Fruits of Our Labor-My Words, My Harvest

V.Y. Peterson

Description

This extraordinary debut collection of poetry and fictional prose, chronicles the realities and disparities of divorce, relationships and mental illness, within communities of color. Each poem and story, are complete in itself; collectively they create a tapestry as intricate, as defined and as colorful as the people they represent. To the many generations of kinfolk unable to identify or acknowledge the mental illnesses faced and were therefore unable to cope; to each and every one of us who are now struggling, fighting to find our voice… to all the little ones who were unable to rise, or to speak; did not have a voice... to those whose sounds became “inaudible voices”... including some of my own... I dedicate these words.

Sujets

• Vie de famille
• Relations familiales
• Poetry
• Short Stories
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 29 mars 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781481743013
• Langue: English

Extrait

Fruits of Our Labor- MY Words, MY Harvest
 
 

 
 
 
A Compilation of Poetry and Prose
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
V.Y. Peterson
 
 

 
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]
 
 
 
 
© 2013 by V.Y. Peterson. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
 
Published by AuthorHouse 03/25/2013
 
ISBN: 978-1-4817-3358-8 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4817-4301-3 (e)
 
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
 
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Table of Contents
Four Hundred Years Worth
My African Seeds
Name
Defined Black Man
Blue Eyes
Gold And Diamond
Beauty Of The Third
He Must Roll
Black Woman
Radiant Black Star
Staircase—(A Short Story)
Problems
?
Eternal Flame
Idolatry
Soulmate
All Of You
Wishes
One Sentence; One Question?
F A L L
What?
Visibility Of His Beauty
Honeysuckle—(Short Story)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
To Fly High In Formation
 
 
 
 
This book is dedicated to my 3 daughters: Amber, Diewo and Madina:
 
The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few—Plant your own seeds, water them, watch them grow. Eventually, you will be able to enjoy what your hard work has produced!
But if ever there is little to gather; plant again   .   .   .
 
Mommy
Four Hundred Years Worth
. . . and I never thought this could happen,
That after four hundred years
Of bloody acts:
The
Deliberate rapes-
Murderous greed-
Economic persecution-
Tormented bodies-
Bastard children-
Disowned babies-
Separated families-
Brutal beatings-
Deadly whippings-
Horrendous slayings-
Horrific lynchings-
Stolen names-
Erased identities-
The name game:
Nigger-?
Negroid-?
Colored-?
Black-?
African-American-?
Has it ended, what will we be named next?
 
Murdered husbands-
Abused wives-
Molested daughters-
Killed sons-
Racial injustice-
Forced racial mixing-
Mistreated human life-
. . . and I never thought this could happen,
After four hundred years
We are still standing!

My African Seeds
. . . and like a planted seed in time to grow,
We did sow; she became in summer time, when the days are longer and the nights seem quaint.
 
You leant me one… well actually two by that third year
And with the second seed, she would be called Madina;
Together
Beauty emerged with them both.
 
But the first seed, I was told; she’s to be a regal gift
You named her to be your first born… her name—“Diewo”—
But for you alone,
For another seed from me,
grew many years before I knew you…
Amber, the girl child!
 
Such beautiful brown skin, delicately coating her regal soul;
Ethnically defined; the mainstreams contradiction
Visual parallel of those before us on
 
Goree’ Island; middle of the Atlantic…
 
Senegal’s backyard
. . . what a playground this must have been for you.
 
My children, my precious gifts,
With them I am proud, even if your feet got weak.
I thank you as always, for the seeds you leant.
 
You prayed for me.
They all did that day
-“La ilaha ilAllah”; was prayed
. . .Prayed to your God
The blessed ceremony; a ritual defined…
He released her crown of beauty to the shavings…
Will it grow back?
You assured me so. It took a while…
Continuous prayers given to her that day… an earful of history
The griot told me
 
I now know who she is and who she will become…
They all came out to pay the respect…
To wear bold colors… yellow… red… green.
They danced for her
Food to indulge… the women prepared for me… rice, fish and fritters galore…
Lamb
Poor little lamb
 
She was first to be the queen of the West… for your lineage… in your time.
A namesake remembered… Sundiata Keita would be proud…
His destiny lives on,
greatness shown in the name.
 
