tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7218900314031736282012-04-15T21:46:54.499-07:00"Stepping onto a brand new path is difficult, but not more difficult than remaining in a situation, which is not nurturing to the whole woman." - Maya AngelouDOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-81063097176258228362010-09-29T19:02:00.000-07:002010-09-30T13:54:00.063-07:00

Watch me... When I'm elated, I explode. When I'm livid, I implode. When I'm afraid, I collapse. When I'm justified, I inflate. When I'm sensuous, I dance. When I'm bored, I pace. When I'm in love, I make love. When I love, I embrace. Saying what I mean is harder than writing it to you, so let me move around you.

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-6777560613550504232010-09-29T18:13:00.000-07:002010-09-29T18:13:59.656-07:00

I both love and am terrified of the ocean. Everyday people ask me, "Have you gone for a swim yet?" and I'm afraid to admit that I'm scared of the water, that when I can't touch the sandy bottom anymore I panic and I'm sure I will drown. Not seeing the bottom, feeling my toes wrap and twist in deep beds of kelp, being pulled unaware further out to sea until I'm within the grips of something much

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com2Paia, HI, USA20.9033333 -156.369444420.8632423 -156.4278094 20.9434243 -156.31107939999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-39495087761947915512010-09-17T02:06:00.000-07:002010-09-25T22:19:09.982-07:00

The Garden I'm into my fourth week on Maui and though the pace, the people, and the weather are still new to me, they've all become a little more comfortable, a little more homey. I live in a community of people who are mostly Krishna devotees with their own individual eclectic beliefs tossed in. Mostly these people believe in constant compassion for other beings - human, vegetable and animal -

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-38999754831213934762009-07-18T15:28:00.000-07:002009-07-18T15:34:26.139-07:00

My mom wrote this poem as a type of elegy after her father passed away. I wanted to put it up here as a remembrance for him and because it is a really beautiful poem.Daddy's Handsbaseball mitt palmsand plump sausage fingersdirtied and hardened byconstruction labor;a hard day's workborn of necessityextentions of a creative mind -for crafts, repairs and gardens thatneeded plowing and tendingrarely

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-11253653047852246072009-04-28T20:40:00.000-07:002009-04-28T23:10:00.165-07:00

I ended last week by attending a performance of Michael Cunningham, author of The Hours, reading the prologue of the acclaimed novel to the music that inspired its creation. Cunningham thrust us into the experience of listening to literature to a soundtrack. Mozart and Schubert best captured the general tone of what he thought his novel would be. He described listening to the classical

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-22738951794858252962009-04-03T00:21:00.000-07:002009-04-28T21:43:39.921-07:00

The day Grandma Banks died, people congregated in one space, brought dining chairs into the living room, sat on the floor, laid on each others' laps, laughed and quietly brushed at watery eyes for the first time in years. They let their hair down again. They loved and remembered. She had passed away and so we all came together, out of the woodwork, for her. The cousins I had grown up with, who I

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-45511792951363629872009-03-10T23:22:00.000-07:002009-04-01T19:39:48.443-07:00

Today, memoirist Hoshi Kashiwagi spoke to my Genre: Nonfiction class about autobiography, family, secrets, and what it means to own your own story. But we can't really own our own stories can we? As I "write down my own bones" I find that every single one of them has touched or is attached deeply to someone else. While Dr. Kashiwagi talked about Japanese internment during the second World War,

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-10303484840698904692009-03-10T00:28:00.000-07:002009-03-10T01:05:25.266-07:00

I've put some poetry on here but stories are my thing. I'd like to put some up but the main concern holding me back is that this is a public venue and there is no legal protection of my work. I asked a professor of mine, Hans Ostrom, who regularly puts his poetry in his blog, about the copyrighting process and his peace of mind. I thought I should put what I learned regarding the copyright

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-9766933160355108012009-03-02T19:02:00.000-08:002010-09-18T09:59:43.191-07:00

Ben tipped me off to this song. Billie Holiday, otherwise known as Lady Day, adapted this song from a poem and melody written by an English teacher named Abel Meeropol who wanted to address the southern atrocity, lynching. Holiday performed this at the risk of losing her career. Her music was a seminal contribution to the jazz musical surge towards the end of the Harlem Renaissance. It

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-75635141064321184332009-02-21T22:11:00.001-08:002009-04-28T21:39:40.296-07:00

"500 Years Later" is a great documentary to watch for Black History Month. Instead of just focusing on blacks in the United States, historians and professors, students and professionals, follow Africans through the centuries all over the world starting from the slave trade. Blacks are not termed as African American or African English or African Belizean, but together as African descendants.

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-5578603134732191342009-02-18T17:57:00.001-08:002009-02-18T22:35:39.705-08:00

I just finished reading Kate McCafferty's Testimony of an Irish Slave Girl, a fictional slave narrative about an Irish child forced into slavery by her English overlords. After reading the autobiographical narratives Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl by Harriet Jacobs and Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass   by Frederick Douglass for two classes that I am currently taking, I thought

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-73042124655678389892009-02-13T17:34:00.000-08:002009-02-13T20:44:07.698-08:00

Here is a list of some rules about fiction writing and writing in general. I don't know where this came from, but some items on this list are pulled from William Safire's Rules for Writers. Some I agree with and some I don't. Most make me laugh."1. Avoid alliteration. Always.2. Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.3. Employ the vernacular.4. Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc.5

