Runako Jahi
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Once Upon A Time, We Were
By Runako Jahi
8 November 2002
Once upon a time, when we were little brown-skinned boys and girls,
A time of home-made biscuits and Alaga syrup,
A time when we got excited over “Easter clothes”
And going to the movies was something really special.
We had a structured existence: you went to the library.
If you finished your homework, you might be able
To watch a little something on the black-and-white TV.
Every weekend, we would see fancy men and women
Dressed in fine linens and silks, strutting their stuff
Around the city, looking grand and very much alive!
In the Black community during that time
There were many private businesses: storefronts that housed tailors,
Merchants and shoe-shine shops, along with black-owned bakeries, candy stores
And stuff like that.
What a joy it was to be at Sunday service
Where all the elegant Black folks
“Nodded they heads and patted they feets” to the
Rousing rhythms of the church’s choir!
What a joy it was to hear that jazzy organ groove
In such a sacred place
And have the freedom to delight in a church that didn’t scare us.
No, it definitely wasn’t Catholic, quiet and polite,
Standing and kneeling all the time.
It had Gospel shouts, arms waving, handkerchiefs flailing in the
Heat of the morning.
Oh, what a spectacle our sacred places be!
With Miss Maybelle Johnson sashaying in her yellow chiffon dress,
With matching shoes, bag
And a wide-brimmed yella hat, setting off that
Chocolate skin like one of Duke Ellington’s
Fabled Satin Dolls.
With her gentleman friend, Mr. Raynar, grey and slick in a fine-cut suit
That danced with him when he moved.
Oh, yeah!
These were the people!
The stock from which we came.
Grandaddy got up before day to make him and Grandma his strong
Black coffee, toast, bacon and scrambled eggs
Before he went to work, permeating the apartment with wake-me-up smells.
She always had breakfast with him
And even though he worked in a stock yard,
She kept him in crisp, starched shirts.
They never said very much to each other
As they sat across the table, yet you could feel
The energy between them and the love they shared in a gaze.
My Mama was still in bed ‘cause she was just a girl, herself.
I grew up with these people
In a home with waxed linoleum floors
That shined in the sunlight while Mahalia Jackson
Sang from the radio.
Today, I remember it like yesterday, and no matter how
Crazy folks seem on the news, or the denigration of our people in the papers,
Or how teens cuss in front of elders and all decorum seems
To just run like sewage, stinking up our streets.
This is not the natural order of where we came from,
Where slouching was not permitted, where folks walked tall,
Where you spoke with intelligence and respected not only
Your surroundings but yourself.
It is not that there was no living going on: no good-timing, no hustling,
Or signs of struggle, life is what it is, filled with the essence of water and fire!
Once upon a time, when we were little brown-skinned boys and girls,
Mama used to say, “It ain’t what you do, but how you do it.”
_________________________
La Ballerina Negro
Written by Runako Jahi
10 July 2006
She dwelled in a neighborhood of Blacks and Puerto Ricans.
A community of music and exotic smells;
A passionate place where outbursts of laughter and cussing
Made itself known at all times of day and night.
In dingy street clothes, she did a soft spin, envisioning herself in a pastel pink tutu.
She pointed her toes in a way that kissed the Chicago skyline;
A skinny colored girl in the sixties, never encouraged to strive
To be anything other than a skinny colored girl.
She saw the Civil Rights marches on television and took to heart the speeches of Dr. King; nevertheless, her Mama never told her she could be a ballerina and one day dance Giselle or Swan Lake.
But Life is full of those who lack encouragement and support.
She knew it was best to find her own way
By keeping the flame of achievement burning in her heart.
She was going to be a dancer whether she had an audience or not,
Regardless of the nay-sayers that posed as her family and so-called close friends!
She would look at her flat African nose in the mirror and study her full African lips and relish in her deep brown cocoa skin, pleased with what she saw as she stroked her proud mane of strong Black hair and smiled at her reflection.
The twinkle in her almond eyes were not deterred by anyone’s comments, nor their attitudes, as she twirled and danced around her room like the prima Ballerina of her imagination.
One day, she knew, she would find satisfaction in her dream.
