Tag: writer

If These Walls Could Talk

Wall

They would scalpel the mask off your face
Pull back the deception bleeding from your eyes
And reveal how dark you really are.
A slave to the ignorance pulsing from your mouth
Cloned imagination
Words bending, tainted by the cold lashes of society
Originality lying desolate
The inability to bring forth substance
Meat
And bone
Without nourishment
No cultivation
Of the mind
If these walls could talk
they would verbalize the truth
that you starve of love
dish out hatred
but cannot take it
glossed over and hidden beneath a poetic lyric
you love blindness
infatuated with the concept of searching your face in the shadows
chasing tails
finding no where
and understanding none at all
it is easier to be real
than to be mask
a lesson too many have not yet learned
what kind of life really exist inside the pen of a poet?
The things they would tell
If only these walls could talk
And you know what

they do.

Let’s Talk Womanhood…3.31.15

What is Womanhood? The question hangs over the head of our daughters with anxious anticipation. The youthful mind dividing itself into sections of experience: first date, first love, marriage, and children. We split ourselves into portions and gamble off pieces that do not fit. We grow old and still we find this question lingering against the frontal lobe of our minds, and occupying the mental space of our thoughts. “What is Womanhood?” It is a question we believe can be answered inside the quite deception tugging away at the purchase of cigarettes, the buying of liquor, the entering of the club scene or the mixing of our flesh with another’s. What does it mean to truly become a woman?

It has never been so exciting to ponder these questions in a time such as now. In just two weeks, together we’ll get to experience the questions themselves, and like short poems that tease our taste buds with instant melody, how delicious is the involvement.

This is not just a collection of poetry, but of inspirational quotes, and raw experience. It is the story of her.

Her Love. Her Man. Her Children. Her Womanhood.

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Copyright ©2015.Yecheilyah

Available 3.31.15.
theliterarykorner.com

Writer’s Quote Wednesday – Love Is

So as I pondered what to present this snowy Wednesday morning (Yea, you heard it right, it’s snowing in Louisiana again in February, insane. Thought I left this in Chicago, but I digress). I decided to switch it up this week with a song. Today’s Writer’s Quote Wednesday is Jah Cure’s Love is:

Love IsThis song is all about the quote:

“Love is the answer for every question”

We walk around here with our Bachelor Degrees and fancy titles. We hold forums on the state of the world. Everything from poverty, to racism, to religion. We cough up varied professional reasons why the world is the way that it is. As a result to these reasons more questions spring from our natural yearning for truth and for understanding. Some of us profit from these dictionary type languages we hold with one another, professed scholars and philosophers. Self-made experts in the field of such and such, and a how-to book that promises to give you the answer to the question of your existence and how to perfect your life. All of this and yet the answer lies in the simplicity, yet depth, of one word: Love.

It is no secret that the physical is a manifestation of the spiritual. And as the snow falls this cool Wednesday morning I am reminded that the hearts of men are just as cold. But love. Love is the heat with the potential to melt the wicked from the foreskins of our hearts, and so that we may feel again. It is the answer to every question, every solution, and every situation that exist. The world has grown cold because the world is void of love. It is the umbilical cord that connects us to our creator and all of creation and yet it is missing from our lives. Indeed, this powdery morning I am reminded that Love, Is.

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Don’t forget to check us out every Wednesday for exciting quotes (and songs!) as part of Writer’s Quote Wednesday, hosted by  Silver Threading.

Simmering Thoughts

I find that they are always best. Simmered thoughts. Anytime I feel the urge to transcribe my heart into the air I always find that it is best when thoughts have simmered a bit. A constellation of colorful expression brilliantly placed alongside a sea of feeling. A slow cooking of perfection, a lucent idea, crafty creativity, and steamy emotion kept just below the boiling point. Always showing up within those moments of contemplation and stillness. Somewhere between inspiration and writer’s block, a reflection on the world you carry inside of yourself is sure to produce a tasty remedy. A collection of thoughts, and experiences, and advice not yet given, boils down into a sudden birth of writing. We will see what becomes of it.

Stella: Book #1

Born: 1845
Owner: Paul Saddler
ID: 637
Name: Stella
Height: 44.0
Sex / Age: Girl, 6

Mama says my feet ain’t little girls feet. Say I shouldn’t be akin like no boy. But I likes running and the way my toes feel wiggling through the mud. I likes the gooey wetness, even the way the red dirt taste too. And I watch the little dusty balls go up in the air and cover up the cotton I was too short to reach anyways. So’s I likes running through the fields to see how high I’s get. One time I’s made it wheres I touched the sun. It wasn’t even hot either. It didn’t feel like nothing but air. I told mama the sun was tricking us.

