NCMAE #6 – Grow To Glow


I’m not sure if my best friend could read. She figured things out regardless, making a way for herself on her own across America over the course of 93 years. Her words come to me constantly as I work to decipher the stories and tangible history left behind. I remember being frustrated towards the end when she matched my every question with a question. This in itself was a lesson.

“Grandma! How will I get through my questions if you keep asking more questions?”

“You see that baby. That’s how you stay young! You never stop asking questions. You got to ask questions and you got to listen. Especially to the young people! When you stop listening and learning and growing, you start getting old.”

Got the Green Light



I feel like a green light. Nothing can impede my progress.Not traffic, not accidents, not even running out of gas.

There is no stopping a green light. Go means go, and I go hard. Harder than the car in the next lane. Faster than the fastest cars and the bigger cars hogging up multiple lanes.

I keep my oil changed, I rotate my tires, and maintain a clean interior so I can run efficiently and productively. I am the green light, controlling the traffic around me.

Even when the power is out my light still shines. I don’t see stop signs. I turn on and I’m out.

Some want to ride when they see my gleaming green light, but this is a coupe and no one rides for free.

So if you see me rolling around with the windows down in your town stay out of my lane.

Honk, honking shining in green on skinny tires, that’s me.

Vroom, vrooming past the Sunday drivers. Watch what you say and see, all the lights turn green for me!

Into the Light

Into the Light

Inside my tomorrows that run rampant in my dreams,
between my awakening and my destiny.
I rest thankfully inspired by my favorite word ‘go’
and for the knowledge and courage that help me grow.
When the fog grew thick, and I wanted to quit
I am eternally grateful for that voice in me hollering ‘NO!’
When it grew cold, and there was no place to go,
I sat still ignoring the slanderous cries of the crowd.
I knew past that place of love drowned in hate
waited the dream we all anticipate.
And until that date,
one request – let me be great.
And I promise every struggle I will appreciate.
The journey is the experience.
The destination the goal.
I am the conspirator, the engineer, the captain, the boss,
the gold miner chipping away at these boulders and rocks.



NCMAE #1 – Straws, Plates and Troughs

NCMAE #1 – Straws, Plates and Troughs

We celebrate her birthday December 8th. No one is for sure when she was really born because it was never written down. It was sometime in the early 1920’s.

She tends to repeat things. I had heard the story many times before but every time she remembers a new element of the story. 

The first time I heard about the plate she was babysitting Jason and I in North Carolina. We were in the middle of our daily big brother-little sister altercation. It generally went unnoticed by my mom but she was out of town. Great-Grandma wouldn’t stand for bickering. She nipped it in the bud immediately, inquiring what we were fighting over.

The swirly straw came from a happy meal, or a kids meal at the movie theatre, I can’t really recall but at the time it was special. My brother and I both wanted to drink from it and sharing was out of the question. 

She sat us down and said something I’ve never been able to let go of. 

“When I was a little girl in Georgia my brother LC and I were fighting over a plate. It was a shiny silver plate and we both wanted to eat off it. My Great-Grandmother came and took the plate. She sat my brother and I down like I am doing you two now. She told us that when she was my age she didn’t know what a plate was. She told us as a child she was a slave-girl and she only ate after everyone else ate. She said older women slaves would put all the leftover food from the big house into a pot and stir it together. Once it was warm they would pour the scraps into the hog trough. My Great-Grandmother sat on her knees and ate from the trough with her hands.”

Neither of us drank from the straw. 

Generational perspective.



I sat resting uneasy on that of which we exist, where the clocks are all wrong because time never mattered. I continuously wonder why we are all so bad at being good and when we became comfortable with being wrong.
With my soul as my witness I wonder what it’s all for? 
After years and years of toil in my mind I exhaled and accepted the facts. I shut down the angel and the devil on my shoulders; they became one in the same like the flightless bird and green fruit that share a name. 
Straight up like six o’clock. 

The Reality of it

Global warming is real however, my life experiences keep proving the world grows colder every single day. People lose focus and worry about all the wrong things. People make poor decisions that impact society with little regard for their actions. Over the course of my 25 years I’ve visited 20 countries. I have made it a point to watch television in every single one. I have never seen a production like the one I witnessed Tuesday in any other country. I have never seen people encouraged to embarrass themselves, their family and their culture on a national stage. The fact that this behavior is glorified horrifies and troubles me to my core. What’s worse is the sheer disregard for tomorrow. It’s disturbing seeing people so caught up in right now that living in the moment is all they can fathom, and their behavior reflects their narrow mindedness. All in the name of entertainment.

Recently, I had an experience with a group of right now thinkers that I will never forget. This group of egotistical, superficial, materialistic, shallow, morally bankrupt characters made me physically sick. The topics of their conversations/arguments made it apparent that nothing fruitful grows in the gardens of their collective minds. They bickered about money, bragged about their sexual encounters with each other and bashed the misfortunes of their cast members. At one point two women literally laughed at each other, one for having a miscarriage the other for being beaten by a man. The nature of the subjects addressed cause me to be concerned about where we are going as a collective generation. They were so lost in trivial disagreements that whole families have been dragged in. I watched a mother mediate between the mother of her grandchild, the current girlfriend of her son and another woman her son is involved with. It was sheer ridiculousness. 