One day, her Mother and all of her loved ones, would be in the audience applauding and bearing beautiful roses, opened and breathtaking as the feelings in her heart.
One day, her classes and private studies will pay off, but in the meantime, she held On to her defiance, accepted her challenges, because she knew she would prove them All wrong because, unlike many girls in her neighborhood, she had the power of self-determination and Faith going for her.
She continued to dance, she continued to study, and it wasn’t long before
Everyone knew her name!
_____________________________________
She Who Was Someone’s Wife
Written by Runako Jahi
1 May 1999
Lenora
Very often let things take her by surprise,
Like the wind in Chicago in March.
How many times did she wonder if what she did was what
She really wanted to do, or if she was where she really
Wanted to be, or who she kissed owned the lips that
Made her ooze with anticipation?
Lenora often thought perhaps
Being alone is where she stood for now.
But how could she tell if her heart was happy when her mind convinced
Her that she was?
She was, in reality, an unhappy married woman who
Ignored the siren song her heart wailed, along with the many
Obvious pictures of her discontent.
To many, her sad longing was apparent.
Lenora never bothered to look inside for real things.
She opted for the safe, the comfortable, and was willing to
Remain neutral as long as it did not shatter her existence as she knew it.
Upon searching through her wastebasket,
Among the Coke cans and the paper, the red-stained cotton balls that
Removed the glory of her nails, the Kleenex tissue
That contained the ruby smear of her lipstick;
Among things she used and discarded,
Among the various pieces of herself.
Fragments of her
Thrown out along with dreams of romantic love
And kisses that contained passion, genuine laughter,
And all of the things she loved to do before her claim to fame
Was being someone’s “Wife.”
_____________________________________
A Song Of Sabrina
by Runako Jahi
17 May 2008
Sabrina of the stars.
Her energy, like moonbeams in the twilight,
Amidst the Black and rich velvet of night.
She is intelligence and promise.
A child/woman
stepping into the world
Of reality and things she could not imagine
from her high school diary.
She walks in her Mother's spirit
even though she is a Daddy's Girl.
Her tears lament of chases after fleeting dreams,
grasping and fighting through the air
with fingers outstretched.
Thus saved by a knowing smile,
A sense of wonder, an anticipation of tomorrow.
Unbeknownst to her, her aspirations are already in place
and will visit her in time.
For it is wrtten that she will embrace success
and she will breathe in the potent mist of
Love,
and strut freely, a liberated sister-goddess
who now bites into the sweet peach
Of her woman-ness,
her fluid nectar and the solid foundation
Of her journey to the glory of finally
realizing and loving Herself.
_____________________________________
Just Joe
By Runako Jahi
16 May 2002
He who fancies caps
likes to strut and smile.
He who fancies caps
is a man with style.
He who fancies caps has a special air;
He dares to be himself,
He lives his life with flair.
He who fancies caps
is a Lover Man;
They fall for him in droves,
In chocolates, creams and tans.
He who fancies caps
Is no ordinary Joe.
He who fancies caps
likes to travel, love and go.
He who fancies caps
Does not brag or play the Fool.
Because he who fancies caps is the coolest of the Cool.
_________________________________________
With Calypso In Her Blood
by Runako Jahi
16 May 2003
Juanita, like a burst of color enters life with a “Hello!”
Full-hipped and big-breasted,
She is undeniably Black.
The quintessential One, the most definite,
The Honeysuckle Rose.
She walks the Yen and the Yang;
A living collage of all things African
And Colored, robust in her laughter,
Vivid in her expression.
She has music within her, whispers in her silences,
Calypso in her blood.
A Mambo Mama in purples, magentas and golds—
Adorned in kentes and mudcloths,
With cowrie shells dangling from her ears.
Juanita, like a burst of color
Knows that one must never lose sight of what is truly Real.
She has no tolerance for the superficial and
Brings no food to the shallow.
She snatches life like the pull of a corn husk,
Taking in its golden splendor,
Devouring it with not only her heart and lips
But with every fiber within.
She is red-dirt African soil;
Beans, rice and fried chicken, saturated with hot sauce.
