Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?
Khalisa: I have always been a storyteller creating new worlds with images, a creative writer, and it’s always been an escape for me. A way to articulate the world in a new way. that helped me process trauma and joys in a new ways. My mom still has the Tupperware bins of my early fiction writing form when I was 6 years old. When I discovered Lucille Clifton, Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Gwendolyn Brooks, and James Baldwin, my life was forever changed.
Q2: Who are your biggest influences today?
Khalisa: I am really inspired by Tiana Clark, Dorothy Chan, Audre Lorde, Terrance Hayes, and Jericho Brown.
Q3: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer?
Khalisa: I was standing in front of my undergraduate creative writing class and the director of the department heard me reciting poetry and told me I should do it for the rest of my life. I didn’t get serious about writing until that pivotal moment. She gave me permission to go full force, hone my craft, and envision a career.
Q4: Who has helped you most with writing?
Khalisa: I would definitely say that my college professors Claudia Rankine, Ada Limon. They taught me the craft of writing poetry, showed me how to be a critical poetry editor, and opened my eyes to so many different types of writing and the many different versions of what poetry can be.
Q5: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing & have any travels away from home influence your work?
Khalisa: So, I was born in Gary Indiana and being from the Midwest/outside Chicago definitely influenced my tone, dialect, approach, and vibrato. I think being from a major metropolitan, all Black city influences my subject matter and perspective as well of the inequities and disparities that people of color experience. It also showed me how much of pop culture is stolen and appropriated from Black street culture and that shows up in my writing. Then moving to the South definitely was a culture shock and inspired my writing and shifted my work to have more of a southern influence that reflects on nature, family, food, and matriachs. I feel like moving to the south made me get more in touch with my ancestory, history, and roots. That has made me writing more well-rounded and allows me to have more tools in my tool kit. I can make my writing sound like the street kid, like the proper private school girl, like the Southern belle, or the down home girl. I can take on many different voices and personas in my pieces. Traveling to Chile with Ada inspired my writing and helped me grow my skill in narrative writing and painting images.
Q6: What do you consider the most meaningful work you’ve done creatively so far to you?
Khalisa: I would definitely say that my book Ghost in a Black Girls Throat is the most meaningful collection I’ve ever written because I can feel the direct impact its had with the culture and so many of my topics are timely and speaks to large social justice issues like racism, bigotry and sexism. It also is in conversation with the history of prejudice gentrification, and generational trauma in the Black culture. My poems confront and address important issues, and start important conversations. That said, I do think that my newer work is some of my bravest work. I wrote a letter to Cardi B and Meg the Stallion that got published in a dream publication- Electric Literature, and that made me feel empowered to talk about sex and desire on a public forum.
Q7: Favorite activities to relax?
Khalisa: I really love to dance and laugh. My favorite pasttime is watching funny movies with my husband, eating good food, or listening to good music- like jazz and motown classics. To relax, I color, journal, and do yoga. I also really like to just zone out to my favorite shows and movies and get lost in another world.
Q8: What is a favorite line/stanza from a poem/writing of yours or others?
Khalisa:
“That’s what they will come for first.- the throat. They know that be your super power your furnace of rebellion. So they silence us before the coal burns.” – Ghost in a Black Girl’s Throat
“I can be razor-backed and spike-edged when he tries to skin me, unscale my silvery back, debone my brazen hen-hide. I will be foul-mouthed and crooked-necked. I will be the chicken-head they know me to be, if it will save my life.”- Livestock
Q9: Any recent or forthcoming projects that you’d like to promote?
Khalisa: I am currently working on my Blk Southern romance novel, in addition to gathering stories of Blk queer women and femme folks that live in the South. Lastly, my poetry and art lyric collection is slated for publication in Jan/Feb 2022, called Unlearning Eden.
