African children from North and South, spit that lie right out of your mouth. I speak of that lie, I said that we never had an ancient Egypt. Ancient Egypt, 5000 D.C. The thousand queens look like you and me. Our arts, maths, and science never seen before, made the ancient world need a path to our door. The Assyrians, Phoenicians, those cave dwellers too, all wanted to know just what we know. Read my mind. You think that I'm blind, but it's time for you to learn your history and free your mind. Greeks and those Romans were the last of the lot. They were primitive children with their hands in our pots and just like envious children, they lied and they stole. They could not understand all they were told. But still to the world, that civilization started with them. But the saints and the pyramid tells our story. African greatness, read my mind. You know you should learn your history and free your mind. Moses Christ Jesus too, all of the prophets, they look like you. Muhammad Elijah, John the Baptist too, all of them black men, they look like you. From the deep, from the rich, from the deep black, from the rich, from the rich black girls, to the deep dark night, you know that black is positive if you are thinking right. Our full lips are broad noses and our kinky hair. Well these are gifts from the Almighty for us to wear, like chemicals in our hair, plastic surgery on our face. So sit before God and a big disgrace, my African people. Why can't we see that when we straighten our minds, then we'll be free? So because you know we want to have correct images in our consciousness, we don't want to be misled or tricked. It is called plain truth. It's about that brother here in the front of the podium. You know it's hard to by and on self be true when the God that you worship doesn't look like you. We Africans struggle and try with all of our might, but when we look in the mirror, things are not right. If in others, unlike ourselves, we place our faith, love and respect, we punish ourselves, we cut our own necks. Now from the very beginning, it has always been true that the creator of the universe is black like you, but on the walls of our churches and the walls of our homes hangs that blonde blue eyed Jesus. Something is wrong. I'm not speaking in anger, I'm not making a fuss. In history, anthropology and the Bible I place my trust. To remove all confusion in the open my eyes, declare facts, don't be ashamed sister, to open my eyes. Declare facts, not more empty lies. I know that Christ have the skin, the color of burnt brass and hair like that of a woody lamb. Sounds to I like he must have been an African. So who is responsible for the spiritual confusion that develops when you pray to one unlike your own? Would there be so many of us in prison or so many in jail if we had studied the black Christ instead of the one that is pale? You know, it's hard to not on self be true when the God that you worship doesn't look like you. Respect. Turning out, I told you it was a knockout. Yeah, that was, man, that was some heavy stuff there, brother. That was a heavy message. Our next port is gonna be Reverend Bertrand Bruno. This is his first time participating with us. He was here last week. So let's give a Reverend Bertrand Bruno great round of applause. Well, can y'all agree with me that we have been eloquently entertained up to this point? Can you agree? All right, now we gonna put a stop to all that. I like to read something for you. And they told me if you gotta explain them, forget it. So I'm just gonna read it. It's called the courage to try. They stood in the group and talked about life and the way they thought it to be. On a corner, in a city, in a time and a place filled with people like you and like me. One spoke to the others and said of himself, it's a doctor I surely should be, but a last and a lack. I was born short and black and society is prejudice against me. Another spoke up with the voice of this man, baseball, football, and all sports I could play. But a last and a lack. I was born white, not black. And my parents said, a doctor, you'll be. Well, I'm too short and I'm too thin. I'm too tall and I'm too fat. Rang their cries like trapped cats in a sack. I'm too old, I'm too young. I'm too rich, I'm too poor. I'm too tired and too weak to fight back. They moaned and they groan and cried every day and night complaining and lamenting themselves and their plight. Blaming others they used every excuse under the sky. And I never heard one of them say, I'll try. You'll find this group in every town, wherever you may be. The whiners and the cryers have been around throughout all history. But God in his wisdom, his knowing plan, and with his all-seeing eye, through the annals of time and history gave us some with the courage to try. And those that have tried have stood on the peaks of mountains so great and high. They've conquered the deep and invented the ships that rise beyond the sky. They've split the atom and wrote great books and chartered the stars on high. They've sang sweet songs and done great deeds armed with only the courage to try. They've raised their children and prayed each night as they planted their wheat and their corn. They've made no excuses, blamed, placed no blame on others. They overcame the abuse and the scorn. They've taught in