The Sankofa Migration: Poetry from the Black Prisoners Caucus of Washington State Penitentiary

This poetry is from Issue #5 of The Sankofa Migration, a publication
of the Black Prisoners Caucus of WSP in Walla Walla, Washington.

Mental Warfare 

A humble leader is hard to overthrow, 

This leader has purpose and a goal, 

His intuition leads him down his road, 

He’s ready for war his heart is cold, 

His battle takes place somewhere he’s never known, 

The sickness of the enemy weighs heavy on his soul, 

His path will keep him far from home, 

His fight will at times leave him alone, 

But he stays strong with everything he’s ever shown, 

Mental warfare is the legacy he’s been told, 

Fists up in solidarity.

— Cooke 

Contemplation of Her 

Contemplation is the soil in which she plants Her seeds 

Tilling the rows of Her life and giving each moment space to breathe 

The fruits of Her labor bloom into Her visions of life to be 

As Her garden grows she fuses with the beauty she sees 

The beauty of freedom planted by Her own hands 

The beauty of understanding she is more than the rib of a man 

She refuses to conform to the expectations of the world 

Daily pulling the weeds of subjugation that she has been subjected to since a little girl 

Power is what she holds as a creator of life 

She’s a reflection of all that is good and all that is right 

Crowned a Queen but not by the lips of a king 

A creator who understood that that Adam needed Eve 

A helper to walk this earth and bring us balance 

Woe to the man who can’t understand he must share his chalice 

As her garden expands so does she 

A culmination of all things with sustenance is what she and Her garden, brings 

Who are we if not for our Mothers? 

Who are we if not for our Lovers? 

Who are we if not for Her? 

Who are we if we don’t value Her worth? 

We are incomplete because our existence would be void 

We would have no better half for life to enjoy 

We are just him with no knowledge of us 

We would lack knowing the value of love 

She knows and understands she brings meaning to our souls 

She knows and understands the power of the light she holds 

She rests in water and washes away all that she endures 

And she holds onto all things that she has planted to grow and be pure 

— Anthony Covert 

Palace of Dreams 

Come to me… 

Oh great circle of Memory, take me away to one of your 

Life moments and leave me, forever in the ecstasy of a day — 

There I might breathe the cold air of your winter 

And nestle down beneath the sanguine touch of your star. 

There could I know a timid self of me, as only alone can I be… 

And shall I wander the aisles of you, gazing upon portraits lost — 

Of friends and lovers, fathers and mothers, the hungry-eyed beast — 

Where honey thoughts upon the most delicate in me, feast? 

Am I to walk between the vines and risk that ultimate entangling? 

Would that I could… 

Oh beautiful circumference, that into me your giving and leave the rest 

That I may gather to you and walk the final steps of an endless dead 

Enraptured by the dearest and disaster of every utterance I have said. 

May I be filled with the fillings of the sun, the trees and their secrets, 

The fire dancers and their spinning hands and swaying hips, 

The adventures of a child’s imaginings, waves upon mountains, 

Every Yes and No rotating in circles chasing What eternally… 

If not now, when? 

When day greets night? 

When nothing needs answers and tomorrow is assumed? 

When yellow wildflowers frame a surrounding vestibule of you 

And kindness is the religion I value most in word and touch and all? 

When time is something I do not have nor can ever possess, 

And rose petal words cease to sting entirely 

And only the untethered remains? 

Perhaps then… 

In the garden of memories, in the palace of dreams, 

That’s where you and I will meet. 

And though dreams may not seem like reality, 

Who’s to say which is which? 

— Shane Chamberlain

6 am Saturday Morning 

I’ve seen so many 6 ams 

I’m starting to think 

They’re all the same 

The sun is shining 

Bright and piercing 

80 degrees 

First thing in the morning, 6 am 

I am sitting 

I am not speaking 

I am not fighting 

I am sitting 

The world keeps on spinning 

So fast my head whirls 

How does the world keep spinning 

While I am not fighting 

I am not speaking 

But sitting 

On a Saturday morning 

6 am 

How can we sit idly by 

How can I sit idly by 

It eats at me 

I feel it under my skin 

It itches 

And I rest 

My weary mind 

Under the burning 

Scathing sun 

How can I rest 

When it’s 6 am 

On a sunny Saturday morning 

— Ada Adler