Colleges & Schools

I would like to thank Tanisha, Christy, Holly, and Yalonda for serving as staff readers, and Nelda for overseeing the collection, scanning, and selection of the artwork. I appreciate the time and effort each of you put into this edition of The Kentucky River. I would also like to thank Dr. Fallon and Dr. Smith for their advice, hard work, and continued support of this literary arts publication.

I would especially like to thank the students and faculty who submitted their work. Thank you for doing your part to keep the creative energy alive on the campus of Kentucky State University.

Sincerely,

Omar A. Gray

THE CREATIVE ARTS CLUB

The Creative Arts Club is an organization for all Kentucky State University students interested in literature and the creative arts. The major project for the club is producing the creative writing and arts magazine, The Kentucky River.

The magazine is now published annually in the Spring.

Table of Contents

Cover Art LaChrista Bowman-Bell

Winner of the Leadingham/Alexander Visual Art Award

Literary Works

Walking in Borrowed Shoes Yalonda J. Davidson

Winner of the Richard Taylor Creative Writing Award

We Strive Nick Perkins

Douglass Asked Jefferson Omar A. Gray

On My Knees Patricia Mae Conway

Dancing with Your Daughter Pepi Patton Lovell

Sweet Saturdays Yalonda J. Davidson

The Walk A. D. Fallon

The Alpha-Omega to Follow Omar A. Gray

Inside, Outside Darick C. Morton

Thirteen Christy Cardenis

The Girls I Never Knew Yalonda J. Davidson

Unafraid Savonne Lemon

Freedom? Darick C. Morton

A Me Meditation Yalonda J. Davidson

The Artist Rachana Rahman

The Mood for Inspiration Michelle E. Knickerbocker

My Own Father Brandon R. Woodard

It’s In My Blood Jeanene Richardson

picasso on the mic Niambi Lee-Kong

Untitled ("he owes me . . .") Holly Chesnut

John Jacob Astor Peter A. Smith

Summer Reading at Juniper Hills Pool Richard Taylor

Untitled ("Catch me in . . .") Holly Chesnut

Crikey Peter A. Smith

Art Works

Evening of the Anubis John S. Bator

Vision of the Ka John S. Bator

Garage Window Jennifer Harsin

Untitled Nelda Hisel

Photograph LaChrista Bowman-Bell

Lakota Chief D. Bell

rose Angie Johnson

Portrait Krystal Adams

untitled Krystal Adams

portraits Tennie Hogan

WALKING IN BORROWED SHOES

Winner of the Richard Taylor Creative Writing Award

Since I was very young, I always knew that when my parents died, I would be well taken care of. They would tell me, “ Yalonda, when we go, you’re gonna be a rich woman.” Like that was supposed to make me do back flips or something. “Oh great, my parents are dead; now can I go shopping?” Anyway, when my mother really did die, I didn’t head for the jewelry box, I didn’t head for the furs, or the garage, or the bank. I knew all of that stuff would be there. Honey, when the time came to claim my inheritance, I headed for the closet to gather my shoes. Most people have millions to look forward to, or land or diamonds. I got pumps, and sandals, and girl-you-know-you-sharp heels.

The heavy, quick click-clack of strappy high heels, the zip of her stockings, and the swish of her skirts as they sashayed past me. Ciara perfume still lingering after the two of them (she and Daddy) were long gone. I loved to watch my mother get dressed for the night out. She would take so much time to put on her make up—careful not to apply too much or too little. “Always put on proper underwear, a lady always wears the right kinda draws,” she would tell me. “Put your dress on after you do your makeup, but before you do your hair.” My mom would cradle me with dos and don’ts to ensure that I would be as classy as she.

Dress lengths would vary from thigh, to knee, to ankle-- there were cat suits and sailor suits, leather and studs, and stuff that I can’t even begin to describe. I didn’t always agree with what she wore, but there was no denying how she wore her cabaret clothes. She’d knock them dead as soon as she walked in the door. But she always had this inexplicable class that elevated her above the rest. And I wasn’t the only one who thought so. They just couldn’t touch her style. No matter what my mama put on, her shoes always matched. She’d dance in the mirror, shimmying her tassles or shimmering in her sequins: “Tina Turner, eat your heart out,” she’d sing. Erroneously, the world thought that Ms. Turner had the world’s sexiest legs: But my mother told me different. Hers were because she thought so and that’s what mattered. My legs aren’t as sleek as my mother’s, thanks to Steak n’ Shake and Little Debbie, but every time I stand in front of the mirror, with my calves tight from a pair of sexy heels, I have to smile at my mom’s confidence and love her for it all over again.

However, the confidence that my mother would exude as she danced through the house before going out, seemed to flicker on ordinary days of the week. She would sometimes ask me if she was ugly. That question would send rivers of fire down my back. I hated the insecurity in her voice. The slack in her posture. What a stupid question! How could anyone so obviously beautiful ask such a ridiculous question??? “No, Ma,” I’d strain to say without anger, “No, Ma, you’re not ugly.” I never understood her, how she could be so unsure; she was beautiful to me. But I’m sure my boyfriend feels the same way when I ask him that question.

To boost her confidence, my mom later told me, she would put on soft, silky nighties, when there was no one to tell her what she needed to hear. And of course as with every other outfit, she had shoes to match. Red ostrich-feather pumps—the fluffy ones like you see on old black and white movies and stuff. When no one was around, not me or my Daddy, she would “slip into something more comfortable” and strut through the house like a movie star. I almost forgot about those fluffy pumps, until I unearthed them in one of her closets. I may never actually wear them, but they bring me a kind of comfort. There’s something about them that touches something deep within me. My mother taught me a lot of things, about cooking, and responsibility, washing clothes, and men, but she could never really teach me how to love myself. That’s something I have to learn on my own. Even if it calls for feathery shoes and a feather boa to match.

Her house shoes—shuffling across the kitchen floor as she danced and hummed over Cornish hens, dressing, and sweet potato pies. After she learned to bake bread in her bread-o-matic or whatever machine, her humming and sliding, mixed with the thick aroma of fresh bread would waft through the house any time of the night or day. Her kitchen waltz, though out of Love, responsibility, care for her family, often left her feet sore and swollen from standing for so long. I never fully appreciated all that she did for us then, and I wish I could hear her lovingly skating (or cursing) over pot roast and carrots. I’ll never hear her in our kitchen again, but she and her sacrifice will be with me always.