 
“And how it do that?”

 
“Cuz mama, I touched it and it ain’t burn my finger none. It feels hot but it ain’ts really.”

 
Mama laughed but that’s only cuz she ain’t touched it. And the next day all of us had sticky skin, peeling and sweaty like creepy crawlers running down our backs and foreheads. The grown people say something bout a heat wave, but yesterday mama laughs so’s I know’d it was jest the sun.

1864
Stella Mae, Age: 19

Words can’t explain my excitement. For the first time since befoe Mama died I was actually happy to finish the last of the chores. I think even Ole Marse Saddler noticed it. He commanded me to wipe that ugly smile offa my face. Said nobody’s ugly as me deserved to smile, but I didn’t care none. I’s jest couldn’t stop feelin good. I was ‘bout to leave this place.

– Stella

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Available 2/24/15 @ $7.00

Stella never did leave the Saddler Plantation as she intended. Find out why in Book #1 of this short story and discover what’s really between slavery and freedom.

Book #1 Available in print February 24, 2015.

Special Places

150208_0001I find you in diverse places: coffee shops, libraries, community centers, parks, even out on the front lawn! Writer’s sprinkled miscellaneously about the earth: polished glasses, warm tea or iced coffee (depending on the weather), Mac books, PC’s and a 3 1/2 pound miracle between their ears. Is there a special place you go to write? You can’t see it, but it’s there; the invisible surge of energy that powers creativity. Electricity is all around us–the power of technology beating through our cell phones, lights, computers, and dishwashers. Yet technology has not its hold on electricity, for it exists beyond the tangibility of anything we can explain. We have not precisely deciphered its definition or explained the beauty of lightening. Energy, it pulses its way through nature, and slithers its way through our fingers.

The table circles its way around my small dining room, with four chairs to keep it company. One of these chairs props itself against the wall and faces forward. From here I can see the landscape of everything from the living room, to the kitchen and peer out the window at the same time. The swimming pool is naked of bodies and is in need of attention from maintenance. It’s a nice day in Shreve City; right now the community is as quite as it often is on Sundays except for the elderly woman walking her puppies. There is nothing special about this view, yet it is where I go to charge when I have not the solitude of being away at the office. It is an unusual place, yet being here is incentive enough to write. Here I may fulfill the need of written expression the moment I sit my bottom in this wallflower of a chair, revitalized by the invisible power that charges our anxious need to build.

Excitement

unnamedThis picture is so me right now! The excitement of writing a book. The point where you can think of nothing else but it. Way before the technicalities, the editing, the book cover design, formatting, marketing, promotion and all of the important stuff you will eventually get to. But not now. Now is the most important time, the moment of taking this energy by the reins and using it fully. Don’t wait until the thrill is gone and floating somewhere in outer space, do it now. Yes, now, write. Always write when you feel the urge to, it means something powerful is about to emerge. So it is at this moment that I fill my heart with the excitement of finishing the sequel to Stella, a short story that is not yet available even though the continuation is in my head yearning to jump from my frontal lobe and onto the page. I can hardly keep still these days, my mind too cluttered by the chit chatter of people in my head. The not yet visible personalities of characters hoping to acquire personalities before the next stage of their existence. Even though many of them are miserable because I do after all control their world. It is for me to speak their flesh into existence and fill their mind with lives they have never lived. To give them careers they have only dreamed of. But I will not leave them desolate. Instead I breathe intellect into the nostrils of characters so that they are not merely walking stick men, but they are people too. They live in places made of brick and mortar, smell the scent of cheese pizza while walking down a Chicago street, and intersect their toes into the Mississippi dirt. Their experiences then are not make-believe; their choices have actually been made before in some distant biography of people I do not know. And their faces are inscribed from my memory bank. I’ve seen this nose before and that attitude is as close as a High School friend. These people do not know it yet, but their shoes are lined with the imprint of humanity already. If I could, I may just foresee the manifestation of their existence in a mother, in a stranger, or some place outside of my world. Have my pen to cough up people with British accents and women who speak with a Somali tongue. Who knows, I may find them on television, catch them waiting for the bus, or greet the main character in the check-out line of the grocery store.