Poetry

March 16, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

By

Kitaka Alex

 

 

                                     Black woman, Don’t cry

 

 

                                   Black woman, wipe that tear

                                        Quickly off your face

                                             That tear I fear

                                   Might leave behind no trace

                                               Of wisdom

                                  Because it might get stolen

                                               Of kingdom

                           That you build with or without a pen.

 

                                      Black woman don’t cry

                                    You have the energy, Aje

                                               Remember,

                              Accountable to you is man and age

                                                 Forever

                               Your womb, will womb humanity.

                       You are the means to transition into reality,

 

                                   Black woman, Don’t cry,

                                We come from somewhere.

                                The realm of our ancestors

                                         And you woman

                                      You are the gateway.

 

                                   Black woman, Don’t cry

                                   Black woman, Don’t cry

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Kitaka Alex

I am a Creative Facilitator, Writer Poet and a Pianist, in addition to being founder and Director of the Tontoma Poetry Session which is a monthly gathering of Poets and Spoken word artists every first Thursday of the month.

This session brings Poets to share their works fused with visual art,  traditional and contemporary musical instruments.

I am currently facilitating at In Movement, Art for Social Change in Creative Writing and Poetry.

Poetry is what I feed on for survival, Short Stories are the soup and the saucepan is the paper, my hands are the spoons and forks; that is how I survive.

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