They aren’t all good feelings that I get when I think of the sound of my mother shoes. I remember the heavy thump-thump-thump of my mother’s feet on the stairs when she’d gotten a phone call from someone who knew what I’d done wrong. Or her quick step to pop me when I was relaxing instead of working, or grumbling instead of obeying. I can remember that pair of tan mules that my mother whooped me with that time I left driver’s training before she got there. I knew that she really mad about that other thing, but I didn’t protest. She ruffled me, threw me around, dragged me and slapped me, but I was insulted when she beat my butt with the shoes that she’d just bought for me that day. After the beating, she looked sorry, and we understood why she’d done it, but I could never bring myself to actually wear them.

I remember practicing to walk in her shoes as a little girl, clumsily clodding throughout the house, my feet only fractional in her too-big shoes. I was ecstatic when I got to wear my own little pumps as a ninth grader, getting ready for the homecoming dance: “Are you sure you can walk in them? Let me see…okay steady, steady. Good. Ooooh, scared of you, Girl,” I can hear her say from behind the camcorder. I was so proud; of course I had been practicing for years in her shoes. That night, my mother taught me one of the most valuable lessons about shoes and style: “If you can’t stand to walk in them, pick a different shoe. Don’t take your shoes off at the dance. If you must, get a pretty ballet slipper, but DO NOT DANCE IN SOCKS!” I uphold these rules whenever I get the chance and I find myself saying the same thing to friends and cousins. And to myself when I want to buy a shoe that I know I could just cram my foot into for a couple of hours…I remember her words and leave the shoes there, begrudgingly, but my feet thank me for it later.

From the time I was nine years old, my mother and I wore the same shoe size. My feet had done some serious growing. At age 6 I wore a size six. At 7 I wore a 7. At 8 an 8. And at age nine, I wore a size 9 and a half. From that point on, my mother and I could wear the same shoes. That in it itself was like an initiation into womanhood. We would consummate our tribal custom on Saturday mornings or lazy afternoons after work and school. We would scour the malls for cute shoes, prancing in our new purchases, or scowling at ugly or overpriced pairs. We would, or more accurately, she would, buy the same shoe in different colors and we would borrow from one another. From wearing my mom’s shoes, I learned the importance of taking care of my footwear, “Dang Yolanda, what were you doing, running up and down Seven Mile in my shoes?” she would ask, dumbfounded by the scuff and skid marks up and down the sides of the shoes. “You walk just like your Daddy, and I got the shoes to prove it.” It would be bittersweet when I scuffed our shoes because she would let me have them, but I hated taking them from her. And I also hated wearing scuffed shoes. But I loved the fellowship that we had. I still miss going shoe shopping with my mom.

My mother’s friends marveled that she would share her clothes and shoes with a teenager. But I remember a pair of shoes that she would not let me wear. “No, these shoes are too expensive to have you kicking around in. You feel that? Italian Leather soles. Go on, put it on. Feel good, don’t they? I know, that’s why I bought them. You’ll be able to afford some of your own someday. Until then,” she’d say, snatching the prized loafers away, “ keep yo dogs out of mine!” And with that, they were gone…

…Until my senior year in high school when we attended the Paul Robeson Scholarship banquet. It had rained for hours that day, and by 7 pm the rain was still going strong. When we finally found a parking spot for the banquet, we were what seemed like miles away from the entrance. We trekked in the pouring rain up hill, down hill and through parking lots. When my mother finally looked down at her shoes inside the dry auditorium, they were nearly ruined. I felt terrible. I knew how much she loved those shoes. And after all of her precaution and care, I had ruined them anyway.

She never said anything about them. She just shook her head in resignation. After all, I didn’t even win the stupid scholarship. I don’t know if she ever thought about it as I did, but she never said anything about them. After we got home, Mom stuffed the shoes with tissue paper and those sticks that they have at the stores. They regained their shape, but they never felt quite as snug as they had the first time I felt them on my feet. Or all of those times afterward when I would sneak into her closet to wear them around her room. I have them now, and I even wear them sometimes. They’re sitting in my closet, stuffed with tissue and those funny sticks.

After the funeral and all the mourners left, it was my task to clear out anything I wanted before returning to school. Whatever I didn’t claim, my Daddy told me, would get moved out to the Goodwill or Salvation Army or whatever. While I was digging around in her closet, still basking in both the sweet of her scent and the pain of her absence, I discovered a pair of shoes that, apparently, had never been worn. These were unique shoes: J. Renee’s (my mother’s favorite), extra pointy, with a funny reptilian print and fabric, and a matching handbag. I was in awe of these shoes. I guess my mother bought these shoes with intentions of dancing the night away, or standing dignified in a floor-length mink. Whatever her plans, she never saw them. I wonder what happened… Did she buy them on the way to the doctor’s office before receiving the news? Or after getting her hair done, possibly for the last time before the chemo? On her way home from work before the days of sick leave and disability? Only she knows. But after I found them, I scooped them up, “She wouldn’t want anyone else to have them only me,” I thought. So they sit in my cluttered closet, waiting to be worn. Not yet. I haven’t got the nerve. But I will. I’ll find a dress to wear them with and do what she never got to do; I’ll go where she never go to go. And I’ll wear them proudly, for the both of us.

Yalonda J. Davidson

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We Strive

We strive to attain

The decorations of a society

That demands adherence

To its own gaudy sense

Of Itself

Going through life we subjugate

Everything to whim and fate

Ascribing it all to an adage:

“That’s the way life is.”

But is it, really?

Could we not take stock

And pick the lock of ice

Binding our hearts?

We strive

To run in the sun

And count ourselves lucky

For the day to come

We strive

To extend a hand

To our fellow man

And know that there

Is none like him

In all the land

We strive

Like a dove

That is waiting

To be released

From captivity

O Joyous Day

When I can sit down

With my kinsmen

Brothers and sisters all

At the table of the

Brotherhood of Humanity

And Fellowship

This is what

We strive for

Nick Perkins

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Douglass Asked Jefferson

Frederick Douglass speaking with Thomas Jefferson

"I read your words

In the Declaration:

All men are created equal…

But—were you sincere?"

"Of course I was sincere.

Never have I spoken words more true."

Douglass examined Jefferson’s hands,

Soft, smooth pinkish palms.

