Ballad for Ntozake Shange

Raised up good by parents of an affluent nature
Embraced by those who would determine my stature
From a young lass I could hear the brass beats,
The low, sweet hummm of a drum, the breezy guitar
Playing far, on the trade winds inside my ear;

Beat down bad by faces of a pale complexion
Rejected by those who would make me hate my reflection
As a young lady I lost my sounds, I was bound
To befall that deep evil of depression, my oppression
Was self-inflicted;

Set straight up by relocating my voice,
And prose gave me cause to see I had a choice
As a full blown woman I took those brass beats,
That drummm, that singin guitar…and healed
The scar and scabs that scanned my soul.


Extra, Extra: Read all about it!  (Extra poem)
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Battered and ragged beats emanate from my
Drum within
Stirrin a rhythm true to
The black/blue blood inside

I ride the rhythm to escape inhibition, my prison
Copin in a world where my voice is
Strangled
Mangled, my soul sounds still with
The pounds of my drum

I am a medley of melodies
Down the paths of slavery
And up the streets of a new century
The only jury to judge my song
Those lifeless faces can’t prolong
The pounds of a poignant, prominent sound