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Poetic Expressions and Prose


Fear by Fabiola Sully


I know your weaknesses.
I know your doubts.
I know when you're feeling down.
And your pessimistic thoughts.

I have crippled your thought process.
I have made you sulk.
I even broke you down,
Worrying about your insecurities.
I have kept misery within your grasp.
Knowing you're searching for true happiness.

I’ve kept you away from the unknown.
And all the inexperienced.
I’ve even kept you away from love.
Knowing you won’t know how to handle it.

Why deal with something you can’t control.
When you can’t step to the challenges.
You’ve tried to get rid of me.
Yeah, I know you fought back.
But I’ve kept striking.

Once your defenses were down.
Eating your confidence and well-being.
I know one day you will find the courage.
To put me out of my misery,
But when you have those feelings.
Of nervousness, tightness, and heat flashes,
I'll be there.
You know my name.

© 2003 Fabiola Sully. All Rights Reserved.

Finding the Way Home by Fabiola Sully
ISBN-13: 978-1432716226
Category: POETRY / General
Distributed via: Ingram, Baker & Taylor
Available at:

Author and poet Fabiola Sully is a Haitian-American from Long island, New York but born in Brooklyn. She has been writing off and on since she was seventeen. Currently she writes part-time and works in the medical field full-time. Her book of poetry, "Finding the Way Home" was published in June 2009. Other than writing, she loves music, watching movies, reading, swimming, the arts and theater, and hopes to travel more in the future.


For The Children
By Doris Washington
(In Dedication To The Children of Haiti Earthquake Relief )
Give to the Children -our children all over the world.
Let's give with our hearts and hands open wide.
For The Children!  For The Children!
Let's give to the children whose homes were
Taken away as the earth shook,
Leaving much despair, and the loss of so many- so many lives.
Let's give to the Children- our children all over the world.
Let's give to the children that live in a place
Where poverty has large numbers,
And their dreams for prosperity are their hopes to survive.
Let's give to the Children - our children all over the world.
Let's give to the children whose needs are so great,
In need of food and medical care- and so much more.
Let's give, and pray that their lives will be filled
With prosperity, good health, much joy and love.
Let's give to the Children- our children all over the world.
Give To The Children - our children all over the world.
Let's give with our hearts and hands open wide.
For The Children!   For The Children! 
For The Children copyright (c) Doris Washington, February 2010.  All rights reserved.  Approval needed BEFORE reprinting. Recognized by former President Bill Clinton in March 2010 with a personal letter to the author



 The Revealing Journey by Nanette M. Buchanan

How far back in your history can you travel?
How far before your presence begins to rattle?
You can remember when you were three or four....
Further back...your ancestor's history is yours to explore.

Let your heart beat at a steady even pace.
As you journey to this revealing place.
Close your eyes, open your mind.
There's a lesson in this short journey back in time.

Do you see the ship, the torture chamber,
The transporting vessel to this land of the free.
Captured like animals, shackled and chained,
Forbidden to speak, freedom? How could this be?

Don't become upset,
Travel on....remember pages of history you have been taught.
Pages that state your ancestors were slaves, traded and brought.
Pages that say they were the white mans structured molds,
Our ancestors picked cotton, as the white man tore at their pride and souls

The chapters are vague when mentioning
Any black man or woman that contributed to inventions.
But how they talk of riots and lynching,
Not many pages on black cowboys or heroes, just fearful uprisings
They only name our mentors and leaders after we march and demand
They don't fit that white man's surprising!

The books are to short to reveal what we touch, speak on and then forget
The ignorant white man's fear was "An educated nigger is a threat"
Boy was the name for males of all ages and size.
While wench and gal were names for girls soon to become Masta's prize.

In generations to follow history repeated again and again
We forgot the past as we scattered,
without education afraid of the white man.

The journey continues on today, what will be our history for tomorrow
Close your eyes now in prayer, save your tears for the foretold sorrows.

We have to learn from our history and our ancestor's experiences
There is a weapon to succeed.
If education is what they fear, education is what we need.