schools, preached the gospel, and then looked the world right straight in the eye. They fought in wars, found cures for disease, armed only with the courage to try. You see, there'd be no art, no music, no signs, no heroes bold and great. There'd be no fields of corn or grain, no cheers for the slide cross home plate. There'd be no mountain peaks uncapped and no ships in God's blue sky. Nothing ever would happen if someone hadn't thought, I think I'll give it a try. Life's conquests and rewards are there for all whose dreams and visions don't die. If they wipe out doubt, excuses, and fears with the courage to say, I'll try. If y'all do that, I'd be here all night. This is something I wrote in conjunction with some things I learned from my daughter and some sort of a way. But this is called love is a three letter word. What's the meaning of love, my sweet honey bun? Why dad, she answered. It simply means fun. When you let me see movies and late TV shows, go on picnics and to parties and powder my nose. When you let me have company and not do any chores, when you buy me new clothes and patch all of yours. When you raise my allowance far beyond my needs, when you close your eyes to my sometimes misdeeds. Oh dad, she explained with 12 year old decorum, the things you ask sometimes cause me alarm. How would you learn anything in all of your years? Love doesn't mean heartache and sacrifice and tears. Love doesn't mean doing when there is no way to do. Love doesn't mean sharing what I have with you. Love doesn't mean giving. It's taking honey bun, silly dad, silly dad. Love simply means fun. Thank you. Thank you, Reverend Bruno. All right. OK, our next poet is going to be a, this is also her first time of participating with us and she's an outstanding poet. Let's give a pat Mitchell a great round of applause for her. The title of this poem is, Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood. I was drained from answering questions regarding African Americans. Painful, unmerciful questions on top of ill treatment. It made me angry, vindictive, unhappy, ashamed. In search of the many answers to the inquiries, I inadvertently became a historian. So you see, the troubles that chased me away from myself also paved the road to the reclaiming of myself. If you've ever seen my face, you've seen eyes that God's graced with an aching for the souls of my people. Listen to the wind and hear the spirit of a brave warrior woman whose dues she's paid. You see, I stepped into those middle passage blues and the warmth of the ocean covered me. The richness of the minerals oiled my ashy skin with the years of blood and sweat and tears. I touched the mountain my people walked down from and into the waters because before they'd be a slave, they'd be buried in their grave, the water. The water containing the souls of black folks. I was baptized in the goals of our people. I heard the drums across the Nile clearly when they spoke truth. I climbed the pyramids and viewed Timbuktu. Then I knew I'd been christened and made ready for you. On that ride across the Atlantic Ocean blue, on that ship smelling of human poo poo, I tasted the salty tears from bodies droned across the ocean from a middle passage hell. After so long, the sun finally showed its face and revealed the second phase of a passage of disgrace. I stepped into the soul of a George Washington carver. Then I moved into the big house with the Frederick Douglass. I was the midwife for his son, Erin, and I watched from the window as the enslaved left messages for him at the gate. I traveled with Harriet Tubman and was there when she pulled a gun on her own brother and said, you'll be free or you'll die. Heard her saying, saw the others, budged their eyes and many bowed to their knees and began to pray. I was there when Sojourner raised her blouse and revealed the truth. I sat on the train with Homer Plessy. I stood on the Supreme Court steps with thoroughly good martial. And along with the Martin Luther, the king, I was doused by Bull Connor's Mississippi Hoes. And now I'm back and in the hood and on a mission. So please don't let me be misunderstood. That poem was written so I wouldn't be misunderstood. This is what is called a prose of truth. They smile and say, yes, we want to hear your history. But every time I tell them we were kings and queens, they look at me in disbelief. Every time I talk about our inventions, they say, not now. When I speak of our folklore, they tell me to change the grammar so I can comprehend your words. Then they smile and say, ah, yeah, we want to hear your history. When I go to my brother's sitting in those tall pyramid shaped buildings, looking like the eye of Horace, I say, you are the messenger. I bring you the message. Brother tells me about proper protocol and the financial ramifications which might cause devastation and impede the regulations which therefore may need to castigation. When I go to my sister, I say, sister, help me, please. She puts me on hold, picks up the phone and says, ah, I got dinner plans for Spargos, an appointment with Jenny from Chicago, got to get my nails done, ah, sis, what you want me to do? I reply, just open the door. I get it myself. So I'm about truth. And here it is. When I ask myself about my people, when I defend my people, when I passionately love my