"Poets of Poverty"

Mustafa Santiago Ali

Dr. Mustafa Santiago Ali is the Executive Vice President of Conservation & Justice for the National Wildlife Federation (NWF), former Interim Chief of Programs at the Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS), and Instructor at American University. He is the Founder and CEO of Revitalization Strategies. He also serves as a commissioner for The American Academy of Arts and Sciences (AAAS). He is an award-winning writer and poet focused on social justice. Dr. Ali is frequently seen on television, including appearances on MSNBC, ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN, VICE, FUSE, BET, National Geographic, Full Frontal with Samantha Bee, and Democracy NOW! Mustafa is also a regular guest on Roland Martin Unfiltered, Black News Channel, Tavis Smiley Show, The Dean Obeidallah Show, and many others…

Editor's Note: This poem is the 49th in our Democracy and Hope Series. This series will highlight hopeful aspects about our Democracy using various genres including poems, interviews, short stories, and articles about political events.

am the coal dust in Appalachia’s veins,

lungs wheezing with the ghost of a promise

they buried deep, left to rot.

you can still hear the names of miners

echo through my ribs like cave-ins,

the echo of hard hats and empty plates,

and they wonder why i’m still hungry.

i am Mississippi’s rusted roots,

cotton fields swallowing generations whole.

they talk about us like we’re relics,

like poverty is a choice, like freedom

don’t cost more than we got to give.

i still taste the blood of chains

in my grandfather’s tongue,

still see the red lines they drew

around hope, still feel the choke

of this country’s knee

on my family’s breath.

i am the rez, the land they took,

the treaties they broke,

the water they poisoned, the history

they forgot to write down.

my people’s dreams

are the bones of this country,

the marrow of every promise

they shattered with their laws.

they call it sovereignty,

but it’s just a prettier word for silence.

i am the colonia’s cry,

a border drawn across my back,

my skin a map they redraw,

erase, redraw again.

i’ve been here for generations,

but they still treat me like a ghost

they’re trying to deport.

we’ve built homes from dirt,

but can’t find a drop of clean water

to wash the sweat off our labor.

tell me again how this is freedom.

politicians come with empty hands,

ask for votes like we owe them something,

like we ain’t been here, holding on,

making life out of what they leave behind.

they don’t see us, only see through us,

past us, above us, like we are the dust

they shake off their boots.

they pit us against each other,

use supremacy as a wedge,

privilege as a knife,

cut us up into corners,

make us point fingers at each other

while they collect the blood.

but we are more than these divides,

we are more than these wounds.

we are the poets of poverty,

the verse that refuses to fade.

if we find our voice, if we see

how our pain rhymes,

if we sing this song together,

they won’t know what hit them.

we have power,

the kind they can’t steal

if we realize we’re the same breath,

the same hope beating

beneath this bruised sky.

if you want our vote,

you better bring more than words—

bring clean water, bring clean air,

bring justice, bring truth.

we are done being grateful

for the scraps, for the silence,

for the waiting.

we are the poets of poverty,

and we are rewriting this story

with our own hands,

in our own name.

©️MustafaSantiagoAli

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