She is hot peach cobbler
And succulence.
She is Taurean sensuality
And unbridled lust.
She is madness and jazz,
She is a fashion statement.
She hollas and moans and groans!
She is a force of nature,
The rainforest and the storm.
She is snap crackle and pop!
She is Spirit, the Goddess of Soul—
Expansive and enlightened,
Zora’s spiritual daughter!
She eats her greens with her fingers
And licks them afterwards, with a satisfied smile.
_________________________________________
Stevie Wonder
By Runako Jahi
7 April 2001
When Stevie Wonder sings
He brings forth many things.
He brings love and understanding
When life gets too demanding.
He brings joy and inspiration
To every generation.
When Stevie Wonder sings
He moves his head and shuts his eyes
And lets the music travel through the harmonies and
The sighs.
Its rhythms propel his body as it rocks from side to side
As it takes us on a journey on his magic carpet ride.
When Stevie Wonder sings
There’s no tragedy in being blind;
No time to dwell in bitterness, he is truly one of a kind.
For his work, he touched a nation, urging people to achieve;
He is a true example that you can be what you believe.
Stevie Wonder!
Stevie Wonder!
Stevie Wonder!
_________________________________________
Sundown
By Runako Jahi
23 August 2000
Like Chicago, itself, he rose from rock and water
And moved about the city on the lake as if he owned it.
A teenaged spirit waiting to latch upon a Soul.
He was bravado, strutting blue, gangsta chile, extreme;
Street-wise and other/wise and tough as stone.
He wore the hustle like a badge of honor.
He moved by a silent code;
Guarded and in motion, who only arrived at Sundown.
Under the purple Chicago night,
As children played in the spray of a fire hydrant,
Their laughter meshed with the bragging of
Teen conquests and glory, reefer smoke and lies,
Under the stars and skies, in a summer of mosquitoes
And annoying flies, he was the Prince of Night,
His turf was 63rd and Cottage Grove Avenue, and
To him, every other place he roamed.
Young women knew him well;
They played with him and told him their secrets.
Though, bein’ black, we all knew the deal.
He is of us, in us, with us;
He is our Brother, Uncle, Father, Son, even
The fabled Holy Ghost!
Blues singers have sang his song,
Coltrane has made us feel it,
And Gwendolyn Brooks has often lamented about the
“Plain Black Boys.”
Yet, when you look inside, there is something authentic.
Special.
Chaka Khan forced him to “tell her something good.”
One day, one magical and wondrous day, the Boychile
Became a Man.
One unafraid to expose the heart, the pain, the love, the
Knowledge you get by living days, alert, appreciating his own
Life’s force and sharing his gifts.
He did not lose his toughness, nor his bravado, nor his
“street sense,” yet somehow, he grew into himself
And exposed a treasure, this cat,
Who, at one time in his youth, bore the name, Sundown.
Like Chicago itself, he rose from rock and water
And moves about the city on the lake as if he owns it.
_________________________________________
Here & There
By Runako Jahi
24 September 2000
Nomad manchild, drifting into spaces
Searching for answers, here and there.
Exploring cities, towns, continents
Trying to find his proper face,
a wandering spirit
searching for himself.
The elements know when he arrives
by the shifting of the winds,
the ripples in the ocean.
For he is the one who is never satisfied.
Like an animal, he tears out of his shell
To embark on his journey;
to find his rhythm,
To sing his own song.
Words, movement, ink, paper,
Voices in the streets, hip-hop,
bebop,
Loud noises and baby cries, L trains and airplanes,
Buses and terminals, airports and ID bracelets,
Mother’s breasts and baby food,
Barbecue chicken and
macaroni and cheese,
Cigarettes and alcohol and things
his Daddy warned him against
that seemed to fall on deaf ears,
like most of the shit Daddies say.
Because, after ALL,
What does HE know?
Here and there, in South Side greasy spoons,
en route to London , lounging in smoke-filled Jazz rooms in Paris,
Traveling via boat to celebrate the New Year in Japan;
The Here and There Negro,
Looking for it.
Whatever it IS.
