Whispers from the walls

conquer the silence of the street.

Memories flow into and through

me: you mowing the lawn, planting

roses; her pink elephant, blue tie

scrunched in bow-shaped lips.

Waiting for a Sign                     

 What is this that you’ve got me doing?                   

                       What is this game that you’re constantly playing with me?

What are these tricks that you’re fooling me with?

                        What happened to love and never forget?

What are you? Rushing slowly down my spine,

                        What is this breeze that comes from time to time?

                        And what about the good times that just went all wrong?

I’m nothing more than washed away sand,

                        Pain and shame are read through the lines on my hands,

Sometimes they curve and extend,

                        Yet sometimes blood draws through every chance. 

True Love Never Dies

 When happiness really finds us

And sweet tranquility fills our minds,

When cupids arrow does pierce our hearts

True love does never die…

Kim Wayans, one of the most popular female comedians, may be best known for her work on television's In Living Color. Created and performed by the Wayans, In Living Color was a jaw-dropping series of comedy skits that launched several famous actors.  Kim and the Wayans clan were born in New York City and lived in the Chelsea neighborhood. The Wayans family was poor and numerous; there were 10 siblings.  They are an American success story, an African American success story. Kim builds on that success to make a difference with women and children, especially multiracial children.

Fly Me to the Moon

 My backyard was a launch pad

for my dreams in ’58. I thought

the Hardy Boys were the smartest

kids in the world. They taught me

engineering, rocket science, love

of exploration. I scoured their books

for blueprints; junk yards for parts

later to become my rocket to the Moon.

Family Trees

we try to become what we desire to be

going against our family’s predestination

against genetic dispositions and family trees 

For Everyday People

I care for you

I know that you loved me

It was the kindest day of my life

When I heard your voice

I wonder if you still Love Me

The Tree 

I often wonder if you feel

If you feel that you are a true joy

and a necessity to my life

The reader may be disappointed that my American diversity topic is Hip Hop especially considering that so much has been written about Hip Hop already.  My intention is to draw a basic outline of the art form and culture and contrast this definition with some common distorted views. I think the biggest mistake most casual listeners (myself included) often make is trying to distinguish 'real'Hip Hop from the 'inauthentic' attempts.  I certainly think there are good and bad views of Hip Hop; I would define a good view as one that appreciates the complexity and diversity of Hip Hop and a bad view as one that does not.

American diversity produces a wealth of art and creativity. Native American art is not easily acquired.  The federal and state governments have strict guidelines concerning the labeling of art as Native American.”Artists must be listed and documented on the official list of tribes.  Those who are not, who are missing documentation of their tribal roots or whose tribe does not appear on the list, cannot be included in the category.  There is a hefty fine for selling Native American artwork if the documentation is not there.

Artistic talent alone is not enough to give artists the visibility to make them successful in the arts.  Art galleries are an important, on-going resource for artists and arts fans.  Ellen Sragow, owner of Sragow Gallery, has worked with artists for more than 30 years.  Her story illustrates how galleries help make artists popular and anchor arts communities.

A Touch 

Wake up in smiles
Because you are alive,
As G-d permits you
To see another day

When I read my first Tony Hillerman mystery novel, Skinwalkers, twenty years ago, I’d never heard of him.  I devoured many of the 18 books in the Navajo series, including his early work, The Blessing Way.  The author of mystery novels about the Navajo died at age 83 after a long decline in his health. It would be many years before I realized the significance of his work and the size of his loyal following.  I just knew that the Hillerman books were haunting; his writing was rich, spiritual and compelling in its simplicity.

For more than thirty years, Polly Strasmich and her husband Erwin combed garage sales and auctions for works by American artists of the mid-twentieth century.   Social Realism was a family favorite.  The Social Realist was often somber and dark in the depiction of society’s gritty reality.  Social Realist themes included bread lines in the Great Depression, child labor abuses and the brutality of world wars. These artists were often part of the WPA which gave them federal stipends.  They were able to influence public opinion and politics.  for example, photographs of the abuse of child workers taken by Louis Hines changed the child labor laws of our country.

Eight Minutes Till Dawn

Perched in a tree

With a stretch, I yawn

The world is calm

Eight minutes till dawn

Nature’s Sweet Biracial Child

I am the ginger brown of the Egyptian

The blackness of the Sudan

I am the beauty to which the birds sing

I have the supremeness of the royal Lion

Georgia's Trenton Arts Council is sponsoring an event on September 11th called “Happenings.”  Developing a multicultural event like “Happenings” is a more ambitious project than we’ve ever attempted.

Your verse is unpretentious, very appealing.

I could picture myself in it as a musical metaphor,

a witness to the way the formality of white maneuvers

itself blushing over snowy rage; I the traveler in the

nostalgic vessel of your short stories, induced into the

creative form of your wit for the pure sake of having

something beautiful to sing about.

You should check your closet
And make sure the door is closed
I just got a glimpse
And man I think your hood’s exposed

And the little things you say
They’re beginning to betray you
Giving your true colors away
I know you won’t admit it
But I’m seeing the real you
It’s starting to come out
In all the racist things you do
Oops, I let it slip
I’m not supposed to use that word
But there’s no other name
Based on the nonsense I just heard
You say I’m overreacting
That I’m just too sensitive
But I just shake my head
Man in what world do you live?
When I listen to your comments
I can’t help but be offended
But you just blow it off
And claim that’s not what you intended
But it seems that every word
Out of your mouth is more the same
You just need to face it
You’re not the person that you claim
But that is quite alright
You see, I now understand
And I know how to deal with you
Because you’ve shown your hand
I could choose to get angry
But I know you wouldn’t get it
It could drive me insane
But man I refuse to let it
Instead of getting angry
I choose to be inspired
To keep stamping out ignorance
But my feet are getting tired

So large, so real, so present,

Oseola McCarty  might just speak

from the Annie Leibovitz portrait

in the museum gallery. Sweaters

a kilter, hair a crown of uncontrolled

silver, she stares into the camera,

lips set, almost smiling. She stands

in Hattiesburg heat, her yard and

wood-frame house a background blur

behind her large eyes and steady gaze.