George Floyd, one year
Yet, it feels like today
A knee in your neck
Left you breathless
A picture unforgettable
“I can’t breathe”
Can’t be unheard
Mama
That word
Touched our souls
Cried with you then
Today our hearts
Still wear your tears
Always remembered
Never forgotten
Rest In Power
My brother
BLM
When I Place My hand In My Pocket
Now, when I place my hand in my pocket
I see the horrific picture of a knee in George Floyd’s neck
Now, when I place my hand in my pocket
I hear the words ‘I can’t breathe’
Now, when I place my hand in my pocket
My mind is flooded with the inerasable picture of the cold
Evil and cruel death of my brother
Now, when I place my hand in my pocket
I can’t say I’ve never seen a man take his last breath
Now, when I place my hand in my pocket
I see the murder of all my black brothers and sisters
Who are dead because of the color of their skin
Now, when I place my hand in my pocket
I am angry and I am sad
I’m overwhelmed and I am mad
Because for too long we have suffered at the minds
And hands of hate, cruelty and injustice
And for too long, too much blood has been shed
Too many bodies have been buried
Too much heartbreak have been endured
Too many mothers, too families have suffered
Now when I place my hand in my pocket
I feel no contentment, no peace, no comfort, and I cry
Because now when I place my hands in my pocket
I see George Floyd a face my mind can’t erase
And I hear the words I can’t unheard “please! I can’t breathe”
So now, I no longer place my hands in my pocket.
Twitter: @empressof
Bio: Ava Tenn is a Poet and Freelance Writer.
She believes that poetry can penetrate your heart and speak to your soul and with its balm it can change the world.
She has had publications in the Toronto Sun, Good News Toronto
and Planet Africa magazine. She enjoys learning, reading, dancing and helping people. Ava believes in prayer, peace and unity and creating awareness through words that inspires and motivates. When she is not writing poetry and articles, she’s writing songs wishing she could sing.
She resides in Toronto where she is currently working on her manuscript.
Been a little over year
Of people having to be reminded of what black is
A reminder of the anger and a reminder of the sadness
Still the fact is
It shouldn’t take a trauma for you to understand a trauma
Only thing we are doing is piling it up
Adding a comma
Some try to be empathetic others will just call it drama
And God got something for they ass
I’m a call it karma
What goes around comes back around
And let’s just use it to describe 2020
We traded chains and shackles
For cuffs and death
Something we saw too many
A nation went from uniting like minded people
To further put a division between everyone
To the point that folks can’t even be subtle with their racism
So what can one do?
We continue to be a voice
We continue to be the change
We continue to persevere
We have to…
We have to withstand any and everything
Now so those that come after us don’t have to as hard
Just as generation after generation had to
Just remember me as the bridge
Someone on the journey to a better life
I’m black
I’m proud
Give me my flowers while I’m here
And not just on Juneteenth
Everyday
And don’t forget me when I’m gone
Bio: Follow R.D. Johnson on twitter @r_d_Johnson Check out his work on the Poetry Question with RDJ's Replays https://thepoetryquestion.com/category/replay-rdj/Read His work on dailydrunkmag.com R.D. Johnson is a pushcart nominee, a best of the net nominee for Fevers of the Mind "(Not Just On) Juneteenth"
This poetry shouldn’t be a challenge. This will be a celebration of unity & a place to unleash any sadness, tensions, exhaustion regarding the ongoing unjust killings due to racist ideologies & terrorist who like to re-invent their own history to match an idea in their head that was never theirs. Give us your feelings, give us your words. Tell us what you can do to encourage others, Tell us how you can help stop political & blue corruption, systemic racism, and most importantly give us words that you feel will stop these deaths.
It has been a year since George Floyd, longer for Breonna Taylor, longer for the shit that was Jim Crow Laws, Slavery, don’t forget Rodney King, don’t forget Amadou Diallo, Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Rekia Boyd, thousands upon thousands others. Martin Luther King Jr gunned down for change. The leaders that preached for change always met with resistance. Stop this hate America!
