Under No Certain Terms

Poetry 2 the Masses


Not a state of mind
But a way of life
A statement of hope
The words signed contracted on a piece of paper
Sometimes broken, torn and scorned.
Freedom is…
What we want 2 b
But can’t in spite of the abuse
The system gives out
Like tickets to a slave auction.
Freedom was as is
Use to be
Has been back in the day
When it was fought for and
Then won hands down
And those words of freedom
On our lips.
I’ll be damn
Someone comes to mess it up!
Making it bad
For the next one.
Making it look like there is no hope
There is no freedom!
There is no life!
And so, I waddle in pity
Like it ain’t nobody’s business
Nobody’s business but my own!

And if you are born in this country
The chances are fifty-fifty.
Zero for us!
Fifty for them
Zero for us!
Sixty for them
Zero for us!
Move nigger move!
Work nigger work!
Bend that black ass of yours nigger!
Now let me bend my yellow ass 4 u to kiss!
After Malcolm, Martin and the rest
Came on the scene
To bring it on
And died for the freedom we need
Like a crack head needing crack,
They preached the gospel of freedom.
And now their voices are silenced,
Only hearing the winds of their words
Bellowing loud and clear
But do we listen?
What’s the matter fool?
Do you hear the cry?
From the streets of Southside Chicago
To New York’s Harlem streets
To the Deep South’s cotton fields
To every alleyway
To every Church
The cry of freedom is still there!

Yes, they cry freedom in South Africa
But is it heard?
Yes, they cry freedom in Israel
But is it heard?
Under no certain terms
We must turn our heads
Looking the other way
Say I can’t do it
But instead saying
Yes, I do believe…

Kenneth R. Jenkins
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