Copyright 2000--Thoughts & Reflections

No One Knows My Name by Tinisha Nicole Johnson 

A little shy girl who grew into a woman with dreams and a voice to be heard
And no one told me this world was going to be so cold 

I am but a speck on the earth from up above, looking down 
I am but one, 
I am but a person, 
I am but another writer, another author, another expression of my serenity 
I also recognize I want to get noticed...but no one knows my name 

I can hear a mild sound, a distance bump-bump in the night, 
It is my heart and it is yearning and sometimes stirring with mixed emotions, not knowing which turns are right 

Walking on a line so thin, trying desperately to figure out my pathway 
I already tried to be someone else, but I now know I can only be me, and yes… I have a name 

Calm, delicate, watching the world pass right in front of me, 
I see love and hate – a world filled with so much drama and different attitudes 
And I just feel full of energy and take on the world by writing in magnitude 

Writing is my comfort, it is my Life – I sometimes find myself hidden behind the words on the page
Words for people to read, enjoy, cry and laugh, 

I’ve made my decision, and you will find out it’s affections upon you - generations upon generations 

I’m ready to say what’s on my mind, so I need your attention, because this may take you on many elevations

I’ve been chained, banged, whipped and multiplied 
And you don’t know my name 

I’ve raised many children – some, not my own, and they have carried my values and fed from me 
I have slaved the fields and held down an entire generation 
And I am everyone’s mother, it seems 

I’ve been called the minority because of my gender and my race 
I have to fight with words and stand by my man and defend my family 
If you only knew what these eyes have witnessed…Go ask you grandmother 

The world is changing and things are happening, and if you don’t pay attention…well… you may have already missed it 
A new generation, a new time…afro-puffs and hand cuffs, trying to fight for freedom. Black Power! 

I now have many roles 
I have my struggles, but I move on, cause my kind is strong like that 
I can be anyone, the opportunity is there for me to grab 
Visions, desires, and new challenges… 
I am taking on the world with boldness 

And yes, you will remember my name, because I am a Black Woman
An undeniable, evident, special, beautiful, God-fearing, phenomenal Black Woman 

Written by: Tinisha Nicole Johnson
Author, Writer & Poet    


Now Go Ahead Blame The White Man 
by Nanette Buchanan

I decided to venture through the city, explore what may be new
Working a nine to five each day, sightseeing ain't what I normally do. 
I let my mind drift through the struggles our communities face each day,
And my thoughts touched on what we often hear our people say.

We can't get jobs the unemployment rate is at an all time high
Health insurance, taxes, the gas prices have passed the ceiling heading for the sky. 
Programs are for the immigrants, damn we've been here longer then them
Let them get new businesses, buy property, give their kids scholarships, it's just a sin.

More kids on the corner selling and skipping school 
Don't nobody wanna hear that shit about living by the golden rules. 
I stopped in mid thought and slowly looked around,
The saying "a product of your environment" now had a different sound.

Have you ever noticed the scenery in a city change?
We don't even have to check the mailboxes, something ain't the same 
The lawns uncared for, trash and rubbish between each house,
Graffiti on the siding, what is that all about?

Doors wide open, cussing and drinking on the porch, what is that smell?
A stench of old cooking grease
Some of the places look as though they carry disease. 
"A product of your environment", the children romp and play
Did anyone even ask them what they learned today?

The white man don't live here, it's just us
I don't think I'm better but I'm beyond disgust. 
We blame others saying they don't give,
Who do we blame when we destroy the homes where we live?

We don't take care to make the environment safe,
Our streets are taken over by the thugs, dealers, and gangs
Even though we know their parents, where they were raised
We go back 400 years to blame the white man for making us slaves 
Slaves to a community that we won't take care of, not even our rented homes
Blame the landlord for the damage, the needed repairs, rent is cheaper if its slum 
We don't even know our neighbor…..cause we live in the hood.
The village concept wasn't the white man's, it was what made us feel good.

We felt good about our community, the placed where we lived
The families struggled together, and each had something to give 
Words of advice and encouragement, a nod of recognition a friendly hello
"A product of your environment", meant your home a place you wanted to own

When you get a moment walk through your "hood", 
cause you're the product it made 
Now go ahead blame the white man,
for creating that environment where only our people stay.

Copyright 2008,  Author Nanette Buchanan
Bruised Love Video: 


A Godly Marriage by Arnita L. Fields

God gave man an awesome role to cover his wife and to band around his home.
The husband's presence in the home, lets the whole world know that he takes
his position seriously, and that God has given him control. 

His wife respects and praises him and neither are ashamed. 
There's total peace in their home and no shifting of any blame. 