people, am I out there all alone? Oh, yeah, that's Wes all the way. Bess in the West, all right. Old school, the masters. OK, next poet is going to be this brother's participated several times. He's another one of the masters of the spoken word. Let's give Patrick Johnson a great round of applause. Thank the library and Larry for letting me participate in the program. All the poets before me I really enjoyed. The first poem I'm going to do is entitled, The Wheel to Live. If you ever felt like you were caught up in the odds or so insurmountable against you and there was no way out, I found out from my personal experiences if you just have a little bit of perseverance and show some type of determination to overcome those obstacles or those odds that it could be done, the poem is entitled, The Wheel to Live, locked in the jaws of the beast that is chosen to devour me and take this unsavory life of mine. I have fallen prey to what seems to be an ill fate, a victim of circumstances or is it merely the law of nature and effect? You know only the strong survive. Could it be a weakness was shown? Have I cast a vulnerable image of myself which has made me ripe for the taken? Or am I merely a fool that has been flirting with death by walking a dangerous path? Either way, unless I muster up with strength, I have left and force open the jaws of the beast. My life will come to an end and I must have let that happen to me. I mustn't. Although I am wounded, there's still some life left in me. And as we all know, all wounds are not life threatening and are subject to ill with time. And time is one thing that I have, which put the odds in my favor. So the beast must loosen his jaws because my life is unsavory for I favor life over death. The beast has lost his taste for me, for I have the will to live. Thank you. I'll do one called A Lovers' Quarrel. It's a melodrama. Problem after problem. Yes, it bothers my mind. It's time I address these problems. At least I'll give it a try. The problem is I wear my heart out front on my shoulder. My emotions are easily stirred. And when I get mad, I smother. My temper starts to flare. Oh, now I'm getting in your hair? You have a strange way of showing your love. And damn, it's hard to bear. So now I've had my say. That'll teach you to bother my mind. I'm tired of the things that's been going on. It seems to grow worse with time. I know we can make things better. Well, why don't you give it a try? After all, you know I love you, my friend, and will until I die. Thank you. Last year, my wife Stella there, we was expecting and what a pleasant surprise. My life is full circle now. I have a wonderful wife, a wonderful daughter. Now this is Larry Jr. Come up, Stella. Stella and Precious are going to come up and, you know, this poem really, I've been waiting to say this poem is the one that really signifies becoming full circle. And I would like to dedicate it to my family. So I can say family, I can say wife, I can say father and son, and daughter. That's precious. So my dream has come true. This poem is entitled Love is Life. Love is life, and life is so very, very nice. When the atmosphere is pleasant and thoughts are peaceful, life for living is like a warm and beautiful feeling, touching me, touching you. As I look into the beautiful horizons, I see children playing warm and safe under the loving eyes of the friendly skies, vivacious, energetic, and so full of life. And love is life. As the wonderfulness of the day settles in, a lovely lady placed a warm and very sweet kiss on my lips. My heart has been touched and blessed. This beautiful feeling created by me and you was made to be shared. Always remembering the beautiful days of summer. Love is what we make it, and may it always be something beautiful dear near your heart. Love is you touching me, love is me touching you. Love is being in touch with each other's feelings. Love is giving, sharing, and caring. Love makes two hearts singing harmony. Love brings rain to the flowers and trees and helps them grow beautiful and tall. Love is you and me and a family living together for this beautiful life. This love is give, love is life. Thank you. And I count my blessings every day that I have a wife and two beautiful children and it's, in that place it's. Yeah. Yeah. In that place it's. In that side, oh, excuse me, but. Yeah. Okay, yeah. Okay, well, okay, the next poem I'd like to do is entitled Velvet Splendor, Warm and Tender. I wrote this as a tribute to a Nat King cold. Oh my love, you came to me so softly, so warm, and out of a velvet dream. And like the midnight moonlight signing at sea, your eyes began to sparkle like a sea of beauty on a summer evening. Oh my love, dreams of you and me, romancing, dancing, whining and dining in the evening moonlight, building sand castles by the sea, just you and me. Love for love together as our hearts walk the soft white sandy beats of the paradise. The mellow sweet soft summer breeze of your love touches my heart in a warm and loving way. On our way home, we got caught in the rain and each and every raindrop smiled after they touched your face and the warmer raindrops kissed your honey sweet lips. And when the even lights love you through all the pouring rain, Velvet Splendor, so warm, so tender. Thank you. Next poet is gonna be, as I said, when I