Friday, December 10, 2021

I’m in love!



I’m in love with a black man, what can I say?

I love seeing him thrive and grow every day. 

At night for him, I must pray for God to protect and lead him in the right way. 

I love this black man

I love how his skin mimics that of the men in my life

I love that he insists on making a black woman his wife 

I love this black man, my personal hero 

He protects, provides while maintaining a partnership with his woman in terms of the key roles. 


I love my black man 

I love how he looks at me 

I love how he smells

I love his smile 

And I even love all of the stories he has to tell


My black man is so special to me

My black man makes me feel complete

He gives me the strength to raise our kids 

He gives me the courage to follow my dreams and never forbids


I love my black man because he is a gift from God. As my fellow sisters read this, I am sure we can all nod.





Disclaimer: This poem was commissioned for a wedding. #gettingfamousXD, email me for poem commissions :).

Picking Season



You chose me

You chose me out of all of the cane

You chose me before I even knew there was you. I went through life with the assumption that I was planted here for a reason. I knew that I had to deal with the not so pretty furrow I was allocated by the hands of life. 

You chose me even when you could have had anyone else a long time ago. 

You chose me beaten, scarred, healing, and traumatized. 

You chose me… 

I never could understand why you chose me


Then I met you..

Instantly I felt something I never felt for anyone else. Some might call it a spark or love at first sight but I know what I felt was real. I loved how you gave me butterflies. I loved how you looked at me, just your eyes told me everything I needed to know… I couldn’t stop thinking of you. 


I love how you keep me centered, keep me in touch with the earth and my own humanity. You… oh gosh just you… 

You are caring, loyal, dependable, insightful, and a sight for sore eyes. 

You’re so patient with me it hurts, you build me up even when I’m tearing myself down..

Just you…

I chose you too

I chose you out of all of the pickers 

I chose you before I even knew you were everything I needed. 


I may have chosen you after you chose me but you already knew what I had yet to see. You were already peaking over the entire crop looking for your one. I was buried deep into my furrow only seeing the canes around me. But you, you got to see it all. And you still chose me to be the one to receive everything you had to offer.

.

.

Guess I finally knew how you felt. I finally know now how you choose oh so carefully which sugar cane to pluck, and which one is the piece you’ll hold so dear to your heart. You’re as sweet as sugar cane and as needed as the sun. I am so glad that you chose me.

Wednesday, August 4, 2021

Sankofa is Me, I am She





 Sankofa the majestic bird, Sankofa the reminder, Sankofa the very essence of my being. As I stand in the middle of this field with the wind blowing so elaborately. I stretch out my arms like our beloved savior did on the cross and I wish the wind would sweep me off of my feet. Sweep me away from here. Let me fly in the clouds let me be the Sankofa. I feel it. I feel the pain of my ancestors. It is so intense it cripples me when I speak about it. I feel it. This pain is intertwined with my character, my body, my brain, my mind and my soul. Depictions of my ancestor's struggles with freedom and dehumanization scare me. I feel  like I am there. I feel like I am the one being abused, mistreated and forgotten about. 

I stand in the field projecting my requests to the tall grass as if it were my deciding jury. “Just take me wind! Let me be the Sankofa!” I wait with my eyes closed as if I wished upon a shooting star. My wish seems to have fallen on deaf ears. The Sankofa keeps us rooted in our history. In order to prevail we must know our history. I desire to be the Sankofa because I am always rooted in my history. It never stops. I would much rather be able to fly and remind instead of being a human attempting to remind those that do not wish to remember.

Sankofa is me, I am she.

The Emotionally Starved vs The Emotionally Nourished

 

Loving you fully, takes a part of me. Some say it takes a small slice which in turn nourishes your partners heart. As Jesus fed the multitude it is up to me to give a piece of myself to feed you. For you it may be a piece small enough to patch your quilt of love. This quilt holds you as you sleep at night knowing that you have a piece of me holding you tight. For me, this piece can’t be folded. This piece can’t fit in your pocket. This piece is not so finite that you forget about it when you wash your jeans. This piece cannot complete your three hundred piece quilt. This piece is not a souvenir you can easily pack into your carryon. My piece is grand. My piece has weight. My piece is painful to give away. 

Loving you fully...

 I say I love you. Which I do. I just find it difficult for me to carve up myself to give to you as a present wrapped neatly with a bow. What if it’s a present you didn’t want? Will it just sit in the box on the floor collecting dust? Will you finally remember the box when you’re rearranging your room? What would you say? “Oh right i forgot she gave me that..” real love is painful. Real love is complex. I realize this but you don’t. You still require me to give you more and more and more.... 



Now I have scars. Now I am deformed because 

 I have carved myself to feed you. Now I am smaller because you have failed to feed me. I care about you so I continue to carve myself..

Look how you thrive as you receive endless emotional nourishment. 

