Poet’s Beat ~ Afterimages by Audre Lorde Featuring Deep Lounge’s A Change is Gonna Come

I paired these two because it is completely reminiscent of the most perplexing and powerul decade of musical thinking filled with tears, fears, hate, love, flower power, black power, grey power ignoring the greatest power that came from above and all that matters is Forgiveness.  I learned from Abraham Hicks that Everything you are going through is preparing you for what you  have asked….  So with that being said, I am trusting God, the Universe and all things in it to guide and empower me to be who I am meant to be!  How about you?  Peace Out!  JBC 8-)

Deep Lounge’s A Change is Gonna Come

 Deep Lounge Music – A Change is Gonna Come featuring the ultimate smooth voice of Lance Ellington and guitar mastery of Dominic Grant. This cover of the Sam Cooke song is taken from the UK’s leading singer pianist Merv de Peyer’s recent album “Deep Lounge Music”.



by Audre Lorde


However the image enters

its force remains within

my eyes

rock strewn caves where dragonfish evolve

wild for life, relentless and acquisitive

learning to survive

where there is no food

my eyes are always hungry

and remembering

however the image enters

its force remains.

A white woman stands bereft and empty

a black boy hacked into a murderous lesson

recalled in me forever

like a lurch of earth on the edge of sleep

etched into my visions

food for dragonfish that learn

to live upon whatever they must eat

fused images beneath my pain.


The Pearl River floods through the streets of Jackson

A Mississippi summer televised.

Trapped houses kneel like sinners in the rain

a white woman climbs from her roof to a passing boat

her fingers tarry for a moment on the chimney

now awash

tearless and no longer young, she holds

a tattered baby’s blanket in her arms.

In a flickering afterimage of the nightmare rain

a microphone

thrust up against her flat bewildered words

“we jest come from the bank yestiddy

borrowing money to pay the income tax

now everything’s gone. I never knew

it could be so hard.”

Despair weighs down her voice like Pearl River mud

caked around the edges

her pale eyes scanning the camera for help or explanation


she shifts her search across the watered street, dry-eyed

“hard, but not this hard.”

Two tow-headed children hurl themselves against her

hanging upon her coat like mirrors

until a man with ham-like hands pulls her aside

snarling “She ain’t got nothing more to say!”

and that lie hangs in his mouth

like a shred of rotting meat.


I inherited Jackson, Mississippi.

For my majority it gave me Emmett Till

his 15 years puffed out like bruises

on plump boy-cheeks

his only Mississippi summer

whistling a 21 gun salute to Dixie

as a white girl passed him in the street

and he was baptized my son forever

in the midnight waters of the Pearl.

His broken body is the afterimage of my 21st year

when I walked through a northern summer

my eyes averted

from each corner’s photographies

newspapers protest posters magazines

Police Story, Confidential, True

the avid insistence of detail

pretending insight or information

the length of gash across the dead boy’s loins

his grieving mother’s lamentation

the severed lips, how many burns

his gouged out eyes

sewed shut upon the screaming covers

louder than life

all over

the veiled warning, the secret relish

of a black child’s mutilated body

fingered by street-corner eyes

bruise upon livid bruise

and wherever I looked that summer

I learned to be at home with children’s blood

with savored violence

with pictures of black broken flesh

used, crumpled, and discarded

lying amid the sidewalk refuse

like a raped woman’s face.

A black boy from Chicago

whistled on the streets of Jackson, Mississippi

testing what he’d been taught was a manly thing to do

his teachers

ripped his eyes out his sex his tongue

and flung him to the Pearl weighted with stone

in the name of white womanhood

they took their aroused honor

back to Jackson

and celebrated in a whorehouse

the double ritual of white manhood



“If earth and air and water do not judge them who are

we to refuse a crust of bread?”

Emmett Till rides the crest of the Pearl, whistling

24 years his ghost lay like the shade of a raped woman

and a white girl has grown older in costly honor

(what did she pay to never know its price?)

now the Pearl River speaks its muddy judgment

and I can withhold my pity and my bread.

“Hard, but not this hard.”

Her face is flat with resignation and despair

with ancient and familiar sorrows

a woman surveying her crumpled future

as the white girl besmirched by Emmett’s whistle

never allowed her own tongue

without power or conclusion


she stands adrift in the ruins of her honor

and a man with an executioner’s face

pulls her away.

Within my eyes

the flickering afterimages of a nightmare rain

a woman wrings her hands

beneath the weight of agonies remembered

I wade through summer ghosts

betrayed by vision

hers and my own

becoming dragonfish to survive

the horrors we are living

with tortured lungs

adapting to breathe blood.

A woman measures her life’s damage

my eyes are caves, chunks of etched rock

tied to the ghost of a black boy


crying and frightened

her tow-headed children cluster

like little mirrors of despair

their father’s hands upon them

and soundlessly

a woman begins to weep.

Courtesy of Audre Lorde, “Afterimages” from The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde. Copyright © 1997 by Audre Lorde. Reprinted with the permission of Charlotte Sheedy

Literary Agency and W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., http://www.nortonpoets.com.

Source: The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 1997)

Copyright © 2011-2014 by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

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  1. #1 by Let's CUT the Crap! on February 27, 2014 - 6:59 am

    I like this number but I believe I’ve heard a different rendition a long time ago. Could that be so? The pace was not so smooth and mellow, faster?


    • #2 by Jazzybeatchick on February 27, 2014 - 7:24 am

      Maybe so, I just know of this one. JBC 8-)


      • #3 by Let's CUT the Crap! on February 27, 2014 - 8:09 am

        I’m not positive, so I hoped you had. No Biggy. MaybemMy brain is in overdrive today. ;-)


      • #4 by Jazzybeatchick on February 27, 2014 - 9:37 am

        I sincerely don’t know. It is a memory, I would dare say that you remember those subtle differences. JBC 8-)


      • #5 by Let's CUT the Crap! on February 27, 2014 - 9:45 am

        Sometimes my memories aren’t as good as the brain that first experienced them. Ha Ha.


      • #6 by Jazzybeatchick on February 28, 2014 - 7:06 am

        Good to know! JBC 8-)


      • #7 by Let's CUT the Crap! on February 28, 2014 - 10:47 am



  2. #8 by Carol Balawyder on February 26, 2014 - 1:13 pm

    Love the selection of music :)


  3. #10 by robrevert on February 26, 2014 - 10:32 am



  4. #12 by Rob Taylor on February 26, 2014 - 9:49 am

    Very engaging and powerful post….with perfect music selection….


    • #13 by Jazzybeatchick on February 26, 2014 - 12:29 pm

      Thank you so much for your comment…Peace Out! JBC 8-)



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