The Pendulum

I listen to the souls of my brothers
and hear the deep beat of tension

The world churning the head turning
the slow tennis  dance of their eyes
back to Eden back to forever
in context no note forgotten
rhythm accentuated in their cry.
How in the holy ghost can heaven
stand the gruesomeness.

Vision within without
raw flesh revealed pummeled
puffy pink red needing assuage
absorbing absolving ablution
What of earth can giant hills of
time contain?  Hard rock fused of
paused clay?  Sacred space sentient
sonorous sensuous?

I look into the souls of my brothers
and see the deep set of their hearts.

ęSojourner Kincaid Rolle  1998. All Rights Reserved



We live in a land of silent values;
where love is hardly spoken
and ways are seldom told,
yet we become each other
in an earthly firmament.
We sanctify the olden ways.
We place our shoulders to the stone.
We walk the path that we call faith
with conscience as our lonely guide.

We glory in our legacy
and stride with heads held forward.
We focus on survival. We witness, cry,
and continue to climb.
Like mirrors, our children see us;
they know the lives we lead.
In turn, we tend the sacred flame
in armor that is golden.

Silences are rarely breached
by this soul that keeps us strong.
Still secrets of the deepest heart
pass on from one to one.

in a land of silent values;
where love is hardly spoken
And ways are seldom told --
The spirit that is not broken
is the bond that keeps us whole.

ęSojourner K. Rolle - 1998. All Rights Reserved

Spirit Passing

Beneath the untroubled brambles
beyond the reach of marauding scavengers
along the abandoned path 
shards of a mottled green carapace

Throughout the move of season
between solstice and equinox 
against the comfort of stillness
moulting of the vibrant soul transpires

Since the most ancient of memory
in the warm bed of the black earth
beside the gurgling green waters
infants suckle the ripe air

Onto the burning sands
across the trampled shore
toward the toiling ganges
the child strides

During the difficult life
without the touch of knowing
until the lock of change is broached
the soul searches for the circle's end

ęSojourner Kincaid-Rolle Santa Barbara 1999

To Thine Own Flame Be True

There is a place in all our breasts
where we hold our truest treasures.
Our love for ourselves and for all of our kind
and the virtues by which we are measured.

We begin with the grain that continuously binds
We end with the wheat of our harvest.
We remember our sisters who emblazon our path;
whose flames burn throughout the forest.

Symbolic sisters envisioning their dreams.
Each striding forth from disparate abodes.
Each singing bravely her own heartsong.
Each stepping onto the grand road.

From each separate singing,
a separate choir petitioned.
Some sang for freedom from fear and oppression.
Some sang for equal conditions.

In each of their hearts no matter the verse,
a flame gleamed  glorious in hue
Its light on the land diminished the dark.
The dream of the women stood true.

That their brothers and sisters,
their dissidents and their esteemed
might mingle  touching shoulder to shoulder
and together walk into the stream.

Today we stand to remember our sisters
and the honor which to us they have given.

We see the stars, the trails they have blazed
the strength that  flows from their light.

We continue to sing the dissonant songs
Some want to be equal - some want to be free.

We continue toward the great promised state
We continue to carry the vision.

We continue to stride toward justice and peace
infusing the whole world with our mission.

We carry the torch in our common cache
Flaming  brilliantly blue on the path.

ęSojourner Kincaid-Rolle August 26, 1995


5 Aug 2003 | 5 Aug 2003
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