And, the time has come for the retreat into the caves
from whence we came.

As the Clock Stops

As the clock stops, and the wind blows in all directions
as the changes are upon us. With the top down and the
down on top as it has been spoken to us.

As The Clock Stops

As the clock stops, and fear grabs the souls of the iniquity
doers of deeds. And with visions heard over the horizon whips into
our faces burning us with the hot winds of change.

As the clock stops then starts again with the changes done.
And we stood there in awe...

© 2021 “The Clock Stops After 400 Years” -Paul S Hickman- All Rights Reserved

Today I met two angels on the path
One was an older slightly lined woman
White mature cultivated masculine
She asked me to dance with her
But first I should take off my clothes
I hesitated out of shy conceitedness
Then she put her arm around my waist
The natural bond was unabashedly felt
Nothing mattered except the moment
I urgently shed my constricting shirt
The empty hall transforming into a ballroom
The next angel was a dance teacher
He showed me a warm-up exercise
It looked graspable quite simple
Until I realized that I was in a cage
I looked below and discovered the others
Dancers moving with diverse rhythms
Each performing their own technique
I opened the gilded filigree door
And I jumped.

Camille Elaine Thomas
July 1, 2021
Copyright@ All rights reserved

Can you hear the whistle blowin‘?
Do you know where you’re goin?
Take a trip down the seaside
Clear Waters moving deep and wide
Ridin on that new A Train
Best method to stop the pain
Ridin high on the line
And everything is oh so fine

Cus it’s a brand new day
No old dues to pay
That’s all i got to say
Is it’s a brand new day

You take one step forward, two to the side
The movement just makes you wanna ride
Nothin to stop the positive flow
Listen up just nod your head and feel the glow

No blues gonna catch me and get me down
I can feel my mojo jumpin‘ comin round
Everything is movin on to where I wanna be
Nobody’s Drama is gonna be fuckin‘ wid me

‚cus it’s a brand new day
Hear what I say
It’s a brand new day
No collector bills to pay

Immigration laws hey no taboo
Gun Control thats what we gotta do
Make racial profiling a Thing of the past
Make defund the Police free at last

Change you mind and you ass will follow
The Oppression blues you ain’t gotta swallow
Free your mind from mental slavery
Stand up strong that’s true bravery
Together we stand divided we fall
It’s about the peoples Unity, that’s all

From left to Right and back again
Change your mind Baby, that ain’t no sin
Philosophies White Brown and black
It’s the Unity of the Forces, that’s what we all lack

‚cause it’s a brand new day
Nothin‘ left to say
Hey, it’s gonna stay
It’s the only way (repeats)
To make a brand new day

Camille Elaine Thomas
June 01, 2021
Copyright@ All rights reserved

Paul's daughter Irene Melina Hickman reads his poem:

When does it end with my death.
The minutes-hours-days weeks-months-years.
We the enslaved toiled without mercy for those who control
Our daily movements.

The shear physical and mental pain must be endured for the
Ancestors wrestle with this too. Mental - the teachings us
The anguish yet to come endlessly.

Days In and Days Out

Into the fields of nothing for us. As we watched over each other
With care and love. Keeping that unseen love intertwined
With bitterness and hatred. Both learned from the ones free
To do to us without regret.

Days In and Days Out

There was no end insight for us. Some ran only to
Be returned with bruises and scars. Some whimpered like
Young puppies while others stood tall and erect. None
Could wonder back and forth without interrogations.

Days In and Days Out

While we were still chained and loaded in cages like untamed lions.
Glaring our eyes towards the en-slaver who called out our action
On their parts. The power of the eyes looking deep into the souls
Of the en-slavers Raising their fear beyond their belief. As they
Withheld the freeing us from bondage when the news passed days ago.

Days In and /Days Out

The whispers of good news for us. The cuffs and iron around
The neck and ankles were to be taken away.
To break freely. Some danced a jig and ran around happily.
For me it was the harness wrapped around me inhibiting my
movements. Controlled anger caught me giving me
the release of my soul before death would claimed me.