Thursday, April 1, 2021

Writing Process


 Take a deep breath. Exhale with the purpose of the story in mind. I repeat this process multiple times while sitting in an empty classroom filled with the atmosphere of learning. In this state I am not to be bothered. The noise cancellation from my headphones allows my thoughts to float in thin air like dancing fireflies. I like to think of my writing process as being unique. My writing process differs depending on the emotions my mental story has provoked. I have a strategic process when it comes to writing. I enjoy the mystery of not knowing what I will think about. It's like playing the slot machines in a casino. Hoping for the jackpot even if it is small. The game continues for the controlled person until a level of winners satisfaction is present. I know my story is complete when I achieve this feeling of winners satisfaction or as I like to call it, writers satisfaction. Some short stories require more time than others, but this is okay. I do not rush the process in which my thoughts have an outlet. I create my best work in isolation as I can think clearly and fluidly. As my stories come to my neocortex in picture form I need focus to be able to analyze them accurately. This process occurs in steps. First the images present themselves as a premier feature film that I did not patron to see, then I seek isolation and write each scene and what I interpret it to mean. Lastly, I publish them here for others to be provoked in thinking. My stories are vague as they can fit with multiple plots of reality and fiction. I could simply tell my own interpretations and meaning behind my work but ultimately I enjoy for this to be left up to the reader to experience their own mental journey. If the reader reaches my interpretations of the story, this is great. If the reader takes a journey down a different path with my stories this is great as well. My philosophy behind this is not to simply tell someone what to think but rather give them the opportunity to think on their own. In our world we are constantly told what we should think and in creative writing this should not be the case.

Wednesday, March 10, 2021

Iron Heart


 I’m aware of the space that I take up.... I feel the blankets and sheets engulfing me each time I think I move. I'm simply drowning. The numbness that I feel is comforting. How interesting is it not to feel your own heart beat? They tell me it’s all in my head. They tell me it can bring my bones to activate and declare the ground like they once did. It just doesn’t happen for me anymore. I’m stuck in my mind watching as the world continues on. They look at me as if my soul doesn’t exist, as if my eyes can’t see them. This bed is my home, my final resting place. I lay here thinking about dying because I panic when I don’t hear my own heartbeat. They always hint at “ what would you do if..” Well tell me. What would you do? Would you unplug my heart? Would you stay here with me until my eyes closed for the last time? You like to ask yourself what I would want  you to do. You think you’ve made the right choice. 

I see you. I see everything. If only I would’ve known you’d chosen me to expire tomorrow. I would have tried to get up. 


Do I have an expiration date? When it becomes too much for you is that when I’m tossed and sealed in the bag and carried away? I lay here knowing that I am dying. I don’t want anything more than to be engulfed by these blankets and sheets. In t-minus 7 hours, that’s the end of artificial  heart beat.


Saturday, March 6, 2021

Ritualistic Cooking


 


                                            

Rituals are defined as a combination of gestures, symbols and language. While gestures and symbols have their own meaning, language helps to clarify and define the actions of a ritual. In modern day USA rituals are noted but not always fully examined and deemed as rituals. More specifically, the African American community houses many ritualistic activities that are not always noticeable to the unsuspecting eye. Cooking dinner and learning to cook are ritualistic rites of passage for women in African American families. The symbolism of wearing one’s first apron is significant and key values of love, nourishment, and womanly virtue can be assessed from the ritual of cooking. 

When a young girl experiences her first menstrual cycle, that in itself is deemed as a right of passage into womanhood. The first instance of a menstrual cycle only partially starts womanhood for a young lady in an African American community. The other instance molding her into a full woman is the first cooking lesson initiated by a mother or grandmother. The teacher is almost always a member from the matriarchal family. Almost immediately following the first menstrual cycle is the infamous cooking lesson. 

A young lady is soon invited into the kitchen of her mother or grandmother. She is instructed to wash her hands and is given an apron bought by the instructor. She starts off with learning how to prep the food by washing it. The first meal a young lady is taught to prepare differs between families, however, it usually consists of fried meat. In this process a young lady does not only acquire knowledge about cooking, she is also taught the convictions of a wife, mother, and nurturer. She is taught the virtue of a woman, modesty, duties, and what it means to be a good woman, wife, and mother. 

The ritual of cooking reflects key values of women being the nurturers of a family. It is also the main instance that I, like many other women, express my love for my family. The apron’s symbolism depicts the transition of a young lady to a woman. Just as a child transitions from wearing socks to shoes. The initial cooking lesson creates lasting social bonds to the teacher of the lesson. If questions shall arise about womanly virtue, cooking, and wifely convictions, it is first nature to call upon one’s cooking teacher. 

Cooking does not hinder a young lady to continue to live and experience life at the age they experience menstruation, it simply provides a guide to their new status change. The home is considered a place where the family thrives, expands, and forms social connections. Knowing how to cook and cooking contribute elements to the home that are important in African American communities.

As I experienced these same rites of passage making me into the woman that I am today, I am grateful for this ritual. I come home and cook dinner daily while reflecting on why I am cooking. Cooking is simple but complex at the same time due to its underlying meanings. The cooking woman determines the nourishment of the family, stability of a family, and sense of love. 



I’m in love!

I’m in love with a black man, what can I say? I love seeing him thrive and grow every day.  At night for him, I must pray for God to protect...