_________________________________________
The Diva
By Runako Jahi
1 July 2008
She sits at her dressing room mirror
And smears ruby red lipstick across her mouth,
Studying her reflection and her memories.
Once she was thought of as having limited talent
And ridiculed for being a bitch.
Her drive and ambition made her strive
To improve herself, to tighten up her game,
To achieve the heights, but at a price.
In America’s jaundiced eyes, a black woman
Singer from the sixties did not have a right to be arrogant.
She must not dare to desire to have the best the world could offer.
Yet she pressed on like a trooper, yet frightened
Because she knew that one day she would fall off
the tightrope without a net.
Even though, in the sixties, she was a role model.
She broke the color barrier
And became integration itself.
Admired all over the world,
Performing in historic venues across the globe.
She was Diva: all hair, all smiles, all style.
People loved her, people hated her, but they all
Knew her name.
She became an icon, a legend, an inspiration.
Even her voice improved.
But eventually, all of her negative karma caught up with her
And even her good records did not sell.
Radio stations would no longer support her.
The white husbands divorced her.
She was left with her children and a number of
Die-hard fans who knew that underneath the stone was
A sensitive woman of flesh, even warmth.
They all knew that, the critics did.
But it was better copy to present her as the Dragon Lady,
A role she willingly played.
The seventies came and went;
The eighties came and went—the nineties.
Times changed.
Music changed.
She was no longer news.
She was no longer fabulous.
She no longer played in the big stadiums.
She became a nightclub act.
As she sits in front of her dressing room mirror,
Patting powder on her chocolate face, putting on eye-liner,
Mascara, spraying herself with a soft but exotic perfume—
Even in her lion’s mane of trademark hair,
Someone passes her door with a radio and the shrill wail of today’s
Hot young thing invades her space.
For a moment, she thought about the girl whose
Voice she heard and smiled sadly to herself.
Girls like that are called divas now—the scantily-clad
Video goddesses who all seem to be One.
One of the same sound, hair and body.
One type, one style.
The stage manager tapped on her door
Because it’s almost time to go on.
She slowly stood up and checked her
Gold-beaded gown, squared her shoulders,
Secured the straps on her pumps
And walked towards the door.
True, she was no longer America’s sweetheart.
True, she hasn’t had a hit record in twenty years.
True, her star had fallen.
But the one thing that was certain,
None of that mattered because she was a Diva.
And a true Diva never dies.
_________________________________________
A Siren From The Sea
(The Elizabeth Poem)
By Runako Jahi
18 May 2008
Hello, Beautiful One
Sunshine and golden;
Like a bronze temptress,
A siren from the sea,
You flow like the waters
and keeps its secrets
deep within a shell;
Your hauntingly rich brown eyes
Smile from within.
You are Loveliness, personified.
No man, not even the Wind,
Will EVER own You.
_________________________________________
Moonbeams & Sweet Sunrises
by Runako Jahi
14 August 1999
Kai’s soulful eyes view the universe with the wonder
Of a child, filled with possibility and hope;
Forever optimistic about the on-coming day.
She is connected to the essence of her;
To the truth of her.
One who dares to confront the mirror
Of the present now and smile at the reflection
Of amber yesterdays.
She is mambo and flutes and percussion;
She is where the sun is hot and the birds
Fish in the ocean.
She weeps for the souls of centuries,
For the African past and the African now.
For brothers and sisters both confused and enlightened.
She weeps for the men
Who were not equipped internally to
Embrace her total Love;
She rises at Midnight, wet with their tears
And fluids,
Fighting to overlook the thought of being accepted
On the basis of her lush, honeyed lips,
Her golden breasts, and her sturdy thighs.
Even though their kisses have been satisfying and their thrusts
Capable and filled with assurance,
She was not totally pleased.
For years, she saved a place in her heart
For one who was significant.
A place where she stored her secret goodies.
A valentine place for love letters, candy,
Strolls through the park, whispers and soft,
Wet kisses.
This place is only half-filled;
Remnants of chance encounters,
Soiled bed-sheets and fragrant oils.
Her soulful eyes continue to
Look into tomorrow as she sits at her vanity
To apply today’s face.
