Author/Storyteller-Thanks, Sister Joan
By Rick Fowler
As young man, I never considered myself a writer, a wordsmith, or a word worker. In fact, I felt more comfortable in the woods or on the water, in a gym or on a football field then I did putting a pen to paper. Indeed, allow me to chase partridge in the morning, take some notes and answer a few questions in the afternoon, and that same night score 14 points and grab 7 rebounds seemed to be a recipe for a perfect high school day in 1970.
Nevertheless, the seeds were cast to my entrance into authorship (or is it simply story telling) that year when Sister Joan assigned an outdoor article to me one day in Journalism Class. The assignment was to investigate why kids went deer hunting, which had been successful, and then paraphrase their stories of hunting into an interesting article.
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she needs someone to tell her
By Boyd Johnson
she shone gold
with beerlight
and hopes
so high
you could climb them to the stars
and see
everything thats good about anyone.
it was the death of her.
no matter how many times
you lied
to her
the gold shines through.
if you’re the next guy,
give it a good once over.
keep it shining.
and tell her
to put the drink down.
Honey, I’m home…
By Zondra Lynn
I believe it’s safe to assume that around about now he’s arriving home from work, finding that the kids have been home for about an hour now, alone. I believe he’s looking at the kids and has asked them, rhetorically, “Where’s your mother?” I can hear him calling my name as he searched throughout the house, in vain, hoping maybe I let someone borrow my car and I dozed off in front of the TV in our bedroom. But no, I’m not there. I assume the younger two children, the 6-year-old twins, Brandy and Brianna, are laughing and playing with their colors and are fascinated by some school work they were given today in the first grade. But, the oldest, Candice, my intelligent 12 year old has picked up on something, she knows this is odd and she’s telling herself in the worst English possible “somthin jus aint right”. She’s watching her father closely, as usual, but this time instead of relying on him to determine how she should react, she has probably already told herself that “Whateva is goin on I gotta be strong!” She has picked up on his limp and isn’t sure what to think of that just yet. My husband calls my parents to find they haven’t heard anything from me either, but to make sure they don’t become stressed at their old age I can hear him telling them something along the lines of “Maybe she just stepped out to pick up groceries, or meet a friend. Don’t worry, everything’s fine.” [Read More...]
Jazz and Poetry
By Nay Torious The Educator
Jazz and poetry it’s something alike
I never know what I’m going to write
But I’m a jazz head from a kid you see
Listening to jazz since at least sixty three
Ella Fitzgerald was hitting those notes
So much beautiful music came from her throat
Lady Day crooning of lost love and strange fruit
In sartorial splendor the Duke could be found in a snappy suit
And dizz all dizzy creating his legacy, Manteca sprinting from the speakers
Jazz got us high before crack heads and tweakers and two hundred dollar sneakers
That I never buy
Don’t ask me why cause I will tell know lies about the burdens played from a saxophone
And Betty Carter and Nina Simone spilling their guts into the microphone
Have you heard of the watts poet’s brothers from watts telling the truth on society and the cops
Tupac told the same truths was a poet so let’s give him props
Maya Angalou rising still when I hear her, I can feel the honesty that can’t hide in her words
