Maisha Fields

“The Day the Francis Scott Key Bridge Fell: Tales of Courage and Community” In the shadow of shattered spans, where water whispers to broken stone,
We stand, a collective breath, a mosaic of souls alone.
From the depths of despair, where silence reigns,
A chorus rises, a song of shared pains. Amidst the rubble, hands reach out,
Finding strength in what we're about.
A tapestry woven from threads of hope,
Tightening the weave, broadening the scope. From the heart of chaos, a unity blooms,
Filling the void, dispelling the glooms.
In the wake of destruction, we find our grace,
A common ground in this hallowed space. We build bridges not of steel, but of spirit and might,
Spanning divides, turning darkness to light.
In the rubble of yesterday, tomorrow's seeds are sown,
A testament to what together, we have grown. For in the aftermath, when all seems lost,
We count not the tragedy, but the cost.
Of forgetting that together, we are more,
A force of nature, from shore to shore. In every heart, a bridge is built,
Over waters of sorrow, of guilt.
Connecting us in ways unseen,
A reminder of what we've always been. So let us hold, in the face of despair,
To the unity found in the air we share.
For in the end, it's not about what we undo,
But the love, the hope, and the humanity that pulls us through. ©️MustafaSantiagoAli #Poetry #FrancisScott #Unity #Healing

“Bloody Sunday” In the marrow of Montgomery, echoes rise, From Selma's bridge, where shadows cast long lies. Bloodied Sunday, a crimson tide unfurled, A march for rights, in a segregated world. The pavement wept, beneath the marchers' feet, As billy clubs danced, in a brutal beat. Edmund Pettus, a name, now a scar, A bridge between worlds, both near and far. They marched for justice, in a land of unjust laws, Where the color of skin, would sharpen the claws. Of a beast named Hate, in Jim Crow's guise, Under Alabama skies, freedom's cries. From those tear-gassed eyes, a vision born, Of a world where equality isn't torn. By the color lines, that divide and rule, In the heart of Dixie, duel and cruel. This bridge, this march, a moment seared, In the soul of a nation, long-bearded and feared. The bloodshed on Sunday, a crimson plea, For a future where all are truly free. Today, we stand, on shoulders broad and brave, Of those who marched, the soul of the enslaved. Their footsteps echo, in our march for right, In the struggle for justice, in the fight for light. Bloody Sunday's wounds, are not just past, In every injustice, their shadows cast. From Selma to the streets, where we now stand, The fight for civil rights, hand in hand. In every chant for justice, every call for peace, The spirit of Selma, will never cease. For the bridge they crossed, isn't just a span, But a journey from darkness, for every woman and man. So remember Bloody Sunday, not just as history, But as a beacon in our ongoing quest for liberty. For in the struggle for justice, and the fight for what's right, The echoes of Selma, guide us through the night. ©️MustafaSantiagoAli #BlackHistory #BloodySunday #CivilRights #BLM