first heard this brother, I saw visions of Gil Scott Herron and those visions are crystal clear. This brother's a magnificent poet. Let's give a brother, Ron Jacom, great round of applause. It's always a pleasure to bring you true solutions in the form of poetry, especially in the neighborhood that I was bred in. It's always a pleasure. First piece I'm gonna do, and excuse the TCI paraphernalia. I got here. This poem is straight from the point. It's all I can say. Straight from Hunter's Point. It's called, Signs of Ghetto Times. And it go like this. From the ghetto I was bred and from the head I shall shed glorious light and bless these savages with ghetto insight. Through my blazing eyes of flame, I'll exploit these devils, claim the fame. Your brain washed my folks, kept us all broke, poisoned us with dope and through sell-out preachers taught us to love you devilish creatures. They destroyed our inner self, exploited us for wealth, pimped us like hoes that named us Negroes. And you wonder why we hate all who relate to their wicked mental state? It's easy to see, St. Tom is closest to white tea. In this ghetto, this land of black fellowship, we shall unite and outwit this diabolical miss. This be our key. As we think, so shall it be. The here and now controls our fate. So today, heaven is our mental state. Here on earth, for all its worth, we shall conquer this beast and bring total peace and then we'll live true as our one God planned us to do. Dig the time because it waits for no one. Signs of ghetto times. You know, living in these streets, man, they create a lot of frustration. A lot of frustration amongst brothers, sisters, everybody who had to deal with what's going on over here. This next one I'm gonna do is called Ghetto Frustration. You know what I'm saying? And I hope everybody in here feel it because you can see it all around you. They go like this, born in the thick of this. So I guess the shoe does fit. You sitting wonder why niggas ain't afraid to die. You see, black folks live to survive. Some hustle to stay alive, some work to stay on strive, whatever it takes, niggas gonna survive. My reason to, excuse me, my reason to despise burns in my eyes upon every sight of the devil who's white. I'm kind by nature, so my reason that hate you starts with the days you made me your slave. It grew fast, not slow, cause next came lynching in the days of Jim Crow. Under a sheet you hide, working for the devil in genocide, come to the jungle and we'll rumble like men till death do us in. I'll come from the shoulders like a true soldier and I'll demonstrate what frustrates the minds of God's true kind, ghetto frustration. Okay, our next poet, this brother's participated as well before another outstanding young poet. Let's give a brother Walter Jordan III a great round of applause. Thank you. Tonight I decided not to read any of my own but recite one of Nicky Giovanni's poems because she's a very, she's an important heroine in my life. And it's like this. I'm gonna recite Ego Trippin by Nicky Giovanni. And bear with me, if I'm nervous up here, so let me, if I get nervous, just overlook it. I was born in the Congo. I walked to the photo crescent and built the fence. I designed the pyramids so tough that a star that only glows every 100 years falls into the center giving divine perfect life. I am bad. I sat on a throne drinking nectar with Allah. I got hot and sent an ice age to Europe to cool my thirst. My oldest daughter Nefertiti, the joys from her birth pains created denial. I am a beautiful man. I gazed on the force and burnt out the Sahara Desert with a packet of ghost meat and a change of clothes. I crossed it in two hours. I am a gazelle, so sweet, so sweet, you can't catch me. For a birthday present when he was three, I gave my son Hannibal an elephant and he gave me Rome for Father's Day. My strength flow ever on. My son Noah built Newark and I stood proudly at the helm. As I sailed on a soft summer day, I turned myself into myself and I was Jesus. Men in tone, my loving name, all praises. I saw diamonds in my backyard. My bowels delivered uranium. The fillings from my fingernails are semi-precious jewels. On a trip north, I caught a cone and blew my nose giving oil to all the Arab world. I am so hip, even my errors are correct. I sailed west to reach east and head around off the earth as I went. I am so perfect, so ethereal, so surreal that I cannot be comprehended, except by my permission. I mean, I can fly like a bird in the sky. Eagle trip. For my next poem, I'd like to sing a request by one of the ladies in the audience. God bless the child. And so it goes something like this. Then let's not chill in the woods. For my mama may have, papa may have. But God bless the child, Christ the great. But God bless the child. All right then, brother, that was beautiful. Okay, next poet is gonna be is another super heavyweight poet, Mr. Smooth. Let's give Mr. William Alexander Fields a great round of applause. He participated with us last year. Well, let's give it up for Mr. Fields. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is William Alexander Fields, Jr. And I look about, and I see all these beautiful black women in this audience tonight. So my first poem is dedicated to the beautiful black women. And the title of this poem is Pretty Black Woman. Goes like this. Pretty black woman, marry a name that's an omen. Strength, courage, a will to survive. Leader, mother, provider. Pretty black woman, from the beginning of time you survived, you prayed, always seeking a way to survive. Wished by many, ostracized by many, but you always won against enormous odds. Pretty black woman, from the beginning to now, moving through the transition of time, you stood tall in the eyes of some, you are a nobody, you are nothing. But you are somebody and you are something. You have stood majestically, you have fought courageously, you have conquered doubt, you are a pretty black woman. You are here to stay, you have made your mark, you have made us a pretty black race. I think everyone in this room can relate to this poem. The title of this poem is Boyd, it's about my grandson. Mothers, friends, sisters and brothers can identify with this young man. The title of this poem is Boyd. Young, energetic, full of light, he has never experienced strife. His day starts at a very hectic pace. To look at him run, you would think he was trying to win a race. His breakfast is gobbled down like a hungry hound. It is now playtime. His playmates can be big or small. The only interest he has is let's play ball. It can be football or baseball. He used the makes to call. He will play for hours on end. It's a very serious effort he hardly ever pretends. After about two hours, he will slow down a bit. All his playmates had to take a sit. He is now alone and he's still moving at rapid speed. He is often compared to a young galloping sneeze. After a bit, he will stop, sit, topple over and go fast to sleep. His mother takes a look and wishes he would sleep a week. Okay, our next poet is gonna be, this is another talented gifted young brother. He's participated with us a couple of times. Let's give Jesse Wilde another great round of applause. All right, Jesse, come on, come on, come on. I'm going to begin with one of my own, and it's called No Question. The world is congested, invested with the noise and anger and hate in which we've invested. We don't contest it, but accept it. We can't reject it, so we digest it. The enemy seeks to molest it, and we are subjected to evil's cause and mentally arrested. The devil you can't mess with, neither can I. And there's a God you don't believe in, so your question is why. You lie and wait for an answer to your inquiry. Seems to me, you the enemy killing me, but alas, the world is congested. It injects us with the belief that, hey, there's no one to protect us. We alone, a lone star like the state of Texas, what connects us is a belief of hatred and the knowledge that reflects us. We are our own enemy, scattered about like particles in the air, you see. Between you and me, what infects us with evil is the methods we use to attain good, when in reality we should let God oversee every fucking matter, understood? Those that don't will question me and ponder this writing for years. They'll read behind the wording, searching for an answer, but I tell you now here, the lesson that I bestow upon you, understand that you and I hold the medicine that unclogs the mind and lets go of the congestion that leaves evil shocked and appalled. No question. Thank you. This next poem is not mine, it's a spoken word piece. By Malik Yusuf, I did it last week and I'm gonna do it again because most of you weren't there, which is a bad thing. So next time we have this thing, please all of you turn off for the first one and the second one. But anyway, here we go. It's by Malik Yusuf and it is entitled My City. This, the city of Chicago, the state of confusion, the style I'm using is free, or probably it would be if my mind was beyond behind cause I didn't handle my functions while in high school, or high school, the hood I live in ain't all that proper, cause a cop will stop you and have you at 111 before you could say not guilty. I'm not filthy, nor am I rich. Ain't that a bitch like life is, not your wife is, that's your butter half. Do your math and peep that two halves make a hole. And all I have to hold is my self pride. So these histories I strive, like a black panther asking Kenva, situation get much worse. All I do is try to appeal to the masses as the phrase keep it real passes, the teeth of too many phony individuals, snakes that smooth like criminals. They create chemicals that the earth hate doing they damnedest to decrease my birth rate. I'll settle for lesser knowing that I'm worth weight or worth my weight in precious gems. So I'm steadily, steadily, steadily trying to lose my religion like R.E.M., created in its own image. So am I him? And the middle of this Christ is shit. I wonder what Christ is. Well he damned showing in K-town all in a while, honey. But he broadcasted you to the world, blow up and storm running hunted by police for display in state field cages. Come out to receive minimum wages, peddling the disease that's contagious. It is fucking outrageous. The amounts of blacks and browns they lock up. But the most high encourage me to put the Glock up and stock up on doofus self knowledge. Mother couldn't afford to go to college. So I went to the school of hard knocks on the hard blocks of the shy. Even I think about who knocked River Oaks as my liver soaks in mad Hennessy. Cause I have a bad tendency