Come Home a poem for George Floyd (June 7, 2020 Catrice Greer)
These wombs, sacred,
we build placenta worlds of blood and bone
cord by cord, cells churning with life
a zygotic landscape
s .. a .. f .. e
safe from gunshots, lethal force, blue bias, blows
safe from bent-tongued accusations, chokeholds, grief
tears and pain light-years away
the amniotic sac aglow
you hear only my voice
Mommy …
I walked with you, my love, my sun
floating close to my own heartbeat
tethered in the mitochondrial house
we are one
my peace, your peace
my child, to lose you to this world
that does not know you
never carried you
is not the deep-rooted tree of life I birthed
a premature exit is not the afterbirth of my labor
Call my name
when the end is near
I will come again for you
I will come again for you, my angel
my sweetness
you will reside here with me, rest in peace.
Come home.breathe
breathe
breathe
Poem #2 Links to my social justice poems on this blog & other links
Above is a link from my wife HilLesha's blog Tothemotherhood.com
HilLesha is a mixed-race writer, blogger, co-editor, mother, wife & so much more. *this was from her blog, any content about contests is no longer available*
Below the lambent candor of periwinkle sky
Beneath redolent shades of sovereign sun
In a garden of remembrance lays a Martyr
Farther from littered complexities
Yonder of stinking grudges
Away from leaking old bottles of comparisons
Mildew and rotting timber of America's foundation
Off the beaten track
Floyd breathes beyond color of skin
Where grief ceases to be transient
And shuns mute palette of emotions
At the end of rainbow
where they each call out and
Say their names
There rests a harbinger of hope and change.
Poem #7 Able & Sable Hearts in Color & Deed by Pasithea Chan
The world is a stable filled with creatures both able & unstable.
Those who are able have hearts capable of empathy towards their community.
But those who are unstable have hearts so sable they cripple humanity.
Their differences define a life of dignity for the rest of humanity.
Able hearts play their parts sorting people by acts
not words in the name of equality & justice
But sable hearts take part in breaking people's hearts
sorting them by color to spread terror in the name of service.
Able hearts have peaceful minds that analyze words
to sort what they fear from what they see or hear.
But sable hearts have broken minds that pander to their fear
blinding their eyes with what their hearts steer.
Able hearts are driven by compassion to foster good even if late
because for them right and wrong are black and white.
But sable hearts are driven by obsession to spread blind hate
because for them freedom is a bait to catch black enjoying whats white.
Able hearts will do what's fair because they care
But sable hearts will just be there to hunt those unaware.
Like day and night, one is light bringing wealth
the other is dark with crime bringing death.
Show me a man who ran & I'll show you fear from those near.
But show me a man who stood his ground & I'll show you justice.
There are many George Floyds and Breonna Taylors out there
but sadly there are few who truly care or dare
to say times have changed yet sable hearts haven't
Because right and wrong are not the only black & white
In a world where grey is for those who chose to bray
blind lies to hide behind a colorful rind.
In the end, hearts and minds dictate the kind
of life we lead not our colors because we all bleed Red
So how can color decide who is good or bad?
We are all one; color is just one kind of human kind
I'm sure we can agree that deeds can sort the human kind.
Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Pasithea Chan
Poetry: Nine by Anneka Chambers
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
In an instant my body is slammed to the ground
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Exclaims from the public echo all around
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I am unarmed, handcuffed and I pose no threat
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Enforcement of this kind is unlawful, do you have no mercy, nor any regret?
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I am pleading with you, please stop!
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Emotionless is the expression of every standing cop
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I lay here helplessly, one against four
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Excessively this Officer pins me to the floor
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I am in excruciating pain
Nine Minutes I Fight for Life
Explain why you have chosen my soul to claim?
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I hurt until I bleed
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Executing your act of violence, as I cry and plead
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I cannot breathe, I cannot move, I only feel
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Encourage this Officer to remove his knee, from where he kneels
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I am doing all I can to hold on
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Every cell in my being is fighting this wrong
Nine Minutes And I Will Not Survive
I love you family, colleagues and friends
Nine Minutes And I Will Not Survive
Eventually My Life Ends.