The husband loves his wife and cherishes her with all of his heart. 
He teaches his children God's statures to give them a godly start. 

He is the priest of the home and a good provider too. 
He manages his affairs with integrity, as a Godly man should do. 

The husband does not allow outside forces to come in to disrupt his home. 
Even with small concerns he does not try to handle them alone. 

He and his wife share and are honest from their start. 
They open up their extra baggage and also the doors to their very hearts. 

Their marriage is a success as Godly marriages should be. 
With obedience, faith and their special love with God the Father at the lead. 

Just the Three of Us by Arnita L. Fields

It's you and me and God, just the three of us. 
That's the way it should always be, just the three of us. 

Marriage is not about our families, but about a covenant shared by three. 
It's love that's bonded and begun by God. 
As long as we walk together it should never be very hard. 

First separately we must love God alone, and make sure our
relationship with Him is indeed strong. 
This will enable us to love each other as God has ordained in His word. 

It's you and me and God, just the three of us. 
This is how God always wanted it and how it should always be. 

Copyright 2008 Poems taken from the book, "And the Beat Goes On, Includes Poems from a Restored Marriage" Copies can be purchased from the following websites:  and 

Meet the Author
Arnita L. Fields, a woman after God's own heart, has been blessed with the opportunity to write and publish four books of Christian poetry to date. She is currently working on her first novel and a new poetry collection which both will be released late 2010. 

Because of her passion and desire to see marriages operating in God's divine order, Arnita has returned to school to get a degree in Psychology and Marriage Counseling so she will be better equipped to help couples move past the hindrances that seek to destroy marriages today. 

To contact Arnita you may email her at  or you may reach her on her Face book, Twitter and My Space pages. 



Gingerbread Lady By Michael Lee Johnson
(Version 2)

Gingerbread lady, no sugar or cinnamon spice;
years ago arthritis and senility took their toll.
Crippled mind moves in then out, like an old sexual adventure
blurred in an imagination of fingertip thoughts.

Who remembers the characters?

There was George, her lover, near the bridge at the Chicago River:
she missed his funeral; her friends were there.

She always made feather-light of people dwelling on death,
but black and white she remembers well.

The past is the present; the present is forgotten.
Who remembers Gingerbread Lady?

Sometimes lazy-time tea with a twist of lime,
sometimes drunken-time screwdriver twist with clarity.
She walks in scandals; sometimes she walks in soft night shoes.

 Her live-in maid smirked as Gingerbread Lady gummed her food,
false teeth forgotten in a custom-imprinted cup
with water, vinegar, and ginger.

The maid died.  Gingerbread Lady looks for a new maid.
Years ago, arthritis and senility took their toll.
Yesterday, a new maid walked into the nursing home.

Ginger forgot to rise out of bed;
no sugar, or cinnamon toast.


As They Slept by Nanette Buchanan
- The Black Legacy 

While they slept.....
Their life was torn from it's roots
The land robbed and invaded.

While they slept....
They were shipped across the world,
Their freedom masqueraded.

While they slept....
The women were raped,
The men were abused.

While they slept....
They became a part of a manipulative scheme.
They were in a world frightened and confused.

While they slept....
More and more mentally they began to stir.
They withstood it all to be free again.

As they awoke....
They rose as a group
Mentally strong, physically able,
For their journey to begin.

As they awoke....
Becoming free
they began to see,
What the new land would mean to you and me.

As they awoke....
It was taught all eyes closed, do not sleep,
They left underground, they learned to creep.

As they awoke....
They brought us stories of our history and past.
With our eyes open how long will our slumber last?

Copyright 1998-Thoughts

The Definition of Love by Nanette M. Buchanan

He said he knew a little about "true love", my ears tuned in.....
It had been weeks, no months, a few years.....since we had been just friends.

We had gone to heights where I felt pure pleasure, total ecstasy,
We had explored our minds, entwined our bodies, engaged in shared fantasies.

He said he knew what to say but didn't know what it truly meant
It had be said over and over we were the others angel......the love heaven sent.

We took no chances playing the other for a fool,
Our relationship was based on honesty, it was our silent rule.

He said he lived this night in his dreams from the time we met
We both new what was expected, our love would die now or move on to the next step.

I tried to tell him I loved him, what happened in the past, was explained and defined
His past, their love, was not our struggle, not a part of our time.

