Blackness

Kindra Austin – sister, daughter, history

Blood Into Ink

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It was easy to break her marinating heart on a Friday night when she was sat at the candle-lit kitchen table, chain-smoking and listening to Janis Joplin, or The Eagles, or Rod Stewart; sometimes I didn’t, but most times I did because the tone of my voice, or the choice of my words, or the sound of my lungs breathing poisonous air reminded her of my dad. She’d always taught me to be honest, but never liked it when I was honest in the dim firelight encircled by her blackness. The blackness was viscous like the bile she’d vomit after everything else had come up at 3 a.m.

I found her once in the bathroom when I was fourteen years old, passed out in a pool of rejected alcohol, and I left her there, half-hoping she’d asphyxiate. I packed a duffel bag that late afternoon, and ran away with my…

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Chasing Memories Like Butterflies

Christine Ray – the fate of memories

Brave & Reckless

Memories

encased in amber

bob up and down

like so many soap bubbles

dispersing in gentle breeze

I am running

trying to catch them

on my fingers

in my palms

long to examine them closely

before tucking them away

for safe keeping

they are fragile

my bones sharp

fingers now razor blades

they shatter one by one

drop to waiting ground

leaving nothing

but iridescent sheen

on cool morning grass

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

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The preserve of her emotions

TheFeatheredSleep – a sheer delight

TheFeatheredSleep

Get up.

When you were ten, your body was a springboard

You bent in the wind, dashing forward.

Get up.

When did you start to believe otherwise?

With the coming of stiff mornings and anxiety in your belly?

As life crept nearer to unknown trials?

When did you give up believing?

You could again, hold the Fates cupped in your hand

And blow to scatter, seed to four corners.

Get up.

The white sheet, covers a multitude of unsaid

An imprint of the living, breathing, fear of mankind.

She appears to be a well behaved woman, with hair needing to be trimmed

But like a cake of many layers, the face fit for public consumption, is just wet paint.

If it was acceptable, she’d grab the quiet man, stooping to take her vitals

And craw in his ear, the gravy of her distress.

What would she say? That has not…

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Blogs I have loved. February ’18.

S C Richmond shares a short list of enjoyed blogs to check out. You’re already at one of them.

S C Richmond

I’d like to share with you just a few of the blogs I’ve enjoyed reading this month. Take a look for yourselves there might be something there you’ll like too.

I’d like to thank all of the authors of the following blogs for making me, laugh, cry or just think about things differently.

https://ididnthavemyglasseson.com/   – A trip through life with fingers crossed and eternal optimism.

https://butismileanyway.com/  – Musings and memories, words and wisdom… of a working family woman.

https://fauxcroft.com/  – some lovely, emotional poetry to be found here.

https://schingle.wordpress.com/  –  A place to find Jethro Tull music. Has to be good.

https://dewinnefol.wordpress.com/ – visit here for some of the most magical poetry I have read in a long time.

https://cabbagesandkings524.wordpress.com/   – A little bit of everything here, poetry, history and mental health.

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On Haitus (For real this time)

Devon comments with clear observation and is going to take some time off.

Devon J Hall

So the kids are back in school tomorrow; I don’t know about you but when I was in school, the bullies were vicious. One girl actually tried to light my curls on fire, another boy kicked me when I was on crutches so I would fall into the boys bathroom. I was sexually, physically, emotionally and verbally abused and in those days, in each case I was found at fault. “Grade eight girls will be grade eight girls” my vice principal had said to me.

Perhaps that was true, perhaps grade eight girls are just mean girls, but I had been abused by these same people my entire life, from the moment I was first molested, it was like these guys knew something was different about me, that I was somehow broken, because almost the day after, the bullying began.

I think that’s why I spent so many years believing…

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How slaves adopted and transformed Christianity

Beth Caplin comment on an article on why the slaves embraced Christianity.

Sarahbeth Caplin

Every now and then, Christianity Today publishes something I find really thought-provoking. Recently, they published an article about why black slaves adopted the religion of their masters. As a history buff and a Bible nerd, I find things like this fascinating. The article re-enforced my understanding that there are two competing Christianities in the world today: the liberation kind, and the kind that creates slaves rather than freeing them.

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A beggar, and a gentleman

Lizzi – “We need each other.”

Considerings

You can’t wish a beggar a happy birthday and then do nothing for him.

I doubt it’s a rule, morally speaking, but maybe it should be unless he’s clearly already in the middle of a good time.

If he’s sat where he always is, wrapped in blankets against the cold, and tells you it’s his birthday, and that he awoke that morning to two other homeless people stealing the money he was trying to raise to get into a hostel, what do you do?

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The Storm That is Brewing

Christine Ray – storm warning unheeded

Brave & Reckless

The silent scream I stifle

cuts my throat to ribbons

makes my eyes

my ears

bleed

raises phantom welts on my skin

spelling out

dirty

unpure

damaged

Hiding behind a mask

of cool civility

I pass for human

you think me

passive

weak

mute

You fail to see

the suppressed rage that boils inside of me

Your nose not sensitive enough to smell

the iron and fire on my breath

You do not sense the building electricity

thunder in my blood

lightening gathering in my fingertips

Pity

Image: Lissy Elle – Calm before the storm

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

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His heart

TheFeatheredSleep – no armor, no regret

TheFeatheredSleep

His heart

Was poorly woven

The hard basket fiber, unwilling to smoothly coil

He should have covered his heart when the boughs were green and supple

Then he was too cow, too young to know, the necessity of armor

Her face and the impossible smallness of her hands

Bewitching in their ignorance of the portent they held

Her shape, as if molded from river clay, set in sunlight

How could he realize then

The clamoring of his emotions

Drowning out the part where sense lay

Still and sirene

His heart

Was poorly woven

He did not regret

This fact

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