Coffee Talk

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Comment by Sharon Moore Stenhouse on October 31, 2009 at 12:23am

Hello Everyone: I know it has been a while since I last visited Coffee Talk. First let me say hello to all my old friends, and welcome to my new friends. I'm stopping by to let you know I've just released my 4th book, which is my 2nd book of poetry. This time I've included about 18 essays as well. Here's a link to my online store. http://stores.lulu.com/spiritualcreations

I've also developed a creative writing workshop: www.akihoro.com/workshop

Yes, I've been busy writing, studying, praying and continuing my faith walk.

Amani na Mapenzi: Love & Peace

Comment by Kim Wilson on October 26, 2009 at 10:02pm

Take a tad of time to visit me; thanks.
blackplanet.com/ooweeallthetime
facebook.com/kimwilson
littleepisodes.org/kimwilson
ooweeatalltimes.ning.com
blackauthors.ning.com/profile/kimwilson
slsbookclubcenter.ning.com/profile/kimwilson
Much LITERARY LOVE!

Comment by Kim Wilson on October 8, 2009 at 9:57pm

The poems presented come directly from heaven above. I send this 'peace' to all of you.

OutstandingOriginalWritingEveryEpisode

There is THE PRICE that must be paid to BREATHE. I FORGET the obvious BS UPFRONT as I STRUGGLE to willfully CHANGE. I come from a CULTURAL HISTORY TREE where the 3 MEALS A DAY consist of people treating me FAKE; being bogus in their TESTIMONY, keeping me from my emotional FREEDOM. I HAVE FORGONE so much while MELTING into sanity; trying to reach PEACE EVER AFTER. As a BLACK GIRL, if you look INTO MY EYES, you will understand when I shout WHAT ABOUT ME; in my flagrant CIRCUMSTANCES. AAAAhhhh, DAYS DON'T LOOK like the BOLD STATEMENTS I need to vent; feeling like I'm DROWNING IN WATER, but DOUBLING UP instead; SAY WHAT!

Days don’t look as
glorious when
your heart’s
been shattered.
It seems
time takes,
as the itty
bitty ‘peaces’
struggle to
get together
again.
I looked
out into
the sunshine
and saw
nothing;
but light.
The grass
seemed to
get greener
in an instant.
I thought
it was light
blue shaded
with whites
and grays
and birds;
the sky.
Kim Wilson



I forget sometimes that I’m standing in a room not alone; but filled with independent words; a surrounding of emotional thoughts and deeds.
I try to complain under my breath; aloud for comprehension.
Kim Wilson
OOWEE

Comment by Savaslas Lofton on October 8, 2009 at 11:51am

"Remember never let your optimism be BECAUSE of circumstance but INSPITE of circumstance. In every situation, YOU are the constant that possess the ability to change the uncertainty to certainty, the obscurity to clarity."-Savaslas Lofton

Comment by Knewborngod on October 7, 2009 at 4:16pm

Wow Savaslas. I sure wish I could share that with a sociopath I know but it would be breath wasted.

Comment by Savaslas Lofton on October 7, 2009 at 10:37am

"True strength isn't found in the ability to manipulate and control others...but in the ability to still love and forgive after you have been done wrong."-Savaslas Lofton