No scars, no healed over thorn pricks.

Then Douglass scanned the fields of Monticello

Where brown shadows went about their chores.

Omar A. Gray

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On My Knees

A brilliant star explodes,

a new world is created.

A soft word whispered to me,

makes me love where once I hated.

A hush falls on a crowded room,

A blind man finally sees,

all these awesome miracles come,

when I am on my knees.

I speak where there once was silence,

I feel where there should be death.

I am freed from my Darkest Demons,

with every heartfelt breath.

I laugh in times of sorrow,

I remember where I left my keys,

all this happens to me and more,

when I am on my knees.

A babe is born unto the World,

an old friend finally comes Home.

I fear not the unknown Darkness,

no matter where I may roam.

My Heart, rock hard is softened,

I am moved by silent pleas.

I find my place of solitude,

when I am on my knees.

I thank the Lord for what I’ve lost

And truly am set free.

I wonder at the world and think,

"All this just for me?"

Lives are won and wars are lost;

Autumn comes and goes.

And the world though stilled keeps turning,

when I am on my knees.

I think of all that I have,

and give thanks to He who gave,

and rejoice in what He did for me-

My soul He did surely save.

I find The Shelter from The Storm,

And wonder why He bleeds.

My Savior hugs me close to Him,

when I am on my knees.

Patricia Mae Conway

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Dancing with Your Daughter

in memory of Charles G. Patton
May 14, 1925, Laurel County, Kentucky
September 29, 2001, Pulaski County, Kentucky

When I was small enough and loved enough to think

that all the world adored me and my ruffled petticoats, you

took my hands in yours to help me step atop your wing-tipped

shoes. It was an acrobatic risk to lift that second foot, but I

was fearless in your hands. So, when my feet had found their

niche, I would lean back and follow your black tie to find your

face, to find the smile that always hid there in your eyes. I

watched it sneak down to your lips, then felt it leap across to

mine. And, we would dance. You, of course, would lead.

Now, as one tumor steals your words and others break

your thoughts and stride, you hold to dignity with one clinched

fist but with the other hand take mine – to help me find my

niche atop your stark white bed. Your touch has steadied me,

but bed rails can pose daunting risk. I am not fearless, even in

your hands. Still, as I search to find the smile that must be

hidden in your eyes, I feel it leap into my heart. So, we will

dance. You, of course, will lead.

Pepi Patton Lovell

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Sweet Saturdays

She would come into my room and tickle my feet

Or bounce on the foot of my bed until I awoke.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she would say.

“Well, if you wanna go with me, you’d better put some clothes on!”

She’d yell that over her shoulder as she was casually slipping on her shoes.

I’d nearly kill myself as I groggily stumbled from my bed and onto the carpet.

Scrambling to get dressed and clean before she left,

I could hear her smirking in the next room.

We both knew that she’d never leave me,

But we played this game every Saturday morning.

K-mart sales paper rustling me awake.

Sizzling sausage sandwiches and hot tea:

they reminded her of her mama, now they remind me of mine.

Ice cold glasses of water and vitamins to keep her skin clear.

Hot grits and scary movies to stick to our bones

Ballroom dancing to our own music:

she would twirl me and then I would dip.

I still can’t dance.

Black and white movies and falling asleep on cartoons

Chinese food in the mall as we giggle over our new shoes:

size 91/2 and too cute.

Clowning in the kitchen and making up songs in the den

Even though she’s gone, my week still goes on.

And Saturday still comes just the same.

But I’ll always have my memories to keep me company:

Sweet memories of Saturdays with my Mama.

Yalonda J. Davidson

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The Walk

Jane stared at the amber streaks of cloud over the bare trees. The rhythm of her steps had changed many times throughout the day, but now they were as regular and rote as if she were reciting multiplication tables. The sun was already sliding downward over the unfamiliar houses as she followed it west. She could tell she had blisters under her snow boots, but they had rubbed themselves into a mild, stinging numbness she had made peace with miles ago.

She was so lost in thought that she almost missed the left turn the yellow spray painted shoe prints made at the street corner. She was closing in on checkpoint fifteen. No other walkers were around, though she’d started the day with a crowd. Several other sixth-grade girls lunged into the morning frost with her after slapping their forms on the registration table and pinning on their walker tags. There had been lots of adults at the starting line—and teenagers, too, who looked sideways at Jane and her schoolmates to intimidate them (which they did)—all marching purposefully in a pack. She let the adults, and especially the teenagers, pass her by early on. She didn't know any of them, and she wanted to make sure no one picked on her.

For a while, she walked with some of her classmates. The first couple of hours were a great adventure for the girls. They were walking out of their own town and no one was chaperoning them! Their parents had given each of them spending money for the day, which burned in their pockets as they passed record stores and fast food places and gas stations. They even walked down streets their mothers wouldn’t allow them to ride their bikes on! But before lunchtime, most of the girls had either detoured into a store or called her mother to come take her home. By lunch, Jane and the remaining girls had walked almost ten miles. As impressed as they were with their accomplishment, there were still more than ten more to go, and four more hours of shuffling in snow boots lost its appeal for her friends.

Checkpoint fifteen. A middle-aged mom-looking woman in a parka sat at a folding table perched on the sidewalk of a residential street. The table had sign-in sheets and a thermos. The woman looked surprised to see her. "You doin’ okay?" she asked as she stamped Jane’s walker tag to verify she’d made it to fifteen. "Yeah," Jane put in quickly. She knew she probably looked tired, but she really didn’t want to stop. "You know, fifteen miles is a lot of walking, especially for a little girl. Your parents will be really proud of you already." "I know. I’m good. I like it," Jane answered and stepped away from the checkpoint to follow the shoe prints. She was dead tired under her winter coat and boots, but she did like it. And the longer she walked, the more she liked it.

She thought for sure she would be terrified to walk twenty miles in strange places by herself. Her mother never let her walk or ride her bike any farther than two blocks from the house. And there was the time she walked home from school and some teenagers in a van drove back and forth down the street jeering and taunting her. She ran half the way home down the property lines of people’s back yards until she got lost in a small woods at the end of the block. The foundation of an abandoned farmhouse was in the center of the woods, and her older sister told her the basement still gaped up at the sky, and if you weren’t careful, you could fall through the floorboards and be down there for years. Your only hope was if enough crabapples dropped in and if any chives sprouted out of the old timbers to sustain you until they could find you. Whoever they was.