She wears brightly-colored turquoise, golds,
Lavenders and magentas,
All female and silk.
Woman ready, woman now, woman not afraid
Of the big bad wolf,
Nor myth or reality.
She struts with courage, with grace, comfortable
Within her shell.
Because, in spite of what ANYbody thinks,
She knows what a hot motherfucker
She truly is
And owns it.
_________________________________________
Ode To The Tap Dance
By Runako Jahi
10 June 1999
We tap into your consciousness with our passion
For life,
With our undeniable approach to what is known as
Soul.
We tap into your life with bright colors:
Magentas, golds, greens and deep blues.
Yeah, we tap into you.
We tap into you
As often as we sport a new ‘do.
As often as laughter,
As often as a heartbeat,
As often as our Mothers and Fathers
Tell us what to do.
Yeah, we tap into you.
We tap into you like the music
That we sing,
Like the music that we play,
Like the music that we cry,
Like the music—
The music that is within us,
That moves us;
Music that rattles the consciousness,
Music that praises the Lord,
Music that makes us think,
Music that gives us strength.
Bill “Bogangles” Robinson,
The Mills Brothers, Hines, Hines and Dad, the Dandridge Sisters,
And all the fine colored people who tapped into becoming Negroes,
Who later became Black and NEVER stayed back!
Those who tapped and lived and died;
Those who had success and those who cried.
We tap into you like Jimmy Payne took the stage,
Spinning a web of magic, completely present in his discipline.
We tap into you like Savion Glover pounds the pavement
With rhythms, rapid-fire, hitting concrete.
Yeah, we tap into you, Baby, with our praise-songs
And jubilations,
With inspiration and high expectations!
We are still here, tapping black, tapping tan, tapping yellow, tapping, tapping,
Tapping into your heart, your fine black self, tapping this dance for YOU!
_________________________________________
Phases Of Moonlight Lady
Written by Runako Jahi
She appeared as if washed upon the shore,
Standing barefoot in the sand,
Soaked in the wetness of beginnings
And fertile dreams;
Particles of the ocean clung to her garment
As she slowly moved along letting it flow in the wind.
The Moon protected her in the darkness,
Bathing her in its silvery hue as she made
Footprints in the sand.
The soft music of the ocean entertained her
With its seductive melodies,
Hoping that she would be appreciative of
the rhythms of nature.
The ocean was not aware that this was
Moonlight Lady,
moonchild in July, a spirit of the wind
who had died several times and was again reborn.
Not particularly happy, though not particularly sad,
She adjusted to the process
And always obeyed the Creator’s wishes
Because she knew she was not in control.
Moonlight Lady’s phases were varied and intense,
But in order for her to continue to evolve, she
Had to find inner peace.
Walking along the shoreline with the turtles and the crabs,
As the darkness turned to light, the seagulls began to sing
And she began to smile.
_________________________________________
A Discovery of Shadows: A Poem For Sharlet
By Runako Jahi
22 July 2005
Through the darkness, she walks in mystery;
She moves through a timeless inertia, feeling lost
within a motionless framework--faceless, bloodless,
A seeming void of words and intellect,
Struck mute by the ignorance, the insensitiveness
of the outside
common.
As she roams pass the concrete of those
who lack imagination,
her mind fills with the abundance of
“Oh, Mary Mack”
and the remnants of her
Girlhood innocence as though
she never evolved.
Though she longed to survive beyond
the social club of
the inane uninspired, she wept quiet tears that
float like bubbles beyond her vision;
So overwhelmed is she that it is a
challenge to even breathe.
Her eyes refuse to accept the standard blandness
And the grays, yet she pauses to laugh
at the absurd irony of it all.
Her mama and grandmama and aunties
all stood by the well,
urging her to put one foot before the
other like they did.
The power of the colored ladies had
enough soul to move mountains.
She realized, alas, that all she had to do
was turn the knob
to open the door, to embrace the Sun,
to feel the breeze on her cheeks,
to dare to see the Life before her, to connect with the
art that surrounds her.
Timidly and with caution, she regained
her courage to breathe,
and to simply give herself the permission to Be.