I forgive you…
I did so back then…
Though your absence appalled me…
Do you know another way?
Youssou sang for her on stage… a superstar
 
I promise you, they will know…
I will teach them… I will show them both… they are royalty
My African Seeds!

Name
. . . and before I became, we were branded by a name unknown-
When I became, I was branded by a name unknown-
Must succumb to the identity attached; no need to fight…
The beginning starts no where that we can catch. Some say we can trace and track back in time…
Can we really?
Four hundred years, plus rape and steal… how can we keep up?
What is my name-really,
Who am I?
Years to come, as they passed and rolled by,
The name attached I held, sealed and bound.
Parental attachment, obligations withheld; they too, were in darkness.
 
The day has come now, a new name to take,
I am adult now; I must move on to take a vow-
A commitment of love.
My emerged name will now disappear… a new one to prevail.
 
A new name to hold—but is only temporary—
Anger prolonged as years rolled by…
 
Though an angel seed became during this time…
I must go now,
No more name I desire
-like pigment and bleach, I will rid of it…
Though the seed will carry the name… Who is she?
 
Ten years between… a new love
A new vow…
A new name…
Again.
I must play the name game once more.
This time, I will preserve it… I must not succumb.
My name reverts me back four hundred years
This is it
I will keep this name
Heritage alive
 
They changed my name, the one given at the first
They call me Mame Diarra, Mamebousso!
A woman to endure is the origin I see
She waited…
The story tells me…
The legend revealed…
She knew no other way…
She had to wait for him.
Mame Diarra waited
I am not Mame Diarra,
And I could not wait
I am not that strong
I am weaker than she
What is a name?

Defined Black Man
. . . and he stands there upright
dressed
as though Armani called upon him for contract.
His shoes shine… I need my shades. I left them home, regretfully today.
I advise you to run for cover
when he smiles…
if you want to see again!
There is more to the man than what you see.
 
Such a gorgeous dome he has,
Soft, fluffy like the peacock
But really, no comparison…
See, the peacock has never been blessed with this color.
It is really not grey,
as most would be at this point in time,
but rather white…
pure…
almost angelic!
 
He speaks… voice deepened and strong…
 
like the roaring waves of the ocean…
titanic.
There is more to the man than what you see.
His love for his people is fascinating…
He has taught me to expand my crown of knowledge
for the literary…
Has graced the mother land;
close to perfection in my eyes…
has touched my life as a learner of this art…
has opened my mind to new adventures…
He needs to know that he is talented and gifted…
I will say he is tagged.
He says his endeavors were suppressed,
due to the voice of another.
How cruel we can be to each other…
Should he stop to realize just how he has touched my life
he would smile…
after all,
look at all he has done for us,
over the past
four hundred years.

Blue Eyes
. . . and why do you care, just sitting there staring at me?
Why do you look at me
As if
I’m supposed to be somewhere else in some far away place
With the lions and the monkeys?
Do you wish you could look like this?
With firm round hips
And
A big butt tied around this soul pole of mine?
 
Does my hair
Give you a scare
And make you stare
Cause I can go from
Curls-
To-
Braids
To
Straights
To whatever I please
When I please?
What’s the matter sista dear?
Did you think I would care
When you came across my man?
Well,
Go on and have him Miss Thang,
Cause as sure as I am here
When I flip my hair,
Strut my stuff
And speak my tune,
Loving him all night long
Raising his kids
And cooking his meals,
(Cooking—not microwave baby)
He’s gonna be calling my name,
Coming back to me
Saddened
By his change in desire when he knows the fire was always here with me…
And where’s your candle?
So, go on girl,
 
Don’t you have tanning to do
Or whatever you do
That makes you stare at me.
 
. . . and you, Miss Thang,
Cause my face is more dark, and more deeply defined than yours,
Does that mean I’m mor