That Was Karega...
Anyone who knew Karega
Knew that his baritone voice, even though soft,
Was full of courage and commitment.
His even tone, calmly, but articulately
Addressed injustice and national oppression
With working-class charismatic humility.
His revolutionary passion, embellished
With socialist compassion, condemning
Those blood-sucking capitalists,
Even in his poetry. From the
Assembly line to the bus line
Karega organized for peace
Equality, Justice and Socialism.
From the point of production
On the factory floor to
The point of understanding how
Systemic oppression undermines the physical
And mental health of human beings.
That was Karega. A father and grandfather
Who believed that we could live
In a better society that was driven by
Human need instead of corporate greed.
That's the world he wanted for his family.
He is the spirit that
Lives in my heart and soul, because
He was always a compass for human dignity.
It's nation-time...if justice cannot be achieved.
Liberation for the Black-belt South,
Ending police violence,
That was Karega. Even in his poems.
If you are man or woman, African-American,
Chicano, Latino, Native-American,
Asian, immigrant, poor, working-class,
Karega stood with you, side by side.
That was Karega. A revolutionary
Who broke-it-down, from
His heart, explaining why capitalism
Is contradictory to democracy,
Self-determination, human and civil rights.
His soft spoken humility was always
Overshadowed by his revolutionary prowess.
...From his heart...that was Karega.
Whose love for humanity,
Drive for human dignity,
Vision for a better world...
Lived his life as he spoke it.
That was Karega, my brother, my comrade...
Who leaves a void in my heart,
But whose revolutionary insights
Will remain etched in my mind
For as long as I live.
Brother Karega Hart...¡Presente!
June 8, 2014
The Young Girl
(As told by her mother)
A young girl, una niña
She cried lagrimas of
Deep pain from an abuser.
It was someone who
She entrusted to protect
Her. The authority who
Had the responsibility
To make sure she
Was safe. The Niña's
Mother cried too.
Especially when her
Niña told her that the
Authority told her not
To tell anyone. It was
Not a stranger that hurt
The niña's arm and
Twisted her wrist. It
Was the same person
Who made her teacher
Cry in front of all the
Niñas and niños. It was
The person who became
Obsessed with test scores.
The person whose career
Thrived in the echos of
Intimidation and humiliation.
The niña was hurt physically,
Emotionally and spiritually,
By the authority who
© Copyright 2014
Poems written in blood
Stained with tears
Smell of sweat
Spoken in human languages
Empty of lofty abstractions
Are carelessly tossed
By omnipotent scholars
Into common didactic waste-bins
© Copyright 2014
I have been asked, what is a Chicano? This is not an easy question to respond to. It requires a thoughtful response, so I turned my answer into a poem. This is one perspective.
I am the result of a unique
historical experience. I am of
the seed that was sewn of this
Earth. I am the heart beat of
many millenniums. I am a
phenomenon that can’t be wrapped
in a neatly secured one-dimensional
package. I am the dream of
ancient wisdom. I am the
profound depths of physical,
spiritual and intellectual wonders
that haunt modern thought.
I am the descendent of survivors
who’ve sought to live when
they were doomed to die.
I was born in a dream and
lived in a nightmare
through my dreams.
I am the infusion of genetic
codes and a diaspora of cultural
eclecticism. I am a
barrio beat brother…aztlaneco.
I am the confusion and diffusion
of worlds colliding. I am the
crystal clear vision of the future.
I am the contradiction working
against itself. I am a
sorrow song and a blues corrido.
I am Cuautehmoc’s last breath
and Zapata’s first inspiration. I am
the stroke of Frida Kahlo’s brush
and Sor Juana Inez de la Cruz’s
polemic. I am Dr. King’s
dream and Malcolm X’s
call for self-determination. I
am John Brown’s cry for justice
and Aretha’s call for r-e-s-p-e-c-t.
Soy nieto de campesinos e
hijo de urban factory workers.
I am a home-grown, urban
barrio warrior…born in a
tradition called Aztlan. I
am hijo del sol,
hermano del corazón and
soul brother. I am the
intersection of dreams, ideals
and aspirations. I am the
righteous indignation of centuries
ready to explode. I am
a complex socio-psychological
deposit of consciousness that
transcends millenniums and cultures.
I am the dialectical outcome
of resistance to oppression. I
am Chicano, a concept that can’t
be easily explained.
© Copyright 2013
This is FRACKING Poetic License
Are you FRACKING crazy?
Ain't nobody FRACKING me over!
This makes no FRACKING sense to me.
This is FRACKING awful!
Poisoning families for profit is FRACKING horrible.
Using toxic chemicals and hydraulic pressure...FRACKING wrong!
Contaminating drinking water...FRACKING ridiculous.
Poisoning farmland, plants, cattle and people...FRACKING stupid.
FRACKING earthquakes, too?!
No FRACKING way am I going for this!
Ooh! You said, FRACKING. I'm gonna tell.
FRACKING is a really bad word.
I hope you get the FRACKING point.
You know what I FRACKING mean?
© Copyright 2014
You may read more poems by clicking on the links across the top of this page.