When her friends left her after lunch, she was a little scared. She was suddenly alone two towns over from her own, and she had no real sense of where she was except that the hospital she was born in was in this town. She was alone with the November sun and the yellow shoe prints. But she really did not want to stop. When she told her parents she wanted to walk in the walkathon, they were skeptical. "Twenty miles is awfully far," they both warned. Jane persisted. She did well in school, but wasn’t particularly good at anything, especially sports. She was a small and scrawny, last-one-picked-for-the-team girl who got bad colds every winter. When her teacher mentioned the walkathon in class, though, Jane immediately thought, "I can walk. If it’s just a matter of keeping going, I can do that."

The day Jane got her pledge forms, she canvassed the neighborhood. All the neighbors were surprised that she really intended to do it alone. "You gonna walk that all by yourself?" a man at the other end of the block asked. "You really think you can walk twenty miles?" a neighbor woman scoffed. Despite their skepticism, most of the neighbors pledged, and pledged well. She was pretty sure they didn't think she would make it very far, so they pledged as much as $1 and $5 a mile. When she showed her parents the pledge forms, they pledged $10 a mile!

Jane turned in her pledge forms a week before the walkathon, and it turned out that she had received the most pledges of any of the walkers. She thought, "Boy, those folks have no idea what they’re in for!" She was going to walk those twenty miles if her feet were bloody stumps by the end like some grim heroine from a Hans Christian Anderson tale.

The sun was now peeking through the stark silhouettes of trees as she passed an old mill. It was just about the oldest thing left standing in the whole region—most of the other farm buildings had long ago given way to strip malls and factories, which were now beginning to be replaced by tall glass office buildings with landscaped entrances. She walked across the old stone bridge crossing the stream that ran along the mill and studied the lines of moss on the rock walls. It reminded her of some mountain stream she’d seen in the Appalachian mountains on vacation. She looked at the sky, and it looked like it could be a sky from a hundred years ago, or a thousand years ago. The people who had worked at the mill must have seen that sky, too. The Shawnee, who her teacher said once lived here, must have seen that sky, too.

Checkpoints sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen passed by swiftly as she mused over the sky. The more she walked, the more new things she saw, but they seemed old, too. Not derelict like the basement in the woods, but ancient and brand new at the same time. Landmarks changed from being an ambling movie out of the backseat car window to being mapped out in a kind of cone of time she was stepping through, like being able to step to the edge of the vanishing point in a painting.

Twilight cast its grey blur over the houses of her town as she signed the sheet at checkpoint nineteen. The woman at the folding table looked fatigued with cold and eager to go home. "Was anyone walking behind you?" "Not that I know of," Jane answered absentmindedly and moved on. Cars pulled into driveways and fluorescent kitchen lights blinked on almost as if choreographed. No other walkers were anywhere to be seen. She couldn’t feel her feet anymore and her mouth was dry, but since it was just a matter of keeping going, she could do that.

A. D. Fallon

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The Alpha—Omega to Follow

Judgment day is coming…

Is Allah pleased?

Fili-homo-geno-cidal maniac

Kamikaze coward

Is Allah pleased?

Children orphanized

Kamikaze coward

Skyscraping windows breathing smoke

Children orphanized

Mutilated bodies fall from

Skyscraping windows breathing smoke

Stairwells collapse into coffins

Mutilated bodies fall from

Mechanical firebirds

Stairwells collapse into coffins

Twin tours reduced to rubble

Mechanical firebirds

Is this how you honor Allah?

Twin towers reduced to rubble

Strategically planned acts of cowardice

Is this how you honor Allah?

Seat of military might mangled

Strategically planned acts of cowardice

Thick ash, suffocating soot

Seat of military might mangled

Rescue and recovery – of remains

Thick ash, suffocating soot

Twisted metal tombs

Rescue and recovery – of remains

Lives extinguished

Twisted metal tombs

You owe us wergild*, for *Man-price, compensation for lives lost

Lives extinguished

Fili-homo-geno-cidal maniac

You owe us wergild, for

Judgment day is coming…

Omar A. Gray

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Inside, Outside

Why beloved red, white, and blue

Should your people always misconstrue

And deal with vice against the true

Ideal of liberty?

As history is proving still

They grind the conquered ‘neath their will

And force cooperation ‘till

Those different bow the knee.

Back then they fought with swords upraised

(Now F-16’s with bombs ablaze!)

“The New War” is the fresh catch phrase

For fighters of the free

While all the time inside of her

Inequalities still skew and blur

Our moral compass oft deferred

In life so “lovely.”

So prior to our gallantries

Of freedom fighting ‘cross the seas

Let’s ope our mantra, “How it reads?”

First fix internally.

Darick C. Morton

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Thirteen

Never knew a girl like you

Never understood how you keep moving

While others are grooving

to the sound of a different drum

How the repetitious snare bounces off

and you remain numb

Somehow not affected by all the jeering

Consistently ignoring the sounds you are hearing

Yet I know the real story

It unfolds differently than the one you recite

The one where Pops abandoned home

Mother can’t gather the pieces of what used to be her dome

And you parade as the walls come tumbling down

I know you feel a void

Sometimes you feel ineffective

and the hurt’s too damn thick to be reflective

She’s a pretty girl

A beauty exotic to most

Yet these accolades represent a foreign ghost

'Cause I never knew a girl like you

Christy Cardenis

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The Girls I Never Knew

She would tell the greatest stories,

Except the juiciest—her own.

I want to hear the stories

she never wanted anyone to know.

I want to know the girl who sneaked Kools in the girls’ lavatory during fifth period.

The one who would hurriedly, and only half-successfully wipe makeup from her face

after school.

That girl who wore halter-tops and mini-skirts,

popped gum with hot pink lipstick,

and ran with the crowd.

Who’s that girl in the bikini?

I want to know that girl who loved to dance and sew and paint.

The one whose lungs were never very strong, but smoked squares anyway.

I want to hear the stories that nobody ever knew but you:

My Grandmother, another girl I never knew.

But your lips are sealed, as hers are,

Underground.

And all the stories that I’ll never know buried with you.

So I’ll live with the snatches of stories and fuzzy snapshots, out of context.

At least, until my memory fades,

And then, I guess, my lips will be sealed, too.

