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Being Hueman

Acknowledging the value of all God's Creation, the beauty
of diversity, and the possibilities of embracing love,
compassion and justice as a way of
life and community. This is being hueman.

Poetry & Writing by Greg Powell

As trick-or-treats are dwindling enjoy this poem by Greg Powell
All Hallows Eve of Old Spirits

The first throat cut
Is Becky the pretty little Cinderella
And her mamma Cinderallla
And the infant in fancy stroller
Because lynchers
And white blood lusting rioters
Did not spare babies
Or even embryos striving for birth
In lynched momma’s womb
And so blood liberated from veins
Washes onto wet leaves ground
A cocktail of rivulets running down street
Slurped into manhole covers

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The Call is a poem written by Greg Powell
The Call

the block where we
had toy soldier and rock
fight wars. I remember
the slow jagged twirl
of the one busted my head
and made me see blood.
we raced popsicle sticks
down rivulet streams
draining into metal bars.
incinerated ant piles
with sun beams through
magnifying glass, and chased
spiders into their webs.

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Communion on Broken Rocks by Greg Powell
Communion on Broken Rocks

depression had me
bound. I didn’t know
what to do/ yearned
for nothing. walked
the lakefront, edge
of jagged rocks and
risen waters enraged
by winds manifest
from cloudless sky.
contemplating swim
to the other side
or to nothing at all.

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Tales of the Funky Drummer by Greg Powell
Tales of the Funky Drummer

I’m not a master drummer
I drum to the Master
The master crafter
push us through the disaster
The beat gets up
the asses of slackers
Rappers pastors and
gang banger blasters
Beat the drum because
the times is drastic
My lyrics sparkle
spastic lean and elastic

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Jah Meets Jericho

The walls gonna come
tumbling down
The walls gonna come
tumbling down

The people are moving
Devil men are losing
Spirits start to bubble
As we climb the rubble

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Broken Legacy

Do the bruised brass wailing
exclamation scar of history/
suffocating in shadows of projects
spread like southern crosses
burning/ fall futilely
on depressed ears
of spiritually deaf/ Do
harsh sharp horn shouting preachments
sustain chanted sermons to
empty pews/Do anyone
still
listen
to John
Coltrane

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