Tag Archives: nikki skies

SHE CHRONICLES Video Post: “Like a Woman” by Annabelle Fern

“Pretty little baby, I have raised you like a woman… when you see the crocodiles you will come to your mother and we will laugh at them.”


SHE CHRONICLES: “After Twenty Years” a poem by Jolivette “The Poet Warrior”

upon a time,
you saw me, and I
Moved you, deeply from
places you had hidden the
most sacred parts of your self.

wanted me, but
you could not grow fast
enough to hold, my wisdom
In your heart and hand, so you vanished.

And needed me
So you carried fantasies
of we in your head, promising
yourself to one day make memories
Your aim, to one day find me when you became

A man.


Jolivette Anderson-Douoning is an Educator and Poet from Shreveport, LA. Her research is focused on Race, Space and Place.  It explores the psyche of African Americans in the United States and how their existence has been negotiated according to the racial history of the nation.  Anderson-Douoning is a 4th year PhD student at Purdue University where she is studying American Studies/Curriculum and Instruction.  She currently lives in Indiana with her daughter.  

She has four recordings of poetry and prose: Love and Revolution UndergroundAt the End of a Rope in MississippiJolivette Live: A Bluesy Funk Life Cycle, and She Energy.

For bookings and additional information thepoetwarrior@icloud.com or DrJolly2015@gmail.com 

SHE CHRONICLES: “wanted:love” a poem by Noni Limar

we are spinning on a tilted axis.
growth jilted like crashed jitneys.
two clogged stacked chimneys
with ancient rubble strapped
pain packed along the vertebrae of our spines.

we climb the wilted oak of offense,
roots deeply selfish
cloaked in the pretense of need.
our greed fumbles for logic thru blunt smoke.
sinks cheap bottlenecks into scarlet throats.
falters, praying good head & a firm stroke
can somehow beckon love.

but our lady, she is old.
abused by untold lovers
bold arrows covered & pressed
firm against her breast.

we cannot seduce this cupid
with our feigning dance of devotion.
she can smell our indifference,
denies the golden offerings of heat
stained sheets that reek of jealousy.

we cannot tempt with lack of trust.
there is no cover for our lust.
& so she rejects us.

we are young, stubborn & uneasy
with the unrequited legends of life.
we sharpen our knives with cutting wit.
if luv will not have us,
we will kidnap it, carve it, steal it, maim it
even rename it.
in the dead of night,
stealth covered black, we creep.
palms sweat heavy gripping 9s
we storm upon love
lungs livid as we shout—

we have no fathers
& thus, we have no honor.
our mothers tend the gardens of the tenement.
our teachers are penniless
their patience played so many hands of spades
the jokers themselves are bent.

we’ve been back bending for centuries.
keloid whips still traced in our bitterness.
we try & kiss
but our soured mouths revolt
with the stench of powerlessness.

we are bitches who try & hold
but  we are hoes
with unhealthy hearts.
we are niggas love deemed unworthy.

on this nite,
we will have u love.
we will take u in.
our bones shall know affection & respect
our crowns will grow with grace
wild as lilies laced.
rebuild our wings, love.
plant acres of answered prayers.
cash checks paid by timeless dues  way past due.
from your plate we consume new food,
bask within enchanted gaze.

& if u evade,
we will seek you out in every cave.
blast you from the depths of every hell in every state.
we will hunt u love,
with a hunger that will never satiate.


noni limar is a content creator, musician and love storyteller living in southern california.

SHE CHRONICLES: “For Mamas Who Have Considered Suicide While Loving Daughters With Open Wounds” a poem by Crystal Tennille Irby

If I could rename her, I would call her Oya.  She brought the rain/the storm/the thunder and lightening my heart needed.

I thought my womb would stretch/hips expand/body open for all my children to breath life.

I never imagined my teacher would come to me, age 11/a reflection of my brokenness/an unrelenting stare/unyielding hunger to be whole.

There was no escaping.  A time to heal had come, and so began the cycle of faith and fear.

I never imagined my daughter as a savior.  There would be nothing immaculate about her conception.  How I became a mother would be by birth.  But here she is, no marks to prove my body made room for her/to prove to my soul was given time to prepare for her. But she is here, breathing in all of my dreams as if I whispered them to her as she tossed and turned in my body.

She is a sphinx.  The fire burns but never destroys.  I have witnessed her sift through her own ashes at least three times.  For that, I do not take credit.  I am only here to remind her she has been resurrected before.

I relish in every raindrop/vigilant through every storm/faithful when the lightening strikes because I know rebirth is on the other side.  She has taught me to bury the dead/to forgive myself.  It is her grace I am most grateful for/her willingness to allow me to grow/to always allow me to hold her.  Even in the darkest hours, when our arms can’t seem to stretch around our bodies, I hold her in my heart/in my prayers.  I carry her like child in womb in my soul.

Continue reading SHE CHRONICLES: “For Mamas Who Have Considered Suicide While Loving Daughters With Open Wounds” a poem by Crystal Tennille Irby