Yolanda J. Davidson

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Unafraid

I thought I knew what love was,

A thin line of appreciation

Extended conversation.

With the right voice inflexion, I could get years of

undivided attention, Unyielding protection…

And

As long as my words mirrored dependency on you,

My legs open often and our arguments few,

You could basically say that it was love.

But that was before us.

So long ago.

Today, I find myself sitting Indian style in the corner of my mind

And I can feel the thread ripping

Time slipping

But can see or hear nothing but you.

And everything I am or was is somehow seen in preparation for

What I was somehow born to do

And I can hear the bow breaking

The frame shaking

But am unafraid.

Savonne Lemon

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Freedom?

How dare you speak so proudly

Boasting boldly, preaching loudly,

That the U.S. even knows the ring of free?

Where is the man that barely

Acts so justly, judges fairly

During times when he adjudicates the “We”?

From problems with its races

(Conjured terms for colored faces),

Trails of Tears, indentured servants, slavery?

Dare this country crack a lip,

When once it firmly held the whip,

And siphoned human oil from way across the sea?

“Oh beautiful for spacious skies…”

We’ve heard that side, replete with lies,

And thus the truth must surface finally,

That the persons living here

Now reap their fathers’ seeds of fear

In a land that greatly contradicts her “blessed liberty!”

Darick C. Morton

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A Me Meditation

So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.

-from “Theme for English B” by Langston Hughes

Why do I have to be a gender or a color or a…

Why can’t I just be a person who just happens to be female,

Who just happens to be Black,

Who just happens to talk about the same stuff you feel, too?

Will my stuff be considered Black enough?

Can my work represent nappy locks, thick lips and booty for days—

Not because of the Hood, or the Man, but because that’s me?

Can I pump my fist in pride without being categorized as another Black political poet?

Can I speak about the mysteries of collarbone kisses and spooning or rainy afternoons

Without being straitjacketed as a crazed feminist poet?

Let my words be black only because of the ink scribbled across the page and the talking drums

thumping in my heart.

My words are Black, despite the absence of gang violence, project allusions, and songs of poverty.

Listen to my middle-class love stories and teacher’s pet tales.

Will my work be black just because I am? Better yet, let my stuff be Poetry, because that’s what it is.

Sometimes Romantic, Sometimes Confessional, Sometimes Pro-Black, Always Pro-Human, And

sometimes Anti- everything in between….Let my stuff be what it is.

True.

Vulnerable.

Multi-dimensional.

And Funny, Female, Cerebral, Emotional, Boring, Weepy, Mushy…

Whatever category you choose, always call it poetry, because I’m a poet.

But that’s not all I am.

There are many compartments beneath my skin.

I’m just me.

Naturally.

Yalonda J. Davidson

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The Artist

Dedicated to the victims of 11 September

The mother has forgotten to sing a Lullaby song,

and the baby cried and cried all day long

because an artist died today.

The Blue Jay hasn’t whistled to his mate,

and the Sun is in too much pain to show his face

because an artist died today.

The little boy hasn’t cried for his favorite toy,

and the Champion football team is not jumping for joy

because an artist died today.

The artist who was the lover,

the poet,

the father,

the champion of his life,

drew his last masterpiece, which will remind us the value of our lives.

Rachana Rahman

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The Mood for Inspiration

I am naked, under all these clothes

And it is right here.

In me,

out me,

along me.

Whipping it’s way around me,

like old whiskey.

It smells, but it swirls

in the cider bottle and

I have penitence because

I cannot touch it

while it beats me.

So, I am gasping

while it chokes me.

And I keep wondering

Why do I

want it to come back?

Michelle E. Knickerbocker

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My Own Father

See my father graduated from Morehouse

but didn’t take care of our house

didn’t feed my mouth

my momma all alone down south

Never could understand

growing up raising myself to be a man

helping my family when I can

but Life slips through cracks like sand in you hand

So at 6 I became a father, My brother was born today

same momma different daddy, even that mutherfucker ran away

So I raise him to be strong and he listens,

This world is foolish young me

“Open up your eyes intake this knowledge from your brother

though my father didn’t give it to me”

There will be heartaches and pain, wins and losses, women and money, ups and downs

happy and sads

and no, our fathers weren’t there

but 1 great mom is better than 2 sorry dads

We will grow, my brotha, and we will still rise

my father never knew me

but my child will know my heart as well as my eyes.”

Brandon R. Woodard

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It’s In My Blood

What does an egg have to do with drugs? Nothing. I remember seeing those commercials that had an egg frying in a frying pan. It looked real nasty, greasy, burnt and overall disgusting. Then, a voice came out of nowhere and said, “This is your brain on drugs.” Since I have never seen a real brain on drugs, I had to take the commercial’s word for it. However, every time I saw that commercial, I never really thought about how drugs could do this horrific damage to your brain. What I did think about was what alcohol did to your body and family.

“Alcohol” is such a strong word to me. My grandmother drank all the time. My daddy was a devout alcoholic. My mother hated alcohol because she had grown up with it, but somehow she tolerated it with my father for seventeen years. Hated her mother for drinking all those years but then turned around a fell for a drunk. She used to tell me not to ever drink because she had enough of alcohol for a lifetime (between my grandmother and my daddy). Granny was the older drunk and daddy was the middle-aged drunk. Others used to tell me that since there were drunks on both sides of my family, there was no way out of it. I was going to be a drunk too. I was not going to be an alcoholic and my granny and daddy were not drunks. They just drank heavily.

I didn’t want to be an alcoholic. I had grown up with it all my life. My grandmother didn’t die from it but my daddy sure did. Cirrhosis. That’s what the Funeral people said the death was from. At thirteen years old, I couldn’t pronounce it and even now, the word runs my daddy’s face through my mind. Naw, I wasn’t going to be a drunk.

Miller Lite was my granny’s favorite beer. She also loved making strawberry daiquiris. Her “guy friend” would take her to the store to get a 12 pack and the ingredients for her homemade daiquiris. Since she was divorced, as soon as she walked in the door, she would pop that can without having to hear my grandfather’s mouth. I think she loved being divorced and drunk than being married and sober. After the first one, she would turn on the television to the Country Network. That channel showed country videos for hours after the cows came home.

