Hootin' n' Hollerin'

I took pop-pop’s hair pick to the fibers of my
roots and combed through decades of our heritage.
I could see through the pain, through the torment
of jilted hopes, and stifled dreams
of freedom.
I sat, intently, in the bleachers witnessing a history,
so vibrantly enriched with creative intention.
An endless sizzle reel of brown voices, afros,
and bright customs that shine.
Memories that shimmer like the belting of church choirs,
rejoicing on Easter Sunday.
Fierce and bold voices— hootin’ n’ hollerin’ about
the luster, strength and tenacity of an enduring culture.
Shoutin’ octaves way above the mountains,
and over hilltops.
Feet smashin’ on slabs of concrete, tribes steppin’
up and down the urban streets—parading around the
proof n’ the pudding of Black invention.
Like traffic signals, clocks, blues and ragtime jazz.
The imprints, footprints, and blueprints of a people
that will, forever last.
Bruthas and sistas, hootin’ n hollerin’ across city limits.
Tuttin’ n’ struttin’ down the boulevard—singin’ and
spreadin’ the news. Drumsticks crackling, trombones
blowing, and children goin’ “ Pa rum pum pum pum. ”
With a cheery grin on my face, I took pop-pop’s hair
pick and combed in a forward motion.
Seeing stories of our future, the stronghold of our
endless devotion.