Days In and Days Out

JUNETEENTH -NEVER AGAIN!

(c)2021 Paul S Hickman All Rights Reserved

On the morning of May 30, 1921, a young black man named Dick Rowland was riding in the elevator in the Drexel Building at Third and Main with a white woman named Sarah Page. The details of what followed vary from person to person. Accounts of an incident circulated among the city’s white community during the day and became more exaggerated with each telling.

Tulsa police arrested Rowland the following day and began an investigation. An inflammatory report in the May 31 edition of the Tulsa Tribune spurred a confrontation between black and white-armed mobs around the courthouse where the sheriff and his men had barricaded the top floor to protect Rowland. Shots were fired and the outnumbered African Americans began retreating to the Greenwood District.

In the early morning hours of June 1, 1921, Greenwood was looted and burned by white rioters. Governor Robertson declared martial law, and National Guard troops arrived in Tulsa. Guardsmen assisted firemen in putting out fires, took African Americans out of the hands of vigilantes, and imprisoned all black Tulsans not already interned. Over 6,000 people were held at the Convention Hall and the Fairgrounds, some for as long as eight days.

Twenty-four hours after the violence erupted, it ceased. In the wake of the violence, 35 city blocks lay in charred ruins, more than 800 people were treated for injuries and contemporary reports of deaths began at 36. Historians now believe as many as 300 people may have died.

Watch our event commemorating the Tulsa Race Massacre.

Download the slides from the presentation

Listed below are some resources you can use to learn more about this tragedy and make sure nothing like this happens again.

The World we live in doesn't view us as we are.
It sees us through the scope of the biases that plague it
We are judged through a filter changing from person to person
We are not truly seen
Merely perceived
Presumed to be- and therefore, to the World we become

The World we live in doesn't view us as we are.
It sees us as is necessary for the continuations of the narrative bought into by the most people with the best weapons and the loudest voices.
The World decides how we define success, failure, truth, faith, our identity by putting us in categories to make us easier to manage.
He, She, They, Them, Non-binary, Straight, Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, Intersex, Monogamous, Polyamorous, Pan-sexual, Asexual, Man, Woman, Black, White, Brown
Defined as therefore limited to

The World we live in doesn't view us as we are.
The World doesn’t view us.

People do

The World is an intangible set of ideas that we, People, have chosen to define ourselves and others by
We created these constructs so we can redefine them- if we want
And we must choose to
We must decide that the frames, boxes, cages- we have infused with ourselves to form our identities are indeed malleable.
We must want to accept more than our own ideals if we wish to share this world.
Because it does not only belong to one narrative- IT IS MADE OF MANY

The world we live in has People who don’t view us as we are.
But we can learn to see each other.
If we so choose.
And I hope we do.

Because I want the world I live in, to see me as I am.

Alexandra Smith

Paul's daughter Irene Melina Hickman reads his poem:

The history of a country can be known by its music.
You think you know how it feels to watch without
The ability to stop it.

As the structures collapse. As the fire maneuvers its
Way through the halls-windows and beams. Weakened
By the fire, the structures fall into ashes.

The laboring pain of the creators gone up in smoke
Caused by the vile deed of a false report.

That was 100 years ago

There they stood gazing into the empty streets with
The piles of burnt wood-melting steel and smoldering
Papers- pictures family heirlooms gone into the
Ashes of the wood from whence they came.

The Silence for 100 years

As they trod on the footsteps left by those whose hands
-Blood-sweat and tears labored to build a street
Envied by many.

They- the emancipated heirs of the former enslaved builders
Stand on their paths. Now the aftermath - just remnants
Of ashes and dust as far as their eyes could see.

The Silence for 100 years

And they have stood stoically patience waiting for
That which will not -rightfully come.

And that was 100 years ago- to this day!