One weekend my Granny wanted me to stay with her. I guess it gets lonely in a house with three bedrooms and a pack of beer. I liked staying at Granny’s. She had a TV in every bedroom and cable was in two of those rooms. And of course it was in the living room; the main beer hangout. Granny would let me do pretty much whatever I wanted. I could watch Nick-At-Nite all night, eat all night, relax all night, and then first thing the next day, clean up! Sometimes, when Granny was on her way to the drunken stage, she would want me to watch the country channel with her. I think that is why I am diverse in my music now. At first, I hated it, those people on the screen stringing those damn guitars and singing about how they wished their lover had never left. And now all they have left is their dog, a pack of cigarettes, and that guitar. It is actually kind of nice if you are depressed. Too bad, at thirteen, I wasn’t. So, granny and I would sit in the living room with a twelve pack of beer and watch those sad country videos. What a life to live at thirteen years old.

That was when it all happened. Why is it that when people are drunk (or almost there), they begin to talk about everything, agree to everything you say and then encourage you to do whatever you want (even at the ripe age of thirteen)? So then, granny asked me something that I thought she would never ask (or encourage). She told me to take a sip. A sip of her Miller Lite.

I can’t drink. I am thirteen years old. I can’t drink beer. Go ahead and take a sip. It cleans your system out. Yeah, right. It will make me pee all night is what it will do, I thought.

“I said go ahead and take a sip. It won’t kill you. You might just like it,” Granny said.

So I did just that. I took a sip. It was the most awful sip I had ever sipped in my life. It tasted like..like…like….Beer! It was a mixture of salt and barley in that sip. I hated how it slithered down my throat. Yuck! I hated the aftertaste, from just that one sip.

“Don’t go and tell your mom and daddy that I let you sip on my drink. I will never hear the end of it. Okay?” Granny said.

I had no words for her. I still tasted salt and old barley in my mouth. Then Granny asked me how I liked it. I lied and said it was okay. To tell the truth, it was gross. And I never wanted a sip or a drink again.

“Since you like it, drink some more,” she offered.

Why did I lie? So, I drank some more. The second sip wasn’t as bad as the first one. I felt the fizz of the beer tickle my lips. That I did like. But the same taste and aftertaste was still in my mouth when I swallowed that second sip. The third time is a charm so I chugged the twelve-ounce can again. This one was a gulp, a gulp of beer at thirteen. What is the world coming to? Then I actually liked the funny feeling as the beer ran down my throat. I guess the taste was tolerable. Or the third time is actually a charm.

Hours passed. Granny, me and the beer. Yep, I was drinking that Miller like it was the last one the company would make. Granny and I were having a grand time with beer and country music. What a life.

After the tenth beer, my stomach did this double twist. Then it began making a grumbling noise and I began to belch. Yuck, beer belches. What a smell. My throat was beginning to feel heavy and thick. My face must have looked sickly because my granny asked me if I was feeling okay. I wasn’t because the next thing I know I was in the bathroom facing the toilet.

“Don’t you tell ya mamma and daddy that I got you drunk. I will never hear the end of it,” Granny told me.

What words of encouragement when I am puking my guts out. Don’t tell your parents. I knew that if I ever got drunk, those would be the words to say.

Drunk, at thirteen with my grandmother. I was drunk from drinking all that beer. All the beer that I said I would never drink. All that beer I promised my mamma I wouldn’t drink. So much for that promise and my weak stomach. It was time to lay down with the trashcan close in case the beer decided to leave my body from the front. Granny felt bad for all that beer I had drank and said she would never give me anymore. I told her I wasn’t going to tell mamma and daddy. I hoped she was glad that I didn’t tell and sorry for the way I felt. Drunk.

Daddy was a good man. He just drank a lot. He drank all the time. He loved malt liquor. Colt 45 was his favorite. He also liked wine, Richard’s Wine to be exact. It reminded me of the grape juice churches give you when it is time for Communion.

Even when daddy was drunk, he could still function as if he wasn’t. What a skill to acquire. He could do everything like a sober person, just a little slower. I liked it when my daddy was drinking. He was more relaxed and not so serious. He would let me do whatever I wanted. If I didn’t want to clean up, he wouldn’t make me. If my mother was trying to beat me, I would run to daddy and he would protect me. I liked my daddy when he was drinking, sometimes more than when he was sober.

At seven years old, he let me sip on his wine. It tasted almost like the Communion juice. He only gave me one sip. I was glad. He said he wanted me to taste it now so that when I was older I wouldn’t want to drink. I was not going to be a drunk, thanks to daddy giving me wine at seven years old. Besides, I was too young to drink anything above Kool-Aid anyway. Daddy used to take me to the bars with him. When he and mamma got into it because he was drinking five days out of seven, he would take me (before the argument got physical) to the bar with him and drink some more. At that age, I thought all men drank beer and wine and drank until they were talking out the side of their neck. All those drunken men in the bars would scare me. I was the only kid in a bar for cities to come, and it was an eerie feeling. Sometimes, my daddy’s friends would be so drunk, that two of them would start fighting. I had to stay right next to daddy so he could protect me. He watched me like a hawk even when he was drinking. The drunk stage of my daddy’s friends would get so bad that they would start talking loud and cursing. Then blood, beer and wine bottles would start flying. It was time to take the wine on the road and get the hell out of dodge. Daddy had to take me home after that. He told me that all drunk people didn’t act like that. I was glad and hoped my daddy had never did that nor ever would act like that. Alcohol. Being drunk. That was not going to be me.

Mamma hated his drinking. He always took me with him when he left to drink outside of the house. Mamma told him that he couldn’t take me with him when he was going on his drinking binges. He did anyway. He almost always took me, but I only sipped once. I loved my daddy. I wanted to be like him, or at least a guy friend like him.

Daddy used to take me to the park. Richard’s Wine would be there also. He would meet his friends there. I would play on the playground and he and his friends would sit at the picnic tables and drink their wine. I was the only kid, as usual. I didn’t mind, though. I enjoyed the grape smell that came from the wine. I used to inhale it and think that a part of my daddy was being imparted into me. The wine was definitely a part of me. I loved him so much I wanted a part of him to be in me. Little did I know, there was some of him in me.

I never wore shoes to the park. Daddy would still scoop me up and put me in the car, so I didn’t need any shoes. Well, that day, I wish daddy wouldn’t have scooped me up because I would have had time to scoop my shoes.

