My Verse – a visual spoken word
today I write my verse not because I want to but because I have to I write my verse to give voice to the voiceless to give sound to the silence around to make light out of dark to bring peace out of war and squeeze water from oil and blood and so, I write my verse compelled to write words that might right all the wrong that’s been done all along through me words must be written must speak for the children for those who can’t stand on their own like twelve-year-old Eduardiño and his favela boys who sleep under bridges and tunnels and call the streets their homes who steal meat just to eat or sell drugs for the thugs with with no mother’s arms to hold Eduardiño, who’s 9mil glock locks and jams as he pulls the trigger the Swedish tourist shivers but that’s just life in Rio for skinny Eduardiño my verse is for Malai in Bangkok so cute, so fresh so ruined at only ten, she sells her assets for a toothless street pimp who promises pure puntang to fat-bellied, gray haired Americans but her pickings ain’t pure at all this ain’t Malai’s first rodeo she’s been riding the bull since long ago her heart weighs more than rocks and blocks cause there’s a reason they call it Bang-kok I write for nine-year-old Dharani who, instead of learning to read and write wakes at 4am to struggle and fight to scavange the Dhapa dumping grounds of Calcutta in discarded filth with her mother digging for food, plastics, metals anything of value she can peddle knee deep in middle class trash what use in books and math? when the urgency of now is pressing to look upon her is depressing but she smiles, she smiles, she smiles inspiring my words for miles these lines are for Michel, whose muddied seven-year-old hands tirelessly mix salt with oil and sand twisting mud pies for his mother with grandma, sister and brother to sell for five cents a piece in Cité Soleil market streets but Michel’s mud pies are not mud pies like Carlo’s in Hoboken his soul is nearly broken his food from Haitian soil I pay homage to his toil cause eating earth is perverse but still I write my verse to try and nourish his dirt Oh, these odes I write for Ashanti no not the million-dollar pop star but the nine-year-old malnutrition who’s bruised and scarred her fragile feet all charred she’s been walking thirty days across famined deserts in a daze Ethiopia has gone dry and no one really knows why ten days ago her two year old brother Alem was left behind to dry and crack like desert sand, his broken back scorched by the sun and treacherous heat wasting away just like Ashanti and like 30,000 other children no one even tried to save them and so for them I write this poem I write for the American silent majority for those that know but won’t say anything for those that say something but don’t know the complacent the complicit the conspirator my verse is for those who’ve been silenced by default who won’t use their voices who can’t who don’t who shouldn’t who should I write my verse for truth and justice it gives rise to those who once have spoken it resurrects those leaders long gone this verse hails their dead voices invokes echoes of ghosts like King and Malcolm Mandela seraphim, Mahatma Gandhi still starving, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Frederick Douglass Rosa Parks jumping off the bus cause she just can’t take the ride anymore I can’t take it anymore so I write it down right here not for myself but to myself because all I do is write and all you do is listen.
Posted on September 20, 2013, in Poetry and tagged africa, art, artist, awareness, child trafficking, children, critical thinking, documentary, experimental film, film, Haiti, human-rights, ideas, justice, life, mind, original ideas, pain, poet, poetry, politics, racism, short film, society, soul, spoken word, suffering, thoughts, tragedy, truth, Wilson Santos, world. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.