Calm (By Y. Shabazz)

sunsetrochester
Original Photo by Y. Shabazz

The sands beneath my feet,

the sun upon my face.

The clouds above my crown,

drifting out into space.

 

The winds against my breath,

cool off with water spray.

The never-ending horizon,

inhale…another day.

 

The sun is gone adrift,

the moon will take its spot.

I learn to live the now,

and love the day I’ve got.

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Abstract Motherland

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An abstract oil painting can be a lot more than just wall art. Ya’qub Shabazz gives us a taste of West Africa with this, the first in a series of African Mask oil paintings.Title: Abstract Motherland
Size: 24″ x 36″
Condition: Excellent Brand new
Type: Original Oil Painting on wrapped canvas

This painting will have texture unique just to this painting, a fingerprint that can never be repeated and each brush stroke is unique and impossible to repeat. Each painting I create is one of a kind.

Visit www.sankofastudios.com

 

Still Strange Fruit…(Never Forget)

They shoot me dead
When they see my face
They shoot me dead
when I forget my “place”
They shoot me dead
When there is no sound
They shoot me dead
When I’m on the ground
They shot me dead
Whether young or old
They shoot me dead
to sadden my soul
They shoot me dead
When my hair is wild
They shoot me dead
Because it’s the style
they shoot me dead
for chasing the bag
they shoot me dead
when my pants sag
they shoot me dead
while begging please
they shoot me dead
for smoking trees
they shoot me dead
for praising Allah
they shoot me dead
for driving a car
they shoot me dead
when I refuse their glory
they shoot me dead
then rewrite the story
they shoot me dead
to kill my root
they shoot me dead
cause I’m still strange fruit…(never forget)

 

 

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Slaughter of the Innocents (A Chicago minute)

origianl-exerpt

Not easy to break something broken A city cursed with the plague of blood-Lust, Hunger-pains, and Raging-fires

No-gains Momma-tears Gang-signs Steel-toys
Chevy bubbles and dick boys
…Normality…

Ordinary pains
98.6 degrees burns the evidence to ash so you never
ever…..ever….ever
know what really happened here
Nobody from the outside really knows
Lil babies born and die the same day
…buried in the sea of factory made bastards and our voices scream pain with no words
language understood but hardly to fluency
so we maneuver and twist in the face of the icy winds
And off in the distance Strange fruit is plucked viciously from concrete trees Long tee’s and dragging denim catches the blame, but are they really players in this old game?
The fruit pickers grin with blue shields and long swords
slicing the young fruits as the approach maturity
some get missed
slated to only fall to the ground
…rotten…
yet still sweet
but too rotten to be acceptable to those above
and even those are smashed, soil mixed under the heel of the harvester
We have to ponder
…What a way to go…
you know
Being born a beautiful fruit in this wretched garden
A place where short memories are in abundance
deep pockets filled with denial
…yet we remain…

All in the shadow of mountains man made strips of green sprinkled down from the rooftops downtown
Like two beacons atop a mountain of gold
ever present floating amongst the clouds
Shining
Reminding
Teasing
yet untouchable are the bastions that hold those coins…
Why here?
Why did they flee to this wretched soil?
Why us?
Why we?
We the American untouchables expected to feel blessed
expected to proclaim patriotism and recite battle hymns to our young
expect to remain non-violent while the police continue to pluck us from the trees
just as the strange fruit were picked by their fathers a generation ago
they remain resolute and strong