The police were circling the park. I wondered what was going on. We always came to the park; there was no harm in that. Being intoxicated and having a child with no shoes on was harm. Daddy went to jail for public intoxication, and I had to go to some home because they said daddy was neglecting me since I didn’t have any shoes on. I started crying. The police started talking to my daddy. They told me to stand by them. I wanted to be with daddy. He couldn’t say a thing. He was too drunk to talk to the police or me. He left silently in one car and I left in the other one. After that, I didn’t want daddy drinking anymore. I didn’t want anyone to be like him. He couldn’t save me, protect me, because of his alcohol problem. All because he was drunk. Drunk.

Daddy died a few years later. Mamma told him it would kill him and it did. He did slow down from drinking so much when the doctors told him he only had a few months. He still drank some, though. And I still loved him with all of my heart. After his death, I never wanted to see an alcoholic beverage again. I saw what it did to my daddy. I didn’t want to be like that. And it almost killed my grandmother. But everyone kept singing the same song; if your granny drank and your daddy drank, you’ll drink. It is just in your blood. Deal with it and accept that you will be an alcoholic. No, not me. I wasn’t daddy or granny. I was me. I was not going to drink. You hear me? I was not going to be an alcoholic. Or a drunk. Drunk.

My boyfriend loves dark Bacardi Rum. He mixes it with Coke and ice. He is real cool when he drinks it. It makes him playful with me. He reminds me a lot of my daddy. Neil could hold his liquor and no one would ever know that he was under the influence, or damn near drunk. I knew it though.

People have such an influence on me. Too much peer pressure nowadays. They want you to have sex, do drugs and get drunk. I did it all. Guess which one I was better at?

I like it all now, dark liquor and light. Beer was only good if I was already intoxicated. Never start off with beer. Start hard and end easy, because it still has that terrible salty, bitter taste. I hide my drunkenness pretty well from my mom and from other people. I act like I am sober when I am pissy drunk. Like father, like daughter, I suppose. I don’t throw up at all now. I can mix dark and light liquior together. I can go to sleep drunk and wake up drunk. I must say I hold my liquior well, and my body has a high tolerance for it. What a skill to acquire. I drink it like it is Kool-Aid. It is a part of me. I enjoy it; I love it. I am a controlled alcoholic. I haven’t been caught for underage drinking by the police, nor does my mamma know. All my friends get high. I get drunk. I drink to get drunk. I like the drunken stage. I even wake up the next day and remember exactly all that happened when I was drunk. For three days straight, I was drunk and I remember everything that happened. I try not to reminisce too much, too many painful and regretful nights all before the legal age of 21. Drunk. What were those words? If your granny drank and your daddy drank, you can’t escape it. It is in your blood. Drunk. Not me I will never be a drunk. Never an alcoholic. It ain’t in my blood.

Jeanene Richardson

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picasso on the mic

he writes art

and paints priceless masterpieces

on the clean black palate of mind

his tongue tracing the ringlets of my ear

sliding deeper between the blankets

of my passion

we share a cornucopia of poetry

i pick harvest ripe fruits from his tree

when he is not here

his words hold me

they wrap his arms around me

and spoon me in bed at night

whispering sweet nothings

while his lips are miles away

his words press me into other dimensions

times

spaces

and feelings

into love

beyond love…into blackness

black feelings

black words

dreams of revolution

his pen carries me in and out of nights

and days

and collarbone kisses

as i lie

ready

open

willing to accept

all that he is willing to offer…but

he serves me more than I can contain

inside these four walls that

I call my body

his house

for

his words have taken residence in my SOUL

Niambi Lee -Kong

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He owes me $40.

It’s not like I

Desperately need it.

But it’s the

Only excuse

I can think of

To call.

The only excuse

I can think of

Not to call

Is that he spent

That $40

On her.

Holly Chesnut

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John Jacob Astor

Aboard the sinking Titanic

he declined the temptation

to buy a seat on a lifeboat

deciding instead to descend

to the weighty opulence

of his stateroom

to attire himself in his finest

to go down like a gentleman—

one final tip of the hat

to noblesse oblige.

But he must have thought

as the icy waters greeted him

that the fates had somehow

misplaced his reservation

for a far gentler death.

Peter Smith

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Summer Reading at Juniper Hills Pool

As the chlorinated waters lap

against these aqua walls, I read of Custer,

whose virtually unmarked body

after the massacre was recovered

with holes augured through both ears,

reputedly by squaws who hoped

to improve his hearing

after he ignored the Sioux’s warning

not to return to the Black Hills.

Here, under that same throbbing sun,

I remember the gold pocketwatch

plucked from the tunic

Of Lieutenant John J Crittenden

at the Little Big Horn.

Its journey is skeined and furrowed

as these grids of light, shimmering

gold filaments that ride the hummocks

of domesticated water, and intricate mesh

that holds for moments

before the comprehending eye,

then blurs and loosens.

Though carried north by Cheyenne

into Canada and bartered,

it was later traced through markings

to a factory in Rhode Island, then home

to Frankfort, Kentucky, where now

it glimmers under glass,

its casing scratched and dinged

but the works intact, as though

young Crittenden, lying under his slope

beneath the Black Hills of South Dakota,

forgot his timepiece on the dresser.

Richard Taylor

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Catch me in that first

Moment of disbelief

So you can reiterate

The scent of the sheets

When we are done.

And you are gone.

Catch me before I fall

Into that violent sphere

Of rumors about you

And me

But not us.

Catch the hints that

I’m dropping

And the lines that I’m sending

To you

About you

For you.

So even though I don’t cry

Or laugh

Or say out loud

I love you

You will know

anyway.

Holly Chesnut

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Crikey

"You know, I like love you and shit."

Those were the words she had been waiting to hear. Well, at least three of them were. She could have done with out the extraneous ones, but she had long come to understand his rather unique form of expression, so she didn't take the phrase amiss. He spoke a dialect rather like Pig Latin—basically English, but with some twisted rules of its own, the most prominent of which was the frequent addition of "like" near the verb in the sentence, and the appendage of "and shit" to the end. With him, this construction applied in both the declarative mode ("I like had a really nice time and shit") as well as in the interrogative ("You wanna like go to a movie and shit?"). At least some gentle prodding in the past had succeeded in getting him to drop "shit" as an all-purpose expression of surprise or dismay, although she sometimes wondered if the alternative he had adopted were not more annoying than the term it had replaced. Now he said "crikey." He said he "got it from that crocodile-wrestlin' dude on the TV" and thought it sounded both earthy and exotic. But, hey, she figured, relationships are about compromising and learning to adapt, so she learned to live with the "crikey" and the "like . . . and shit." And after all, he was drop-dead gorgeous, especially when he put on that eyes downcast, shy little boy expression that he was using at the moment.

