Category Archives: break family traditions

Her Side

She say for her family
she do what she can
when in reality it be for her
man / who wants a mother like her son

so she wipe both they asses and then her tears cause it be from the same shit

Too tired more/more tired than her mother who taught her how to stay
who lived and died the same way
the palm reader etched on her palm
now that she know/she can remain calm
when he come to bed smelling like fuck nut
and dried saliva.

He’ll say it’s all in her head
so she have nightmares of
forever being a fool.

from the book,


Copies available here




that creative love


For the holidays my girls bought me a few things but the BEST was a coupon book they made for me.

They’re growing into their own little people so they give me a hard time with wanting to cuddle and hug and kiss on them. With that, they made me a coupon book so I can cash in on some time and I won’t get a fight from them.

Just one of those things that warms your heart 💖💜

be the Sun in Your fall


Without knowing, there are so many people addicted to being inspired.  They must be surrounded with quotes, groups, t-shirts and inspirational videos and music.  In no time, they are wrapped up in the sensationalism of being inspired.  Unconsciously seeking outside of themselves for something greater. I find something dead about that.

I implore you to seek your own Sun today! Obey the rhythm of your heartbeat!  Live your passion! YOU are the inspiration.

for daughters and mothers

For daughters who hate mothers for
not being Grandma
For mothers who hate daughters
Cause she thinks she know it all
If only they’d not played with baby dolls
maybe both wouldn’t be disappointed
with Reality.

This is for the daughters from mothers
Who are now mothers of daughters
That meet at the shore of unforgiving
whose hearts are prematurely laid to rest
Tomb stone reading.. fear

This is for mothers who hate daughters for being just like them
This is for daughters who hate mothers for not teaching them any better
For mothers with old tricks that no longer separate the sun from recycled patio air
For daughters with paper doll necks held upright with duct taped thoughts of suicide
both parked on one way streets without life’s permission to do so
…faces marked hourly with tears

This is for way too tired mothers
Who have true dreams of stress ridden daughters with sunflower crowns

This is for mothers & daughters
who stuff their wounds with spider webs
and catch men with two legs, four lives and a thousand lies

This is a prayer for time to cancel judgment from the memory bank of what was important

For daughters and mothers facing sad reflections
Digging deep regrets
At the shore of unforgiving.

nikki skies copyright 2014

a Note on Time (meeting me)

I came / black girl
Dark black girl
2nd generation city girl
Mama gave me all she knew from what was torn between rebellion and fear.
I know fried spam and boxed potatoes
hot nights with white sheets over fans
I know the aroma of lost time / depressed eyes that shame your sunshine
I know a dream deferred / every word
Every pebble on its beach
I’ve swam on it
Drowned myself in its waters more times than my fingers and toes
And I still have enough space on my back for you.

Wisdom in Whispers and Roars (Life with an 8 year old “Black Girl Who Rocks!”) by Jolivette Anderson-Douoning






My Daughter: Mom, are you going to tell me “No” every time I ask for something?

Me: I told your Daddy “yes”, just be grateful for that and leave me alone, I’m tired and I need a nap.


MY DAUGHTER: Mom, are we are famous?

ME: Why do you keep asking me that question, why do you think I am famous? OH, wait, you said “we” so is it both of us that are famous?

MY DAUGHTER: Yes, WE are famous.

ME: REALLY? What makes “us” famous?

MY DAUGHTER: Because me and ________ typed your name into Google and there are pictures of you, your email address and lots of stuff so that means we are famous.

ME: Okay, so what am I suppose to do with this fame you say I have? How am I suppose to act? 

MY DAUGHTER: Well, first you have to wear high heels. THEN YOU HAVE TO get a dress to match the high heels. THEN you have to get a purse that matches the dress and the high heels. THEN you have to SMILE ALL THE TIME AND MAKE EVERY BODY LIKE YOU. THEN, you will need to get a BOYFRIEND.

ME: OH! So I am doing this fame thing wrong, huh? Well, I am glad you put me on the right path.

Continue reading Wisdom in Whispers and Roars (Life with an 8 year old “Black Girl Who Rocks!”) by Jolivette Anderson-Douoning

Through My Daughter’s Eyes by Sandra Laraine Coleman

Sometimes the world can be a colorless, bland amorphous wreckage manipulating itself into collapsible ruins and discarded carnage that lived long past usefulness. Sometimes the world can be lively, loving, warm, welcoming like the yearning in a lover’s tender embrace we find ourselves never wanting to live without. This describes motherhood in an abusive relationship with your daughter’s father when life becomes an empty offering of neglect, misery and sorrow. Yes, your daughter’s father, whom you’ve loved since sixteen because that’s what sixteen-year-old girls do. They fall in love with hopeful hormones rioting to test-taste waters of grown and living prepares pre-woman for the woman who will eventually conjugate and ornament life with vibrant fleshed fruit. Ah yes, it was love ripening in you, trajecting into and out of “him” and that adoration would have continued had it not been subjugated with fists. Then one day you realize that a woman/mother should never have her words choked from her throat, then rammed down again. You have become skilled at swallowing strangled sentences and absorbing blows. The repeated silencing of your words accompanies eyes blackened and puffy blind, busted lips throbbing the fluffy color of pain, bloody noses that are percolating facial sacrifices, bruises decorating your body like cheap misshapen tattoes, stinging slaps from hardened hands so large they consume your entire face with wanton wrath and afterwards the rape. You never know what will initiate his vulgar violent rages, all you know … this is no “living” for you or her. Continue reading Through My Daughter’s Eyes by Sandra Laraine Coleman