to do a lot of drinking. But now I do a lot of thinking, blinking. What's your third eye? When you heard I was one of the chosen. And she doors keep on closing. Watch the closing doors. But brothers still want a record deal. But can they deal with a record? Cause once they get rich, they seem to switch like a sissy. Please miss me with all that bullshit you poppin. This signs I'm gonna keep on dropping envy. I won't be stoppin. Even if you have won a red act of guns, folks say, well, how do you make your living? I think about breathing, acts of charm. Thank you. Oh. Uh, okay. We're gonna have some more poetry. We're gonna have a Reverend Bertrand Bruno come up and do some more poetry. So let's give them another great round of applause. Telling this poem is, what drama is my woman? The Duke of Wellington said, a drum is a woman. Well, what female has my beat? If a drum is a woman, is she loud or sweet? What drum is my woman? Is she wild and untamed? Or is a drum that is my woman only rhythmic in name? Is my drum a desert or a forest cool and green? Could my drum be an oasis or a melted glazed stream? Does my drum speak the language of the bush of olden days? Or has my drum found a lover in white-capped mountain waves? Can my drum cross an ocean or ride a raging tide? Can my drum be stripped of dignity and yet hold on to pride? If a drum is a woman, from what does she get her beat? Does she vibrate and explode from the harsh day's heat? Does she throb with passion born in a plantation field? Does she pound out the rhythm from her survivor's will? Can the drum that's my woman hold this soul in her hand? Is the drum that's my woman only background in life's band? Boom, boom, boom. Thump, thump, thump, rhythmically. Maybe my woman drum is unending freedom in tomorrow's eternity. Thank you. Title of this poem is Unfinished Untitled. They squeezed the life from my yesterday and beat my tomorrow into the past. They chained my future somewhere behind me and branded my present deep into my mind to last. The sweet green earth I once called home, they've flung into the sky. The cool deep blue of my river's flow, they've blooded and rung out to dry. My mother and sisters and nieces too, they've raped and scattered afar. My brothers and nephews, grandpa and father, they've robbed of manhood and darkened their star. Can I hold on to this captive thing that somewhere in time is me? Why hold on to this tortured brow, this present with only feelings of what used to be? But look way yonder on that distant hill, there's a light, a spark in the dark and the sweet aroma of carry on. Someone needs a strong man with heart. Someone needs a hand that will lift them up when their spirits and head hangs low. Someone that has lived the past and fought the fight of soul to and fro. Someone that has known the sting and the bite of the whip. Someone that has hung from the tree and bowed at the hip. Someone that has worked in the field and gathered the wheat. Someone that's been beaten and rewarded with slop to eat. Someone whose mind and spirit refuse to wear the chain and hail on to hope while enduring the pain. Someone who's cried, not from pain, fear or defeat, but for joy in the knowledge that freedom will be sweet. This last poem is entitled, I Crying You Blues. I cry in you blues. The moans of your early morning pleadings are like the rustles of angel feathers against my fevered and sometimes forgetful mind. I cry in you blues, sweet blues that make me twist and turn in the bittersweetness of my make-believe existence and take me home to bare feet in lush green forest. I cry in you blues in your mouths and mouths of mouths of cut, guttural staccatos and screaming seas that rush me back to huts on the bank of quiet rivers. I cry in you blues, like a lady day cries after children lost from the watchful eye of virgin mothers, like cold trains whisking solid armstrong men from shore to shore. I cry in you blues, you sweet blues that take me to a strange land, a distant land, and serenade my children with the tap, tap, tap of the whip and stain my black face with crescendos of silent tears. I cry in you blues, tears that become black trying to reach the depths of my captured heart. You sweet blues cried into me from the moment of ageless birth. And now I cry in you blues. Thank you. OK, next poet is going to be a brother. Khakanja is going to come up and do some more poetry. So let's give him a great round of applause. This is from my book, It's Time and Other Poems. I really like what Brother Ron shared with us this evening. I really like that. Nubian, yes. Negro, no, no, no. Now some so-called Negroes say they don't know what to do. But a lie is a lie. You know it isn't true. When I say let us come together and as one boy speak, Negroes say that we should turn the other cheek. When I say it is about reciprocity, I mean an eye for an eye. Negroes tell me that they want to get high. When I tell the Negro we must grow our own food to feed our wives and our children, the Negro points with pride at the new safeway that the cave boy is building. When I say to the Negro that we must educate our own and ask him why isn't he willing, he tells me not to worry. You see, he lets the cave boy miseducate his children. When I tell the Negro that the Black Christ, Queen and Zynga, Shaka Zulu, Nat