Gallery by Mojo

Now, See Here

I retain information like the fuzz detain Black-Haitians.
You choose to remain in my face and
Complain about how I take up your space.
You robbed my continent of all its riches,
Dubbed the kings “Niggers” and the queens “Bitches”,
Grabbed my people by the seat of our britches.
Tried to replace traditional stitches of life you could never understand.
Tell me, how do you civilize an already civilized man?
You pulled the wool over our eyes, merely a wolf in disguise,
Howling foul lies, and what was once our life,
Now, you scandalize.
To you, it’s alright tho, propaganda-wise.
We be the origin of humanity – Africa: Mother.
And yet you think you’re the master culture?

The Beat Lives On

Jazz, blues, hip-hop, bebop,
Skipadee doo dee wop
All the same soul
In different carnations,
Speaking similar incantations,
Working the magic of their acceptors
And carried on the backs of African ancestors
To current day successors.
All scream or whisper of hope and love,
Freedom mostly.
Just to be, to exist.
Though pursued and beaten, we still persist,
Sun-kissed. Revealing truth
Of ages, spirituals tell of lost ones caught in cages,
Still holding faith.
Followed by jazz, the old soul showed up in the new place.
A new pace with the same face.
Hip-hop, too, asks “Who are you?”

Yesterday

African shores blessed with African sands.
African woman rests with African man.
Peace, harmony, love.
Acceptance.

How they dance,
With no worries or cares or fears.
African drums and African songs
Reverberate in their ears,

Lulls to sleep the priestess and chief.
I wonder what would be if that dream had never ceased?

Them Apples

If I was my grandmother, I’d knock you into the middle of next week.
But it’s not so.
I am only a smaller, younger version of that self whose DNA is engrained
        with the
        trials, hopes, and pain of ages past.
But if you keep testing me, I’ma have to spank that ass.
Don’t make me pull a switch off of my good peach tree.
She,
Whom I love,
Lived in days when trees were not good things:
death beacons leaving our blue blood bleeding
      and its roots becoming we roots, receiving
      our souls.
She
Say sometimes if you listen quietly at dusk you can hear the
      ground weeping.
And do you honestly believe I will let you treat me
like sheep shit on shallow water, walk all over me
like my forehead reads welcome?
Because, let me tell you honey,
You’ve got another think coming.
And if you think that I’m running, you’re wrong.
My brood and my blood have been running too long.
Mixed with splendid bits of Creole and Cherokee,
She
Made me too strong,
And with this strength, I withstand your assail.
Like a westerly wind, I shall prevail.
She,
The wind in my sail,
Taught me how to hold up my head when circumstances rain down:
To be still and hold mules when I’d rather scold fools,
Rappin’ with Johnny ‘bout the train’s coal blues.
We shall not be moved.
So, how you like them apples?

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MORE ABOUT MOJO

13Moons asked…

What was your inspiration behind the pieces being featured?

Mojo: Celebrating and exploring Blackness. Stories. I’m a sucker for a good story.

What was one of the most surprising things you’ve learned about yourself through your creative projects?

Mojo: That I can make things that people will respond to. That I actually have it in me.

What is your favorite part of creating?

Mojo: Weaving a thing together, piece by piece. Of course, seeing the finished product (although, the stuff is never really ever finished).

Are there any creative endeavors that you’d like to explore in the future?

Mojo: I’d like to write and publish more short stories (speculative fiction). Eventually, someday I hope to have written several novels (also spec-fic).

How has your art/writing shifted over your time as a Creative?

Mojo: Oh, idk. I’ll get back to you on that. I’m still shifting lol.

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