He said he thought he loved once before and failed, but found it was not true
Today she told him he was a father, and after three years, what was he to do

He said he didn't really know why he never knew about his responsibility,
But he was now known as "Daddy" to a little girl that was three.

He recognized himself in her tiny face and bright eyes,
He didn't want to lose our love for another, I listened, he cried.

We share our love with his angel, we know this was not a mistake.......
The definition of's never too late.

Copyright 2010--Nanette Buchanan, I Pen Designs 

Books by Author Nanette M. Buchanan 
• Bruised Love 
• A Different Kind of Love 
• Family Secrets, Lies & Alibis 

Books are available wherever books are sold and online: 

Contact Information 
• Website: 
• View the Video Postcard:

What If  by Nanette M. Buchanan

Celebrating those who heard the call to lead

What if......
There had been no ships approaching the coast, no overseers,
No masters, no plantations, no whips, no chains.
No slaves,
Those things that "kept" us from being free.

Would we.....
Have self-respect, morals, pride,
Those things that have died
Imagine how it would be.

What if.......
There had been no Crispus Attucks, Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks,
Martin Luther King, Malcolm X
Those who heard the call to lead

Would we....
Work to achieve, become educated, assist one another,
And rid our crab mentality, our greed.

What if.....
There were no civil rights, no equal opportunities,
No affirmative action, no NAACP,
No programs designed to assure a percentage will succeed.

Would we....
Be Kings and Queens in our homeland,
Rich and have responsibilities
Able to fulfill our goals,
Desires and needs.

What if We.....
Stopped blaming our past for our present conditions,
Blaming the "white man" for what was done,
Blaming our successful brothers and sisters for selling out.

Would we....
Understand the wealth of a man is instilled with each of his experiences
and his accomplishments,
That overcoming obstacles is what success is about.

Would we.....
Raise our youth as our prized possessions, make an investment in our future
generations, realizing this is key

Would We....
Recognize we are a nation within this nation and our
"Black Power" is our Nobility......

What If We......
What If We......

Copyright 2009-Quiet Times; Nanette M. Buchanan


Harvest Time By Michael Lee Johnson
(Version 5)

A Métis Indian lady, drunk,
hands blanketed as in prayer,
over a large brown fruit basket
naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard
inside-approaches the Edmonton,
Alberta adoption agency.

There are only spirit gods inside her empty purse.

Inside, an infant,
restrained from life,
with a fruity wine sap apple
wedged like a teaspoon
of autumn sun
inside its mouth.

A shallow pool of tears
mounts in native blue eyes.

Snuffling, the mother offers
a slim smile, turns away.

She slithers voyeuristically
through near slum streets,
and alleyways,
looking for drinking buddies
to share a hefty pint
of applejack wine.



Charley Plays a Tune By Michael Lee Johnson
(Version 2)

Crippled, in Chicago,
with arthritis and Alzheimer's,
in a dark rented room,
Charley plays
melancholic melodies
on a dust filled
harmonica he
found  abandoned
on a playground of sand
years ago by a handful of children
playing on monkey bars.

He now goes to the bathroom on occasion,
relieving himself takes forever; he feeds the cat when
he doesn't forget where the food is stashed at.

He hears bedlam when he buys fish at the local market
and the skeleton bones of the fish show through.

He lies on his back riddled with pain,
pine cones fill his pillows and mattress;
praying to Jesus and rubbing his rosary beads

Charley blows tunes out his
celestial instrument
notes float through the open window
touch the nose of summer clouds.

Charley overtakes himself with grief
and is ecstatically alone.

Charley plays a solo tune.



Nikki Purrs By Michael Lee Johnson

Soft nursing
5 solid minutes
of purr
paws paddling
like a kayak competitor
against ripples of my
60 year old river rib cage-
I feel like a nursing mother
but I’m male and I have no nipples.

Sometimes I feel afloat.

Nikki is a little black skunk,
kitten, suckles me for milk,
or affection?

But she is 8 years old a cat.

I’m her substitute mother,
afloat in a flower bed of love,
and I give back affection
freely unlike a money exchange.

Done, I go to the kitchen, get out
Fancy Feast, gourmet salmon, shrimp,
a new work day begins.



Fair Game by Rosemarie Wilson

Before partnering, unmarried men were fair game. 
Took someone’s man—feel quite the same? 