Turner, Harriet Tubman, Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X, Kwame and Krumah, and Stephen Biko all fought against the devil system so that Africans could be free, the Negro tells me that's not what he learned when the cave boy taught him history. When I warn the Negro to stop, when I warn the Negro to stop selling heroin and crack to our children, the Negro says that he will stop after he has made his first million. When I say wake up Negro, it is time for you to think, the Negro tells me that he's got to have a drink. Then this poor Negro threatens to go to the police and tell them where I live. That's when I tell this fool that I am the wrong brother to fuck with. Finally I tell the Negro that he is sick and he needs to ask God Almighty for a plan. That's when the Negro broke down and told me that he didn't believe in the Creator. No, the poor creature told me that he believed in the white man. Peace. I got one more to share with you. There's so much talk about black men being free and of course we as a people can't move forward until black men and women are free. Now this poem that I'm about to do doesn't just pertain to black men, but it was a black man who inspired me to write it. You see, I had to call the pig on a rape situation. I'd never called the pig in my life, but someone would get assaulted, a female. So I called the pig to end that situation. When I told the brother what I did, he threw me out of his house and I said I had no right to call the pig. Brain day. This is called spectator sport. It sure as hell is not about sports. You know, I guess it starts out when we men are just boys. That's when we get taught that girls and women are only toys. And you and I all know that sometimes toys get broke. That's why some men treat rape like a spectator sport. My male friend said, what's wrong with sex? Why would a woman hide in cower? I said, fool, rape is not about sex. Rape is about power. You know, a gentle lady friend of mine, she was assaulted, coming home from work. The guy who did it, some insensitive, impenet, brain dead jerk. Once again, my male friend said, don't call the police. You know, that wouldn't be smart. Sometimes my own gender, have no brains, have no heart. Man, you know that she wondered, look at those clothes she wears. That was like a slap in my face that almost brought me to tears. Why can't some men think and see that as long as rape is cool, none of us are free? I mean, behind all that little boy snickering and inappropriate laughter, they must know that this could happen to their own sisters, mothers, wives, daughters. Now I know that war and rape go hand in hand, both when they end with all ways to prove you're a man. Some brothers say they don't understand the fuss that the rape victim has made. Well, that's funny, because I know they feel different if their bodies were staked. As a matter of fact, that's why some men fail to see. You see the coward and some men say, well, better her than me. But if we men really want to take a position, if we men really want to take a stand, then take a position against rape. You see, that's the difference between a beast and a man. Respect. Next port is gonna be Brother Ron Jacami. He's gonna come up and do some more poetry for you. So let's give Ron a round of applause. Just one moment before I have to go. This last one is one of my favorite poems. I've ever written. It's called Brainwised. Some of us, you know what I'm saying? Act like we done lost our mind, you know? Well, Brainwised Situations, gonna go like this. The jungles' muscles tussle while they hustle, chasing sin in the devil's way to win. Many of our kind are deaf, dumb and blind. Deaf because they refuse to hear that which is loud and clear. Blind because they refuse to see self and kind and just plain dumb because they're satisfied with being pacified. For 400 years, the devil and his peers have used and abused all related to black to increase his wicked stack. Why, I say, do we cling to this savage while it ravages our tribes with Nathan the High? When we search, we find our answers deep within the church and it's through religions that the savage made his decisions. When you read the Bible, you noticed it's manipulated by your rival. Although it's divine, barbarians have altered it to work for their kind. Within their demonic schools, they produce tools and fools by teaching satan's rules. Your vocation designed to produce slavation. Thank you. Okay, once again, we would like to thank you very much for participating in our Ninth Annual Bayview, Anna E. Watt, National Poetry Recital. I would like all of the poets to please come up and we'd like to give you a very special thank you. So all of the participating poets, please come up. And Linda and Allison, please come up. Okay, all right, let's give all of the poets a great round of applause. Very special congratulations to Linda and her husband for the new edition of Baby Girl. I wish you all the best. Kalila, beautiful, beautiful. All right, so, okay, Darlene Roberts and Mitchell, Larry Ware, Mr. William Alexander Fields, brother Jesse Wally. And we'd like to thank Allison. And a special thank you, once again, our cameraman, Dave Swabby does a wonderful job. So let's give Dave a very special round of applause for coming out and talking to you.