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-64703839838899954182009-02-11T18:42:00.000-08:002009-02-23T17:44:12.813-08:00

Wilmott Proviso Ragsdale(August 19, 1911 - January 16, 2009)I wrote this essay in response to a contest prompt. The one who can best explain their reasons for wanting this prize (a 10 day trip to Africa with New York Times writer Nicholas Kristof) is the winner. It seemed the proper time to mull through some feelings about the recent death of an elderly friend of mine, Rags."I used to drive an

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-19521428740329467222008-05-07T00:23:00.000-07:002009-02-22T14:12:51.785-08:00

It said “Go back to Africa” in red inkOn the way to her shores my feet tangleAnd that night I did.in scum-covered shackles on the ocean floor. I did after throwing the red brick back out through the shardsIn languages I have never heardAnd wiped my daddy’s bloody headpale ghosts in the air howl on hovering phantom rigs,obscuring my Polaris.And put out the flames on our lawnCoiling rope, alive

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-72196109880138252172008-05-07T00:10:00.000-07:002009-02-12T21:28:03.547-08:00

On Sundays we walk to the Laundromat And you buy me melting glazed donuts and milk with a straw to keep me calm while I sit on my favorite beige dryer bouncing my jelly sandals against the vibrating metal.While you crouch in the corner with your nursing books and vacantly rub your lashes, wishing that the sound of the dryer were only a whir in the basement and that you could brush the bangs from

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-86250723686160319502008-01-29T10:46:00.001-08:002009-02-12T21:28:44.449-08:00

So much depends uponThe feeders and planters and givers that sleep onLong grains that stood filtering blue harvest lightOnto fesue and shedWheat and barley and seed in a trough;Roosters that start rural ritual from hazy dawn,White hens' smooth ovals of ivory and brownCracked for sustenanceOr treasured for the sake of dependence.*This is my poetry. Please do not copy the text, reuse it or

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-9446570784744503272007-12-10T13:49:00.000-08:002009-03-09T11:46:49.156-07:00

Against the heated sands of a summer beach,She is bronze.And in the shade of a summer tree,She is cinnamon.With cherry blossoms in her midnight hair,She is honey.And with roses in her caramel palms,She is chocolate.When the falling leaves of autumn lay against her legs,She is almond butter.And by the glowing blaze of a winter fire,She is coffee.By the light of morning's rays,She is brown

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-23865026192252960222007-11-12T14:50:00.000-08:002009-02-12T21:30:42.871-08:00

“Chain ten more” nanny says as we sit,And I watch as her hands single crochet, double, treble, popcorn and Cluster stitch lifeless yarn into lustrous intricate design.Watching is part of the process, as did my auntsAnd so mother as well.We are learning to grow with her on our shoulders.Small, damp fingers fumbling with sticky woolUntil they move steady and the string flows like

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-48060218626704054012007-11-04T21:21:00.002-08:002009-02-12T21:32:01.750-08:00

The space in time won’t thwart your aging cries,Her flesh, like fire, it seemed a sin to hold.And though your hearth in embers ever dies,Your babe remained unguarded in the cold.Your daughter’s cinders grew and flamed in anger,Forever veiling frost too chill to bear.And now to her you will remain a stranger,Begging He to spare her in your prayers.He says you must see Him before your child,So her

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-44258376861523982452007-10-14T01:16:00.001-07:002007-12-12T11:34:27.231-08:00

Daughter,I am jealous Of your beating heartFor you say I have noneAnd that is why I am awakeStanding at the foot of your bedAnd you are already sleepingFighting me in your dreamsYour heartbeat keeps me awakeAt nightIt pounds, gently until the darknessShakes with itAnd I watch you, jealousMy old feet, cold on your mahogany floor,JealousBecause you sleep at nightWithout knowing that I have

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-36081716510873940092007-10-14T01:10:00.000-07:002009-02-12T21:32:53.576-08:00

Not a father, but a dad.I think sometimes You take this act of charity too seriously.Maybe this bastard childWould rather beA bastard childThan remain the object of a love that hurts:Unconditional, unwarranted…Unwanted?Your kind of love,Is the catalyst for warBecause no one can changeMy blood into yours.This war makes a casing out of your heartAnd I your only collateral.Your arms warm and open

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-80954623661089718592007-10-09T12:11:00.001-07:002009-02-12T21:33:21.732-08:00

Grandaddy’s on the porch,chewin’ tobacco in front of little cousin Eva,talkin’ ‘bout old ways to work and old ways to make things and old ways to raise things.Big Ma’s in the kitchen,bakin’ remedies and fryin’ corncakes with the lardfrom yesterday’s bacon.Pa’s in the study,sweatin’ hard-earned figures onto coffee-stained pages,sweatin’ food into our bellies.Mama’s in the gardenTearin’ at ‘bama’s

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-76866504691382979622007-08-30T14:26:00.000-07:002009-02-18T17:56:55.826-08:00

I have always considered my family to be on the unconventional side - in a big way. Most of my relatives live their lives on the edge of religious fanaticism in a place that most of America has left behind if not forgotten. My fellow college peers would look on their lives and think them poor, culturally deprived and unhealthy, while they consider themselves blessed because they have not let

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-721890031403173628.post-67930505660808759572007-05-03T15:10:00.000-07:002007-05-03T15:11:42.300-07:00

Hey Shari,I bet you have always wanted to have a blog! This one is for you.Love,Ben

DOVEhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14442712648559952341noreply@blogger.com0