Comment by Kim Wilson on September 18, 2009 at 7:22pm

Sable and Kanisha; Why Us Lord! excerpt for SS in compilation PEACE, BE STILL

The 7:45 bell, at Martin Luther King Academy for the Gifted, sirens throughout the noisy hall crowded with kids stretching and yawning and gossiping from breakfast. Teenagers, dressed in appropriate school colors, push and shove and dodge one another, like scurrying gazelles, to get to class.
 Fickle Mrs. Foster begins her class promptly at 7:50.
‘To Know and Tell’ is a time of reflection on which we observe the creative energies put forth by our literary and creative ancestors, the blackboard reads.
Mrs. Foster taps the edge of her circular wooden desk, which is crowded with graded and un-graded stacks, a LOVE mug, a picture of her family and her Holy Bible, to get the attention of
Ariel, Cooper and Darnel, the class cut-ups, with her wooden pointing wand, “May we begin young men.”
 All eyes are focused on Valary Dean as she stands at the podium to deliver her speech, in the auditorium-style classroom, on the month’s topic; Ancestor-ship.
 Dressed in complementing rags, I begin. “Phillis Wheatley. First African American poet. A child without a name arrived in Boston, Massachusetts July 11, 1761. No one knew her age because she spoke no English when she was snatched from her family in Africa, brought to American soil and sold as a slave. Said of Susanna Wheatley, that she was swayed by her modest demeanor and interesting features of the little stranger. John Wheatley paid John Avery about 10 pounds sterling for the sickly child. Phillis was named after the slave ship that brought her to American soil. As her interesting life struggles on she studies Geography, Astronomy and Ancient History. At twelve she discovers her love and gift for rhyming words; thus begins her life as a poetess. Exhaling to continue. This is the poem I wrote in respect of Phillis Wheatley. Wrestling the microphone from its stand, stepping in front of the four foot high podium, tipping myself close to my audience; and quietly begins. ‘The date has always been not known, since all history knew was, Senegambia, West Africa was my native home. Bought by John Wheatley, although I was sick and meekly. Susanna loved me for my size, not knowing I was an undiscovered literary prize. My first collection was published in London, after successful visits throughout England, my words and thoughts from my own mind and hand, I lived spiritually rich in no-woman’s land. Many from various royal bloodlines had to meet Phillis Wheatley, for I scripted free woman’s literature, although I started off bought, uneducated and meekly. I wrote to George Washington, and yes, Mr. President wrote me back. I accepted his personal invitation to the White House; sat together in a warm room with him, what a historical fact. Married John Peters, a freed black man, and left nothing from the beloved Wheatley clan, died December 5th, 1784 in a poor man’s land, with unscripted poems in my head and hand.’ Thank you.
 
Wynita glides to the podium, through the applauding students, patting Valary on her back, like a G-Unit model, to give her presentation; ‘My turn’ smiling, under her snobbish breath. She clears her throat to get the attention she feels she so deserves.
 