"I love you, too," she gently replied.

He looked up at her and smiled that smile of his, all dimples and blushes, his soulful brown eyes staring into hers. Then he made a quick grab and pulled her close enough so that she could, well, feel what he had in mind. "No, not yet," she said, pushing him away, although a part of her really didn't want to push him away at all. He had such a great body—trim, tanned and sinewy; muscular but not in a self-absorbed, body-builder sort of a way. He arrived at his skin and muscle tone the honest way—he was a construction worker—and that somehow made him seem even more attractive. But she was trying to make this into a special moment—it was, after all, their first open declaration of love—and an instant make-out session didn't seem to quite fit the romantic mood she was trying to establish.

He responded to the push-away with a puzzled look. "Not yet? Crikey."

She cringed involuntarily. "Let's just talk to each other for a while, okay? Just for a while."

"Talk?" he said, growing more uncertain of her intentions.

"Yes, talk," she said with finality, leading him to the couch and dragging him down to a seated position next to her. "We just don't talk that much, do we?" His lack of reply served as an affirmation. She was right—they talked very little in the relationship, but neither of them really viewed that as necessarily a bad thing. After all, they had absolutely nothing in common. She was a graduate student at a prestigious university, full of intellectual vitality and an abiding passion for knowledge. She could throw herself into a book with abandon and analyze its elements with insight and precision. She knew few happier moments than when re-reading one of her favorite Jane Austen novels, and she could talk or write in the most arcane jargon about literary art with an enthusiasm and expertise which few of her classmates could match.

He liked to watch TV. He wouldn't pick up a book unless he were going to use it as a doorstop, and hunting magazines were as far as his lust for literature took him.

Similarly, they both liked movies, but their tastes were divergent. His commentary on the films that she enjoyed were usually confined to one of two terms—"boring" or "chick flick"—and she found his attraction to films that featured gratuitous sex and graphic violence unnerving.

Their tastes in virtually everything else fell into the same pattern. She was fine dining; he was Burger King. She was a connoisseur of vintage wines; he drank Bud Light. She liked communing with nature; he would venture into the woods only if armed and ready to bag a twelve-point buck. She poked around used furniture stores looking for fine pieces in need of restoration; the tables in his apartment were actually discarded spools for wire and cables that he had dragged home from the job site.

"So-o-o what are we gonna talk about?" He asked the question in the manner of one who had been condemned to death but was simply wondering by which method he would be executed. Conversation was certainly not his strong suit, She knew. Early in the relationship she had attempted to start a number of conversations on meaningful and stimulating topics only to have abandoned such attempts due to his habits of giving monosyllabic replies and allowing his attention to drift. The mere mention of anything more cerebral than cars or football produced a far-off look in his eyes, as if his brain had placed his face on "pause" while it went to grab a snack. But since this occasion was different and special, she was determined to soldier on.

"Well, let's talk about us," she ventured.

"Us?"

"Yes. Like what you envision for the future. For us."

He grinned that little grin of his—God, he was handsome—and said with a slightly raised eyebrow, "I know what I got planned for tonight."

She couldn't help but blush and smile despite herself. "That's not what I meant. I'm talking long-term here."

"Oh. You don't mean like marriage and shit, do you?"

"No, no, no. I don't want to marry you." The words were no sooner out of her mouth then she regretted them, so she backtracked. "I mean it's too soon to talk about marriage," she said, and then hastily added, "and shit. What I mean is what exactly are you hoping for from this relationship?"

He raised his eyebrows as if stumped by the question. "Well . . . I like being with you. You're fun to be with—most of the time." He saw her eyes roll, and he cringed. Wrong answer. "What I mean is . . .," he began, not really knowing how the sentence would end but determined to give it another shot, "well, you know what I mean." That was a bluff that not even he bought, but he coupled it with his patented shy little boy expression in hopes that she would let him off the hook. Then he was hit with a sudden inspiration. "What are you hoping for from this relationship?" He had an image of his buddies high-fiving him for the brilliant tactical maneuver that the question represented.

She saw right through the tactic before the question was completely out of his mouth, but she still couldn't help but be taken aback by it. She squinted at him as if he had a bug on his nose, then unsquinted and drew her head back. What was she hoping for from this relationship? She marveled at the fact that she had never asked herself that most fundamental of questions before, and she was momentarily at a loss for words.

He sensed that he had the upper-hand here, for once. The taste of blood was in the water, and this time he would be the one doing the chomping. "I mean do you like think we have a future together and shit?"

Alarm bells were going off in her head. She could picture little guys in there furiously scurrying everywhere in search of an answer. She even opened her mouth to speak once, then shut it when she realized she hadn't yet decided how to respond, then opened it again as if convinced the words would fly in if only she stood ready to receive them. Did they have a future together? What was this guy to her aside from eye candy and a good time in bed? There had to be something else there—she was sure as hell not that shallow. And he did have a long list of very good qualities: he was kind, honest, gentle, and, yes, he had moments of genuine tenderness and sensitivity that touched her deeply. And yet . . . . Then a question occurred to her: would she even be dating this guy if he were ugly or fat or bald? The answer seemed so painfully obvious that she could only say aloud, "Crikey."

That was not the answer that he had been expecting. In fact, he had no idea why she said that (not that he had ever really known what the word meant in the first place). She had that look on her face that she got when she was reading one of her books or lost in one of those papers she wrote. He took that to mean that he could go into his it's-okay-to-ignore-her-at-the-moment mode, although he sensed that his usual diversion would be inappropriate right now, and he could only stare wistfully at the remote control sitting on his "coffee table" (actually the biggest of the spools).

In the meantime, she was in full mental crisis mode. Her brain's software was caught in an endless programming loop of calculating the problem to arrive at the same answer, then rejecting the answer as inconceivable and beginning the calculation again. Finally she got disgusted, hit her internal "esc" key and gave up. "Aah, screw it," she said aloud. "Wanna like go to bed and shit?"

He gave her that smile of his. "Now you're talking!"

Peter Smith

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