No longer comfortable hanging with single women, 
Working hard at becoming happily married with children. 

Would it sit well if a woman pursued your man? 
He’s not married and fair game from what you had me understand. 

Reluctantly disclosing a former outlook that’s changed, 
Looking back on reckless views that now appear deranged. 

Should people respect a relationship just recently committed? 
Should former ways of thinking be promptly acquitted? 

Desiring the respect that’s never been shown. 
Praying that women leave committed men alone. 

Loving your man, in him you’ve laid trust. 
Going for broke, all or nothing, together forever or bust. 

Been together two joyous years. 
Laughed and loved barely shedding any tears. 

Now your man is starting to act slightly foreign. 
Called a woman’s name as he slept and was snoring. 

Repeated calls to him ring on an unanswered phone. 
Wait it out, or maybe drive by his home? 

He told you Monday afternoon that night he’s working late. 
Monday evening he ate from another woman’s plate. . . 

Who considered your man as fair game. 
She embraces your old ways now you think it’s a shame. 

What goes around comes around, you didn’t quite believe. 
The same way he came may be the same way he’ll leave. 

© 2009 All Rights Reserved by Rosemarie Wilson 
From her first poetry collection entitled: 
“One Single Rose . . . Poetry Blossomed from a Rose Core” 

About the Author
Rosemarie Wilson was raised in Detroit, Michigan’s east side. The youngest of four brothers, she became involved in the community at a young age. As a Girl Scout from kindergarten through high school, she learned valuable lessons by helping others. Raised in the Baptist church and educated in the Detroit Public School system, Rosemarie graduated from Cass Technical High School and spent two years at West Virginia State College. Upon returning to Detroit, Rosemarie obtained her bachelor’s degree from Davenport University (formerly Detroit College of Business). In 2005, as a staunch advocate of fidelity, Rosemarie’s conscience was awakened with her induction into the literary world as the editor of “Saved, Single and Satisfied” written by Shaunda R. Hill. Since that time, Rosemarie has been active as a guest on the Write the Vision “Raisin’ the Praiz” radio show on Detroit’s WHPR FM, 88.1. Her poetry has also been featured on Jolie Magazine's former website, the Soul S.I.S.T.A.H.S. Café of Reading and Poetry ( and the Key of Gee newsletter ( For the past 19 years, Rosemarie has been employed at top law firms in Michigan and freelances in her spare time. 


Rod Stroked Survival with a Deadly Hammer
By Michael Lee Johnson

Rebecca fantasized that life was a lottery ticket or a pull of a lever,
that one of the bunch in her pocket was a winner or the slots were a redeemer;
but life itself was not real that was strictly for the mentally insane at the Elgin
Mental Institution.

She gambled her savings away on a riverboat
stuck in mud on a riverbank, the Grand Victoria, in Elgin, Illinois.
Her bare feet were always propped up on wooden chair;
a cigarette dropped from her lips like morning fog.

She always dreamed of traveling, not nightmares.
But she couldn't overcome, overcome,
the terrorist ordeal of the German siege of Leningrad.
She was a foreigner now; she is a foreigner for good.

Her first husband died after spending a lifetime in prison
with stinging nettles in his toes and feet; the second
husband died of hunger when there were no more rats
to feed on, after many fights in prison for the last remains.

What does a poet know of suffering?

Rebecca has rod stroked survival with a deadly mallet.
She gambles nickels, dimes, quarters, tokens tossed away,
living a penniless life for grandchildren who hardly know her name.
Rebecca fantasized that life was a lottery ticket or the pull of a lever.


Mother, Edith, at 98 
By Michael Lee Johnson

Edith, in this nursing home
blinded with macular degeneration,
I come to you with your blurry
eyes, crystal sharp mind,
your countenance of grace-
as yesterday's winds
I have chosen to consume you
and take you away.

 "Oh, where did Jesus disappear
to”, she murmured,
over and over again,
in a low voice
dripping words
like a leaking faucet:
"Oh, there He is my
Angel of the coming."

Meet the Poet
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: The original version of The Lost American: from
Exile to Freedom, can be found at:   

He also has 2 previous chapbooks available at:

Michael has been published in over 22 countries. He is also editor/publisher of four poetry sites, all open for submission, which can be found at his Web site:


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Founder & Editor In Chief Black Pearls Magazine