REST IN POWER GEORGE FLOYD
25.05.2020
Texas Freeze Over—February 16, 2021
On that freezing eve in a winter storm, where nothing was the norm,
eighteen-year-old Rodney Reese was walking home down a Plano street.
He’d finished his shift at Walmart, groceries in hand,
still had a good ways to go, slipping and stumbling in ice and snow,
still had a good ways to go, when they showed up and slowed.
He heard the shout, saw the colors of the car,
felt a shiver run over his memory wars:
remembered what happened to
George Floyd in Minnesota,
Eric Garner in New York,
Ahmaud Arbery in Georgia,
Daniel Prude in New York.
Did the cops remember the truth as they told him to stop?
That they’d been sent to make a wellness check?
Not to be a pain in the friggin’ neck?
That the state was now a disaster zone
of ice and snow, bodies freezing in homes?
Did they remember that he was a man?
That warnings were given by the weathermen?
That warnings were shouted by the BLM?
They asked him to stop; he sweated and labored on.
If only he could get home or where someone could see what was going on.
He peered resolute through the snow, through the dark, and he prayed.
“Where you going, son?”
“I’m going home.”
“Why you walkin’ in the road?”
“Sidewalk’s icy, man.”
“Where you goin’? You need a ride.”
“I’m goin’ home. Don’t touch me!”
The cops get out, come close.
“Why don’t you stop? We want to talk.”
“Don’t touch me, man!”
They grab his arms, cuff him. “This is an investigation!”
So though it makes no sense to anyone with a few cells of gray,
they charged him for walking home—charged him with being a pedestrian in a roadway.
He spent the night in jail, managed to keep his heart from fail, managed to keep from other travail.
Next day the police chief let him go, said they should ‘a’ taken him home,
didn’t know what was in those cops minds, was it race? The chief couldn’t say.
Rodney, when asked later why he didn’t want to stop for the cops, said,
“I seen all this stuff with George Floyd.
It hurts, man.”
People Are Looking
They just keep killing black men—
these self-appointed vigilantes and cops—killing
men jogging down the street like Ahmaud Arbery
or men coming out of a shop like George Floyd
and the BLM started marching
and the Trump response
sent an Armageddon of armored cops and henchmen
to attack people who were not armored
who were protesting the murders of black men.
A Star Wars attack on regular people,
and the protesters march wearing Covid masks,
march those streets, through smoke and tear gas,
and the robotic cops bear down bear down brutalize
and my mind races to find the puzzle pieces
because I seem to have missed something.
1968
I am seven. I walk into a church in East Austin
with my mother, brother, sister.
Moselle who cleans our house and takes care of us kids
invited us to her daughter’s wedding. And when we walk in
and walk down the aisle and sit down, my heart
begins to thud because people are looking, then not looking, at us.
We are the only white people there.
1988
I am 27. I walk into a church for the wedding of
Sara. She is a friend, a co-worker,
a fellow accountant at the State Auditor’s Office.
And when I walk in and walk down the aisle
and sit down, my heart begins to thud
because something is similar, something is wrong,
people are looking, then people are not looking, at us.
We are the only white people there.
2020
And my mind races to find the puzzle pieces
as a despot’s robot army marches on people
who are protesting the murders of men—
murders because of the color of their skin.
An obscene scene of spleen sent by
a President who is more mean than man,
sending a smokescreen to make a show
that is the only way he knows.
And my heart thuds and my mind races to find the puzzle pieces:
1968, 1988, 2020,
and I look back and ask
Sara, where were the other people from the office?
Why did none of them come to your wedding?
During workdays, we all worked together.
During lunches, we ate out together.
During out-of-town audits, we travelled together.
My God, Sara, I remember back then
I heard one or two excuses
busy, kids . . . but most had no kids—
most of our co-workers were single, and white.
Oh, Sara, how blind have I been?
