Perfection is an illusion just outside my reach, yet I can create a masterpiece
as tall as the sky as vast as the ocean
Not one particle of one speck escapes my touch
Not one ounce of love or blood wasted on temporary treasures
smothered or burned to ashes.
Perfection is silent but my words speak life,
My rhymes are made to heal
Untouchable by hatred and ill will.
Perfection is invisible, leaving me without scar or blemish,
Fault or blame nor torched by hell’s red flame
Fear can not find me and it doesn’t know my name.
I have hundreds of ideas a day. Over time, I’ve noticed that ideas left unexplored fade away or are realized by someone other than me. In other words, ideas and the memory from which they came have an expiration date. So I decided to do something with the plethora of ideas flooding my mind daily while my memory can store them.
First, I will write my ideas down to determine if they are truly worth further exploration or simply fleeting thoughts that don’t require any more time. Either way, I will be making good use of my memory and thoughts…
The Akward Date
“I have a headache,” he said, then gripped the dinner table and raised his shoulders toward his ears. “It’s not your perfume — seasonal allergies. You know how it is.” He blew his nose loudly as if he were in the privacy of his own home. The woman tried to ignore the soiled linen napkin he placed on her side of the table.
“Aside from the headache,” he continued, “Thursday is the perfect date night.” From my experience, Thursday night dates were the kiss of death. So far, they have been proving me right. If this guy…
Writing is not easy. It is a demanding, often frustrating passion that I choose to dance or fight with daily. The best days are when words appear to fall from the sky and land perfectly on the page with little effort on my part. I write beautifully about any subject — the moon, my Southern roots, or the deer in the ticket. Toni Morrison said it this way, “Everything I saw or did was potentially data, a word or a sound or something for the book…”
When I am connected to the world around me, it doesn’t matter what…
Overwhelmed by the number of books stacked in the corner, I knew it was time to clean house. I gently removed layers of dust with a damp cloth. Underneath were bright book covers, catchy titles, and the names of authors who introduced me to new possibilities. Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou guided me through social landscapes. Hughes with “Let America Be America Again,” 1936, and The Best of Simple, which no literary collection is complete without. Hughes reminded me that even the most obvious of dignities can be hard-fought battles.
Angelou’s “Still I Rise” gave me the strength to preserver…
Work from home never ends. No matter how late an email or text arrives, I am obligated to respond. Employers do not complain when employees reply to emails at 10:00 PM but they reward the negative behavior with praise, “I appreciate your dedication and hard work.” Hold up boss lady, I am keeping track of overtime.
I assumed that working from home I would have time to do all the things that I couldn’t do when I was commuting to work everyday. At the top of the list were cleaning the closets, removing the shoes from under the bed and…
Friday night Blues floats from the back door of my grandmother’s house as she watches muddy water catfish deep fry until it is golden brown, then served on paper plates while it's too hot to eat. She hums along with the music, closes her eyes, and bobs her head in agreement.
Mama sits quietly preparing potato salad. The music transforms her into a bright future or painful past. No one knows which, not even her. The only certainties are the Blues, its ability to heal, and the food — made by hands that hold our lives together.
Aunt Tee sips…
The doorbell awakened me from a peaceful sleep.
There was no evidence of anyone on the porch, no unfamiliar cars, or disruptions on the street — just the echo of the doorbell ringing in my head. It joined the other unwelcome noises of a confused world coming to grips with its fate; They crash into each other with a quake and rumble. Their sound waves vibrate 100 years into the future, still searching for compassionate hearts and a peaceful resolution to hatred and fear.
I resided here in the present. …
I picked up a few rocks and threw them at the frogs hopping across the road on their way to the ditch to cool off from the hot summer day. “Gal, leave those frogs along. They’re not bothering you,” Mr. Henry said from his yard. He had just mowed the front and back yard yesterday. I did not see any reason for him to cut it again this evening. He already had the neatest house on the block. What more could he want? “I said stop throwing those rocks, gal.” He mumbled something else about how my generation had bad…