Copyright © 2021 Paul S Hickman All Rights Reserved

Oh mother, mother, my dearest mother. As
I sit here. Remembering, your wisdom
And words of compassion. I surely do miss.
The consolation, of your gentle words. I
Surely do miss. The guiding wisdom of
Your yesteryear. I surely do miss.
The righteous, scolding from the depths of
Your knowledge. I surely do miss. The
Misunderstandings, because of my youth and
Lack of wisdom. I do acknowledge.
The failure, to hear your words, and my
Vile deeds. I do acknowledge. The failure
To fully exploit my talents and gifts. I
Do acknowledge.
And, oh mother, mother, my dearest mother.
The days and nights, will never go by, with –
Out thinking of you. Nor shall the years pass,
Without a loving thought of you.
And when I die, the last words I shall utter will
Be, I love you – my dearest mother.

Copyright © 1995 Paul S Hickman All Rights Reserved

She was an obedient child
Born of hard-working parents
Strictly raised morals ingrained
She was given a new assignment
From her third-grade teacher
To draw a picture family tree
Of her extended family
She poured through the crayon box
Looking for the right colors
Grandma’s cedar neck
Uncle James from Louisiana
His toothless pecan grin
Aunt Mabel from Kentucky
Her face like a shiny penny
Great Uncle Joe from Maryland
Gnarled like an old hickory tree
Her Georgia and South Carolina roots
Mama’s long peanut fingers
The burnt umber in her father’s skin
Her sister’s bushy chestnut hair
Her brother's smokey topaz eyes
She checked once again
But to no avail
Her school crayola box
With the built-in eraser
Had only one brown.

Copyright@ All rights reserved
Camille Elaine Thomas
May 04, 2021

They told him he was disrespectful.
That he had nothing to complain about.
His protest made people uncomfortable.
They targeted him, they blackballed him, they tried to diminish him.
Because he was kneeling for us.

They said he was innocent.
“If that man hadn’t resisted arrest, that man would still be alive.”
They said he was just defending himself.
They made excuses for him, they defend him, they respect him.
Because he was kneeling on us.

They told him; he was didn’t deserve his job.
They demanded he put his money where his mouth is.
They took his career for being obstinate.
Yet he kept kneeling, in silent, lawful protest.
Because he was kneeling for us.

The defense put the dead, on trial.
They claimed the victim’s death was his own doing.
Apparently, the officer had no other choice.
They said it was the victim’s fault.
Because he was kneeling on us

Several years ago, he tried to explain.
People laid down in streets, malls, and stores.
They silently, peaceful asked for equality.
Nothing more- just the desire to be treated the same.
Because they were kneeling for us

Yet the brutality continued.
The death toll kept rising.
Black men, women, and children kept dying.
There was no justice, so there could be no peace.
Because they were kneeling on us.

We’ve been less than cattle, 3/5 a person, and one drop too much.
We’ve given our sons and daughters to causes that don’t represent us.
We’ve watched our youth go from school to prison in the blink of an eye.
We, the people…We are people… We always have been.
But they were kneeling on us.

As long as prisons are for profit,
As long as black men are seen as threats,
As long as the laws protect some and not all,
This cycle will continue- it was designed that way.
Because it was made to kneel on us

I wish I could say that we now stand at a crossroads.
I wish I had more faith in this country's desire to deliver on its promises.
I wish I believed that justice was truly served.
But I’ve read this story before- I’ve witnessed this section before- I know this position well,
Because they are still kneeling on us.

Men, women, and children have sacrificed.
We have protested “the correct way.”
We have recorded violence and mourned the loss of our young.
We have petitioned, boycotted, and screamed-
Because we were kneeling for peace.

As a nation we must do better.
As country we need to choose to respect and honor each other’s experiences.
We have the power to create the future Dr. King saw.
The first step is for them to take their knees off us.
Because we are kneeling to stand.

Alexandra Smith