“She received the fruit of the rain at the beginning of God’s mouth
and rubbed her belly for a sense of serendipity
you can’t tell me she ain’t fierce the way she always
embarrass you with the truth.”
“Women of warrior blood
a ritual of stares for superiority
and one word never needs to be spoken
It’s in her eyes
that reflect a promised lake of fire
to toss her divided soul
that pulls at her like a chariot with two head strong horses.”
“abandon finesse & sweat
revolt paying double for life
or occupying corners like unwanted dining room tables
needing coupons”
It landed on the kitchen table next to the watermelon. Â Like a Sunday newspaper on Thursday. Â Set aside for recycling. Â Or an abandoned spoon after dessert. It sat there foreign but familiar. Â Like an African American in America.
The carousel sang loudly. Drowned out the relief of parental duties. Â Playful screams resonated the atmosphere. Â Cotton candy decorated white faces pink and blue. Mustard stains on white t-shirts. Scraped knees caused by unattended shoelaces. The day was glee and the night carefree, as flying gravel spun under running feet.
Her bladder was full of miles like her mother’s. Â She watered the ground with chocolate auburn. Â The spices enticed the clouds to cry and capture the streets. Â She met him where the sun sat in the fire pit. Â He kissed her hand to summons a feather so she wouldn’t doubt his words. Â His eyes were complete like the turn of an owl’s head. Â The preacher announced their commitment where roads met corners with mirrors. Â He hung their picture in a birdcage to catch time. Â He told them not to be afraid.
The first season spread the hours like a bridge. He supplied water to dry, fallen branches daily. Â Believers of the unseen. Â She carried unicorns in her pockets. Â They wore audacious yellows and greens in a black and white world. Â Demanded freedom like 8 a.m. school bells. Â Unbalanced as thick as unjust. Â At night she placed sweet onions on his eyelids. He remained rooted. Â His tongue poignant from the aroma.
Dog’s were death’s best friend. Â Hydrants absent from fires. Â Hoses present at protests. Â Tilted buses full of spiritual songs. Â Northern boys with fresh fists. Southern boys with patched will. Â Northern girls with golden intuition. Southern girls with ancient maps. Â Laughter extinct. Â Spit like rain. Freedom rides. Spirits flew. Red summer. Blue years. Freedom wide. Hatred tall. Black bodies hung/ burned/ mutilated. Daylight tardy.
Soprano saxophone accompanied her screams. Â Vibrato in her hands. Â His head in her lap. Â His eyes meeting her’s was the prize. “Sit me up, turn me loose.” Abandoned from forever. She sat him up. Erect as pillars. Â Baroque rocked. Down. She sipped tea in China.
Scores for his name. His verses rhymed her forward. Â Her passion sweet as fruit. Seasoned. Made days wet cement. For imprints. Slops. Hills. Concrete with purpose. His remembrances sleep at our feet.
a prose from the book,
I am reading this jewel of a book this morning for one of my classes. (ok… it’s Saturday so I am doing some work around the house so I have the audio on as well)
There are so many jewels that I am coming across in this text that I want to share some. Enjoy 🙂
“I learned to love my son without wanting to possess him and I learned how to teach him to teach himself.” – Maya Angelou
“I am convinced that people do not grow up. We find parking spaces and honor our credit cards. I think what we do is mostly grow old. We carry accumulation of years in our bodies and on our faces, but generally our real selves, the children inside, are still innocent and shy as magnolias.” – Maya Angelou
“Some entertainers have tried to make art of their coarseness. When they heap mud upon themselves and allow their tongues to wag with vulgarity, they expose their belief they are not worth loving.” Maya Angelou
“The ship of my life may or may not be sailing on calm and amiable seas. The challenging days of my existence may or may not be bright and promising. Stormy or sunny days, glorious or lonely nights. I maintain an attitude or gratitude. If I insist on being pessimistic, there is always tomorrow.” Maya Angelou
August 5, 2019
I woke up late this day. It’s not clear to me right now how it was revealed to me… I’m sure if I sat in mediation and thought about it things would come back. But, thinking about this day still make my nose sting. You know that sting that happens before your eyes water…
I woke to the news that Toni Morrison had passed. I was heartbroken. I felt like she left me, like she should’ve had someone call me to let me know she wasn’t feeling well. No, we didn’t have a relationship like that but… she had been with me all of my adult life and so I just thought… I guess I thought she would stay around like the books on my shelf. Am I making sense?
I had just been in contact with her production company this past summer for private screenings of her movie in Atlanta, “The Pieces I Am”. The movie that has the wings to change the process of writing just as her books change people as readers and thinkers. I had just bought her book, “The Source of Self-Regard” as my summer reading as I traveled. I…. cried. I just flat out cried. I, like the world, felt the energy shift. It went from powerful to immensely powerful with her transition.
On social media, I had seen several of my friends attend memorials and remembrances celebrating their artistic experiences with Morrison. I was speaking with a friend and expressed how I had not had the opportunity to mourn, laugh, share my love of Morrison in an intimate setting. She offered her studio space for “Tea with Toni”.
We got together and shared our favorite characters and passages from her books. I read from “Sula” and had time permitted, I would’ve shared my favorite pages from “Song of Solomon” when Milkman received his nickname. (that is some good writing!) It was so serene to be around other creatives who needed this space to discuss such an important literary figure, the Pulitzer Prize winner author, Toni Morrison. A genius wordsmith. The sole creator of language(s) for the preservation of humanity, communities and black women. She fearlessly showed the world our beauty. Shared with the orbits our sweetly spiced tongues.
Mother Toni, we see you smiling
we see those fingers pressed together for rhythmic snaps / grooving.
Thank you for everything and all!
Years ago I decided I would not never become a teacher. I envisioned it as confinement. I am a creature of routine BUT I do not want one imposed on me. I always saw being an educator as someone who was doomed with routine and rewarded with low pay. That was not the life I wanted to live.
As time and the ancestors would have it, my poetry created a platform for me to engage my art at colleges and universities. Not just as the “entertainment” but additionally as an educator to young writers on the importance of preserving the black vernacular. My art eventually evolved to focusing on the feminine narrative. Encouraging the black feminine voice expressed and written from a holistic perspective and not just as a presence to move a plot forward. These discussions exposed two things, (1) I had more questions than answers and needed to do more research to educate myself (2) I was pretty good at this teaching thing.
My community knows me primarily as a performance poet and from the theatre. Both of these creative platforms allowed me to express undivided and intellectually intact. I had the company to be beautiful and the security to laugh at myself and others. As I immersed myself more with the writing community, plays and novels, I felt absent- invisible even. I was stifled with this feeling once before when I studied film at Howard University for my M.A. In screenplay writing, I didn’t have the company of voice, meaning the character written or represented on film, was not a bridged visualization of my existence as a woman. A black woman, a woman of color living in this country. My questions about the presence or the acceptance of what was represented as the black feminine narrative, now became a plaque of concerns. That was until I got my hands on Toni Morrison’s “Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination”.
– Alice Walker—–HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
This is that novel I wrote in 2015. While I am elated to be sharing my latest novel later this year… if you don’t have this in your library, click on the link and get your copy:
Nikki Skies 