_________________________________________
Valerie & The Wind
By Runako Jahi
19 October 1999
Black woman of ages, from midst and earth, fragments of many
Generations.
She speaks in movement and melodies sent to her from
The ancestors.
She seeps into water, she drips of love, she meditates and conquers,
She interprets dreams.
The wind speaks to her from the mountains
With whispered messages passed down from many generations
Of elderly African women, with murmurs that have traveled from
Majestic villages where many festivals have taken place atop the sacred red soil,
To the wails of families aboard slave ships, confused and mystified
With only the solace of the ocean begging one to remain calm;
From the prickly cotton fields, from the southern states, to the streets of
Chicago and New York City,
Aware even now, when most are blind, that where ever black people live,
It’s the same African village.
A fighter at heart, she does not allow her beauty to deceive her,
To make her weak
To the flattering seducers around her, because she is wise enough to know that most Traps are baited with flattery.
The Wind speaks to her and penetrates her heart
With a spirit that has released her from fear, that has led her
To hope, to triumph.
The voice in the wind has given her the permission to be free,
To be her own woman, to learn finally, after playing house with her dolls,
Discovering the kisses of boys, relaxing after the shock of her first menstrual cycle,
Over-coming the pain of heartbreak, and its varied manifestations that the old
Folks call, “Bein’ Grown,” discovering, after all, that these things were necessary elements that created
Her as she stands now,
Fine and ebony,
A woman, sensitive,
With inner beauty that strikes witnesses with awe.
These are the treasures sent to her.
The lessons her ancestry has taught.
_________________________________________
A Girl From Louisiana
By Runako Jahi
23 March 2007
There she sits, a Louisiana woman,
Bare feet with legs parted,
wearing a loose-fitting dress
that sways as she moves
in her grandmother's rocking chair.
She sits in a dusty room of memories,
honey-colored and cayenne,
and remembers her girlish voice
and wonders where it went.
Oh, she was such a forgiving sweet child
who did all the right things,
who shared her candies with her friends--
even her beloved pralines!
And was most respectful to her elders.
There she sits, with her hair silver from life,
drinking strong Louisiana coffee
and staring off into the horizon.
To this, she has no regrets because she has
not sacrificed her
integrity
and has earned her own respect.
She can smile and remember;
Smile and feel the breeze,
Smile and KNOW.
Gone is the whimsy and recklessness of youth,
But present is the wisdom and the lush nectar of
Sweet peaches, whose warmth and taste
has been enriched by the sun.
She sits, she smiles, she knows.
Life continues to happen
regardless of the season,
with or without us.
But today is her birthday
and it is time for us to sing.
_________________________
The Man In The Brown Biscuit-Toed Stacy Adams Shoes
By Runako Jahi
31 July 2008
He stood proud,
A classic Black man
With his classic walking suit and his classic brown biscuit-toed
Stacy Adams shoes.
He was definitely not a product of today’s casual, sagging-trousers-gym-shoe-wearing-T-shirt-clad-fifty-something fellow.
His shoes glowed in the sunlight,
Popping majestically, almost surreal in their splendor.
He was not a throw-back to another era,
Not a nostalgia freak, nor someone who was not aware of the times.
He stood proud in a traditional Black male sense,
A stalwart gentleman who remembered the importance of good grooming,
Who remembered that gym shoes were not fashion statements but something worn in a gym.
He was refinement;
Not Ebony-magazine-glossy,
Not manicured and scrubbed for effect, but natural, an original, someone who looked like he took time getting dressed.
Someone who shined his own shoes;
Someone who used hot polish and water and the perfect cotton cloth.
Uncle Lee used to say, “People can tell a lot about you by the way you wear your shoes.”
He stood proud, rail thin and quietly dapper.
Not an old relic, not a thing from the past,
But a gentleman, classic, wearing freshly-shined brown biscuit-toed,
Stacy Adams shoes.
He’s probably someone’s husband;
Probably someone’s daddy,
Maybe a visitor from the South.
Who knows?
Yet on this day in July, on a humid Chicago evening, he walks about, minding his own Black business,
As classic as a bottle of Old Spice
after-shave.