In Keeping hope alive, Poetry on August 28, 2014 at 9:54 am
I’ve been wishing on a star
4 so long
tryin 2 make changes,
experiencing great pain
in my vein
it’s a strain with the troubles of the world.
when I grew out of my curls
there must be a solution to the pollution
of violence – robbery, unemployment,
justice for them – as I pray day by day
a pathway appeared – not smeared.
I am the solution, doin my best
to arrest people’s stress – is smart – it’s a start.
It’s a start – imagine if everyone prayed
how many cleared pathways it would pave.
a rejuvenated life – is a saved life – make
someone’s day – never give up
In Keeping hope alive on August 28, 2014 at 9:47 am
A thoughtful wish or prayer can be obtained. It seems like super power, but it’s the belief that some things can change for the best. When I was sick or got robbed, that’s when the super power came to me. A wonder woman in today’s time. The strength and courage that comes from the universe, wishing upon the starts, and getting the answers that I need. Patience and time, gifts and gold, can come. I feel better and stronger since I prayed and made that wish.
In Friendship, Soup Kitchen Stories, Uncategorized on August 28, 2014 at 9:27 am
While growing up in Harlem, not only did my parents take care of me, but also my neighbors. There was always a watchful eye. My mother had a good friend named Carol, a tall black lady. She and her husband Willis were also from the South. They owned the cleaners down the street whey they worked. I think it was called Carol’s Cleaners. If my mother had an appointment, she would leave me at Carol’s and they would watch me until dinner. Carol was nice. She had a television set on the side of the counter. She liked soap operas. We’d watch them half the day. I liked All My Children. Her favorite was The Young and the Restless. She give me potato chips and Coke. Then my mother would call and tell Carol to send me home for dinner.
– Nelson Blackman
In Uncategorized on August 25, 2014 at 4:27 pm
It’s funny you should ask that question. I am an Ashkenazi Jew. We of the Ashkenazi name after the dead, whereas the Sephardic name after the living. Both are equal and have their own strengths. My Jewish name is Yisreal Yedah or Jeffrey J. I was named after my Zaddi’s (grandfather in Yiddish) brother, who was lost in the Holocaust. I think it is a brilliant tradition to name a child after the dead. You get a sense of immortality – like the deceased donor giving his organs to the living.
You have to remember that you are never really dead you are forgotten. By naming after the dead, you are always remembered. I remember talking to my Bubbi (grandmother in Yiddish). She was telling a story of how her firstborn son, Borichel, was killed as a three-year-old back in the country of Galicia, which exists no more. A horse and wagon ran over him when was running across the street to meet my granparents. He was my mother’s brother. He would have been my uncle. He would have been in his eighties with grandchildren of his own possibly. Alas, he remains a three-year-old for all of eternity.
I wanted to name my first son after him. My grandmother said no. Why? She said, “It didn’t bring him luck, so what makes you think it will bring your son any>?” So Borichel would remain dead, or so I thought.
I had dinner at an Orthodox Jewish home this past Purim. Going to shul, I overheard the mother of the home turn to her husband and say, “We have to find Borichel. We can’t leave without him. ” My ears could not believe what they had just heard. I said, “What? What did you say? About Borichel?’
She said he was her son, and that they could not leave without him. I smiled, and she looked at me strangely. “Why?” the woman asked.
I said it was a long a story and that I would tell her on the way over to the shul. I thought, “Thank God, Borichel has a name. He would no longer be a three-year-old. He would grow up to be a husband and father with grandchildren of his own.” Borichel lives!
In Uncategorized on August 23, 2014 at 3:15 pm
I’m Black American
born in a place called
I’m the fourth child
of five children.
I’m a poet of sorts.
I’ve registered and copyrighted
a poem called, “My love.”
I’m a congenial, loving, caring person.
I’m tall, thin, brown-skinned person.
I’m a gift to mankind-
to my sisters and brothers.
I’m the light that glows-
smiling – being communicative
to my fellow man.
I’m strength to support
the care and the love
of my closest embrace
I’m forever a Black American.
In Stories, secrets & dreams on August 21, 2014 at 3:15 pm
I can’t get Italian rolls.
Years ago when I was young, I remember in Greenwich Village, there was a real Italian bakery on Carmine Street which was owned and operated by real Italians (with accents, and born and raised in the old country.)
Each morning as I walked down the street, I could smell the bread and other bakery goods from at least two blocks before the shop. Heaven must smell like that. Sweet homemade bread, rolls and other Italian specialities wafted through the streets of downtown New York, calling all residents, friends and neighbors to the shop.