Never in life have I seen such behavior glorified and praised by applause and compensation. It was as if the powers were encouraging the cast to embarrass themselves. Whomever was the most shameless received the most camera time. This tasteless experience was topped off with a brawl, more like a riot involving almost everyone on stage. Wigs, cell phones and shoes were thrown; the beautiful set was destroyed! As the fight spilled over into the audience the handle on my hand bag broke as I grabbed it attempting to move out of the way. Camera men, tech guys and photographers packed up and left after the fighting continued for 15 to 20 minutes. The executive producer hid behind the DJ booth with the host of the show who was nearly caught in the crossfire. There was nervous laughter in the midst of the apparent embarrassment. 

I know many will say if you don’t like what you see change the channel. Or why would I even attend such an event? Well, like many others I thought this behavior was just for television. I am here to tell you based on the arguments between takes and the pending legal cases discussed on set this their real reality! It is sad. This experience was truly eye opening for me, and I would be wasting my God given voice if I didn’t say something. This type of programing is wrong! We are exploiting and embarrassing hip hop! My motivation for attending the taping of the reunion was principally because I want to work in production and learn more about the process. I learned more than I could have ever imagined as I watched this cast of characters shame themselves and tarnish their public reputations forever. I still will work in production but I WILL NOT work with people who exploit themselves for the lowest pay rates of all of reality television shows. 

As the fighting continued and security scrambled, I had enough. I left prior to the recording of the second segment and decided then and there not to attend recording the following day. Outside I watched the rain drops throw themselves at the concrete. I couldn’t help but imagine these drops as tears from our ashamed ancestors. As painful as the experience was for me I’m sure watching their sacrifices evolve into the ‘hip hop’ culture that this show attempts to perpetuate hurt much worse. The sheer humiliation of real life stories played out on television for a profit is such a joke. 

None of what I witnessed was respectable. Not one moment of the show will make anybody who watches it better. No one involved will grow or prosper in a positive direction based on the behavior displayed. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts to know that many deem this entertaining. This television show is dragging us further and further behind and back in time. I pray children don’t watch or look up to these characters or the creators of this madness. I hope the children of the characters on this show don’t watch and that the parents don’t display the same behaviors in their homes. 

Being on television use to be an opportunity to change the culture and show the world something meaningful. Programs like the Cosby Show, Sister Sister, and The Fresh Prince of Bel Air showed positive progression of a generation. This group of alleged ‘reality stars’ is a waste of a real opportunity and I hope it ends soon. 


Moving On

The older I get the easier it becomes to move on.

The more mature I grow the simpler it is to say no.

With the years I’ve noticed a decrease in fears.

And the louder my headphones the less drama I hear.


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Call me Crazy


I’ve been called crazy more than I’ve been called my name. The latinos call me loco!

I don’t mind being mental.


If my name was Crazy what would be my middle name? It’s questions like this that cause people to think I’m crazy in the first place. But that’s just the way crazy people like me think. Is this what crazy looks like to you? You can’t keep up with crazy. Is this what crazy talks like?


I’m cool with crazy.


There are worse things to be than crazy. I would rather be crazy than ignorant. I would rather be crazy than loud. I rather be crazy than evil. I would rather be crazy than ugly – on the inside and/or out. Believe it or not I would rather be crazy than regular because then I would be the person calling other people crazy when I know nothing about the origins of their distinction.


I might be nuts you know?


For a while I thought crazy was my name. I never took offense to crazy or cray-cray. I never knew crazy was a issue until the world made me feel that way. I never realized the negative connotations with crazy till I heard an old lady talkin about me in the street. She whispered with her  friends, “Momma should be shamed. Out here lookin crazy!” I kept swangin up the street and stopped in front of a store gazing into the window looking for the crazy. I cocked my head to the side where was the crazy, was it my hair, my teeth, my skin? I peered into my own eyes and searched for crazy from within.


I couldn’t find the crazy.

So I stopped searchin.



Roses’s Sestina

Rose’s Sestina


It was July. Trees were green.

Grandma sat on the porch smoking

and arguing with Pop about forever.

Although, there isn’t much to tell a grown man,

they learn lessons best from time.

I resented her for wasting words.

I only love Jesus more than words

and on occasion sticks of green

that help me pass the idle time.

Aaron approached the porch smoking

a black and mild one finger over the cigar like an old man.

After a brief pause he hit play. It began again our forever.

Sitting in my windowsill I often dream of our forever.

I could love him my whole life. Words

come easy when we’re alone. He’s my man

I’ll stack for us, I’ll share my pile of green.

Aaron is something special smoking

hot he looks up into my window smiling, it’s time.

I smile too, birds chirp and violins play. It’s our time.

I clean up a bit still thinking about forever.

Grandma yelled up “Girl! He out here, still smoking.”

No smoking allowed inside. The black bought me time.

Peaking down again we caught eyes. He’s wearing that shirt. It’s green.

I looked away, heard shoes on the stairs, then a knock, there he is my man.

He asked, “How are you? It’s time.”

I laughed “I know. I don’t know a lot but I know my man.”

I lowered the shade as Grandma nosily looked up green

with envy. We melted quietly into forever.

No need for words. No need for words.

We put out the fire and left the room smoking.

I raised the shade. Grandma still outside smoking.

No reason to be embarrassed he’s my man!

We put to rest sounds and motions, waking up language and words.

He yawned, “I have work later.” I inquired “What time?”

There was a time limit today on forever.

The sweat turned the lime sheets dark green.

I love words more than time. Even when it’s smoking hot in July, he is cool as a March shower my man. And as far as forever goes, we’re parked at the light waiting for it to turn green.