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Willie Lynch

A poem by Jon Richards

Living in this big old house larger than ever.
Bought some slaves at the auction. Work hard? They better.

Cuz I got this lever: Willie’s bull whip.
I’ll tie him to the tree. I’ll beat that nigga.
Best call me Masa. Best call me sir.
I shipped y’all from Africa.
Use the Bible as part of my plan
and teach them that they’re the Son of Ham.
Ham had a son who was forced to be a slave.
and work for his brothers for the rest of his days.
You my slave you don’t like it?
A white man’s heaven is a black man’s Hell.
I’ll brainwash them well
by changing the scripture.

Send them to church and have them praise my picture.
Cuz I’m a put up a picture of myself as the savior.
So looking up to me is just a part of the nature.

take away their history.
take away their past.
take away their culture.
read a book in class made so much sense
called “Making of a slave” by Willie Lynch.
But will I lynch? You damn right, sonny.
I’ll even kill children in front of their mommy.
Cuz I’ll make the mother want her to protect her seed.
Remind her strange fruit don’t fall far from the tree.
In that fear will live future generations.

Slave mentality will soon become a part of their personality.
so they’ll keep suppressing each other till I’m gone.
and I’ll carry on till the end of days

so I can sit back and watch slaves make slaves, make slaves,

Jon Richards

Published in Genre: Urban Arts Second Edition

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Do not be afraid to come undone.  All of your ancestors await you at your dawn.  Even the ones who didn’t wish to be there.  Each cell.  Waiting for you to open.  To fall.  To become raw…  So that you may feel.  Supported.  My love…  You are so supported.  Your undoing is your salvation.  There’s a roof made of rain and sunshine.  Floors of solid gold.  The walls never strangle.  Doors are never closed.  Some remove their shoes at the threshold.  But never mind them…  You!  You must come completely.  Undone.  Of you…  They require more – a more clothed in nothing.  Nothing.  At all.  Hang your fear on shoulders that tote wings.  Lay your burdens in laps likened to crimson tides.  Rest your bloodied soles on lashed and leathered backs that have mended themselves.  Spread your aching body across the Atlantic.  They have been waiting to make a bridge.  Out of you.  Come.  And be made.  Whole.