I wish I could remember the name of the owners who might have opened another bakery elsewhere. Maybe they went back to Italy.
In Press, Prose, Uncategorized on August 18, 2014 at 3:15 pm
What was the impetus that propelled me into the art of healing? I could list several building instances. Ingrained within the DNA of my lineage, us Medicis were enthusiasts for natural healing. My father’s mountainous vilage, nestled in between ancient beech and oak trees, provided natural remedies for many illnesses of the day. Grandpa Medici himself was a much sought after doctor and it wasn’t unusual for people to travel miles on foot to seek his aid on a variety of maladies. However, my aha moment, my epiphany – that I was to love and heal people – came not out of an experience with a human being, but with a fly.
I was about nine, sitting on the sofa of a relative my family had decided to visit that particular Saturday. I was left alone as my father went to stay with the man of the house, my mother with the women and my little brother with the other younger children. Idly flipping through channels, I had reached for my glass of orange soda that was poured for me when, to my horror, noticed a fly inside, vigorously trying to stay afloat and alive.
I immediately felt compassion for the creature, remembering an axiom I heard my mother use once, “every soul is sweet to themselves.” Looking around, I noticed a pair of nutcrackers on the table. Without delay, I picked up the pliers and carefully grabbed the insect out of the sugary beverage, careful not to crush its small body. I laid him down on a tissue paper I had spread out on the table with my other hand. There was no deliberation, no hesitation – just antediluvian knowledge being squeezed out of the genetic material of my being – help all those that need your help.
The fly now lay lifeless but I would not give up. My eyes skimmed the long table where something had caught my eye. Something internal compelled me to pick up, of all things, one of those European hard candies that were so prevalent in immigrant households back in the day. I made a grab of a green apple flavored one, unwrapped it, and put in near the head of the fly. Within mere seconds, it flapped its wings and took off, making its way through an open window where it undoubtedly came through to begin with. I lay back on the couch with my hand on my heart, a deep profound awakening stirring within me that would set the disposition for the rest of my life.
Rosetta Miletti North
In Prose on August 16, 2014 at 3:26 pm
You know when you were younger, your brain was as sharp as a knife. But the older you become, certain things slip your mind. Sometimes people will ask me what they served at the soup kitchen yesterday. I would have to stop and think. Sometimes I forget. But your Social Security number, which you have had since childhood, you remember right away. You could say it backwards. Sometimes you remember your address but not the apartment number. You always remember your telephone number, but you will forget where you parked your car at the mall. There are some things you will remember and some things you will forget. By the way, the above is real.
In Friendship, Prose on August 14, 2014 at 12:16 pm
My sense of humor kept me from my sorrows. I felt like improvising and ad-libbing, going with the moment – and laughing was good for the abdomen. It is exercise, because the stomach goes up and down, like Mrs. Claus’ from the North Pole. It is called playful yoga, full of jolly time, and it always makes the day go faster. Perhaps a nervous way of showing my feelings. Even making funny faces at my baby. His expression is very catchy. It is contagious in a good way.
In a small group or a large group – it can be a night out with some friends, enjoying a Saturday night – you can play a game of charades, with different expressions for the characters while describing them. Magic tricks or stunts would add to the experience. It is a natural high, and your brain will love you the next day. It can make any game more enjoyable, even a serious one like chess. Clowning and juggling at a birthday party, or a funeral, is good for the body, mind and soul. Add some makeup to the eyes, get a crazy wild wig, and put some Dracula teeth in – why not, to spice things up? You could forget your troubles in no time. Being sober or drinking can add some life to the boring moments. Cheering people on and clapping can reinforce the good times shared. Relationships and tranquility will strengthen, and phones will be ringing off the hook. Once-unpopular suddenly become the life of the party, and memories will last a lifetime.
In Friendship, Guest stories, Keeping hope alive, Prose, The worst of times on August 11, 2014 at 3:14 pm
Some day I’ll write of seeing thousands of bodies going up in pillars of white smoke, how the smell of death went on for weeks.
I want to write a former sister-in-law in England and say, “For a moment, I had a glimmer of what you lived through in the London Blitz.” But I couldn’t write that.
I sent my former husband a postcard of the Twin Towers and said, “Where you worked and the business life you once knew is no more. ” He wrote back, “I’m just glad you’re alive.”
Nine-eleven is like the day Kennedy was shot. You remember where you were, but you put the pain away.
May 8, 2002