“Booker T. Washington never knew his exact date of birth because at the time African Americans or slaves were not privy to their dates of birth and such important information plus the birth of slaves were not recorded because they were not important enough to be cared about plus slaves died so often it probably wasn’t worth the time, exchanging her stance from I’m-way-to-sexy-for-this to they’d-better-be-paying-me-attention. Booker had to begin working at age five fanning flies from his master’s table, something I would never do; during mealtimes because it was against the law for black to get an education. Freedom was suppose to come at last in 1863 when Lincoln supposedly freed all the slaves in the South, which is still left up to debate. Booker only knew his first name so when the teacher ask his last, he immediately made up one and said; deepening my voice without messing up my thick cherry lip-gloss. ‘Washington, Booker Washington is my name’. The class roars. Because there was a better school some 500 miles away poor Booker was forced to hop trains, beg for rides and sleep on the ground, something I’d never do.”
“Wynita can you just get through your report without all the arrogant blurbs honey” Ms. Foster admonishes, with one hand on her thin hip.
“Sure, waving her off; whatever. He was determined not to turn back. When he arrived, he was told, putting one hand on her hip and pointing a finger, ‘There’s no room in this school for you.’ He had to think of something quick, so he got permission to clean the classroom to have something to eat every day. After seeing how diligently he worked at cleaning the classes Miss Mackie re-decided, ‘There is an opening.’ He was hired as the janitor and thus worked his way through school, which is something I’m so glad I don’t have to do, smirking. Okay, okay, I know. Upon graduation from Hampton School, Booker decides that he must help his brother John and Sister Amanda become educated; pausing; looking at Ms. Foster and dying to say something smart-mouth. Years later when a school in Tuskegee, Alabama was in need of a principal, his name was raved, so he accepted his new job. There were no individual classrooms as we now know or school materials. His first class, July 4th, 1881, was in a church with 30 illiterate and ignorant black kids of various ages; he wore the Principal/Teacher hat. Miss Olivia Davidson was hired as a second school teacher later becoming his second wife, whom would die in a supposedly un-escapable fire. His school building was built, financed and maintained by dedicated family and devoted friends. They grew their own food to eat because they had no cafeteria. Wynita again pauses for effect and to rest her hate-to-be-used-for-any-thing-other-than-selecting-makeup brain. Married three times: Fannie Smith, daughter Portia. Olivia Davidson, sons Booker Jr. and Ernest Davidson. Margaret Murray marries October 12, 1892. Here’s an excerpt from Booker T. Washington’s speech at the Atlanta Cotton Exposition, and it went like this. She drinks from her water glass, and in her best male voice, ‘The races could be as separate as the fingers on the hand in all social things, but when the country was in need the races work together. Build your own houses so you won’t be homeless. Learn to farm and take care of your own animals and you’ll never go hungry!’ Afterward Booker T. Washington became the most powerful black leader of that time; and now it’s Oprah, grinning. Here’s my poem; Booker T. Washington was a great and notable man, scratched and scuffed to stack his hand, one which he displayed in an awesome way, via his educational legacy, which is here to stay. Thank you” and flouncing from the podium as if the stars were lighting her path.
“My turn, my turn, AnnaMarie yells in broken English. Come” motioning to the four friends she’s chosen to help perfect her presentation.
They position themselves with picket signs, weaving themselves in back of AnnaMarie, “Cesar Chavez, The Cause, Cesar Chavez, La Causa” Pedro, Jorge, Jaime and Tomas chant.
“La Causa led struggle for human rights and dignity of migrant and farm workers. Cesario Estrada Chavez named for his grandfather, Papa Chayo was a slave in Chihuahua, Mexico until he escape and cross the border to United States in 1880s. Cesar learned by doing everything Papa Chayo did, who lived to be 100, AnnaMarie explains as best, in her broken third language. Cesar’s mother was not educated. She was wise. She told him good, very good consejos, advice. She taught him about no violence, no fighting, not to make war. She would tell him, ‘lleva dos para pelar, uno no lo puede haser solo’. Chavez thought it was honorable to stand for your rights, rights of others. En un ano a migrant worker gano solo a meager $300 dolares. The barrios were tiny and dirty and cramp; up to twelve people live in un cuarto, one room. No bathrooms, no sewers, no electricity or water running, what we have. Most children of migrant workers never finish the grade six. Cesar graduated grade 8 at 15. at 17 Cesar joined the NAVY; soon he had a family of his own to care for the honor of. Cesar leo libros y aprendio de la ley. Soon he assisted the CSO who can assist farm workers get food, better housing, medical and legal. September 23, 1962, National Farm Workers Association was founded in Fresno, California; and LA CAUSA was born!”
Her heart-felt rise was as effective as an Opera singer’s finish. The students stand and roar ‘La Causa, The Cause, La Causa, The Cause’; even those who didn’t know what she was talking about.
Her assistants continued rotating their picket signs and shouting, “Huelgo! Huelgo! Strike! Strike! Huelgo! Strike, Strike!,’ as they took their seats.
“Robert Kennedy loved him. Martin Luther king loved him. Both support the La Causa boycotts. Cesar fasted 25 days and walk 70 miles for La Causa with threats on him; refusing to quit, they march and they pray and keep great faith.”
Jose stands at his desk and in his best Cesar Chavez imitation, ‘I am the father of La Causa. Yo creo en la dignidad, la justicia, y derechos, humanidad de la gente; I believe in dignity, justice and human rights of all people, especially the poor’, thrusting his tiny fist into the air; the mighty champion Cesar Chavez was.
“Class you all did an exceptional job on your presentation, Ms. Foster boast. Next month’s topic is African Americans short story writers. Here are the authors and story titles. Critique a presentation. Everybody has a pencil I presume, I’m only saying this once. Wham, Bam, Thank you Ma’am by Evelyn Coleman, Flimsy and Raggedly by Phill Duck, Queen by Cheryl Floyd-Miller, Back Then by Michael P. Fuller, Young Ballers by Tracy Grant, The Day Chano Died by Nancy Pardon and That Nigger’s Crazy by Omar Tyree; class dismissed.

Comment by Savaslas Lofton on September 18, 2009 at 1:10pm

"One of the travesties of life is to have lived...and never have reached the maximum of your greatest potential."-Savaslas Lofton

Comment by Knewborngod on September 16, 2009 at 11:41pm

“I’ve spent my life, evading this thing called love for many reasons,
My hearts been closed, rejecting it, neglecting it, for many seasons
I’ve stared into mirrors, and have failed to see beauty in the reflection
Have told myself I love you, but didn’t return the affection
I stumbled in darkness, and simply existed,
Love was in the light, but the light I resisted
On a path all alone, with no desire for another
Then out of that darkness came a beautiful brother
Laying eyes on you, I knew love was in sight
You dilated my heart, and brought me to light
I bask in your love, and return it with pleasure
Now here I stand, to be yours forever”

Comment by Knewborngod on September 16, 2009 at 11:38pm

I love his embrace,
And how the back of his hands, trace the outline of my face
I feel him when his distant
His love is persistent
Never fading, my heart anticipates, his invading, love
I’m lost in him, yet look deep in him and find myself
When he’s by me I find myself beside myself
When he’s away from me I’m left a fraction
When he returns I’m whole
This type of feeling never gets old
I’ve known him before
Before there was a he,
Before me
Before me and he were we
Our souls have grown old and been renewed and reunited
Burning our hearts is this love we’ve ignited
Forever I’m his, in this life and all others
Bound forever, these ebony lovers

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