...and then...

At the edge of the bed Watching you sleep Counting, again, all of your shiny pieces Charting the haphazard precision of our journeys to this space Marveling at the perfection of God

It's here again, dashaFEST.  What started as a single event exactly 20 years ago has evolved (exploded?) into a month-long celebration of ME. Wait, I know how that sounds.  Let me explain. I've always enjoyed throwing parties. The theme. The games. The food and drink. Stirring around my divergent circles of friends and associates inside the same space.  I feel a small tug of pride when unlikely acquaintances can trace their connections back to my living room. Over the years, that one, overstuffed birthday party has unfolded into a calendar of events. A women's only event. An artistic event. A group activity.  A party. Something for my daughters. Something for my immediate family. A performance showcase of some kind. The enterprise is wholly ridiculous, and I am fully aware of this.  But giving myself permission to be absurd for a change is, actually, part of the appeal.  For what it's worth, I'm not obnoxious about it.  I don't keep tabs of who...

Dear Deborah Brown Community School ~ It is quite a feat for a small charter to make national news.  It is perversely disappointing, however, to read that a charter school led by two black women is systematically persecuting students of color for celebrating the natural textures of their hair. As an educator, I understand and value the impact of comportment.  Indeed, many ills of the contemporary school environment can be aggravated by lax guidelines on conduct and appearance. Nonetheless, your policies against natural hairstyles levels a much more serious attack against your students.  Rather than teaching them how to be “presentable,” your policy forces the concept of “acceptable” at a disastrously early age. Yes, the school should vigorously mandate “neat,” “modest” and “respectable.” These are essential expectations.  Denying the option of neatly, modestly and respectfully showcasing the heritage of their hair, however, reinforces a wickedly...

FEATURED IN BLEED, A LITERARY BLOG FOR JADED IBIS PRESS http://jadedibisproductions.com/sustainable/ SUSTAINABLE by Dasha Kelly I’m not sure when it happened, when my words fell away from ordinary, peeling away sneakers to don ruby slippers, starting requesting lemon zest and garnish. I don’t know, exactly, when my words were made to hang back in the green room waiting for a green light to shine. My words don’t think twice about being seen without makeup, in sweatshirts and jeans. They miss racing one another down to sheets of paper, squealing and breathless until they tumble and fall into unexpected formations. My words spend too much time standing around these days, clustered into genres, waiting for invitations to arrive.   They are social creatures but miss their quiet time, too. My words need to sprawl across clean pages, even to find themselves crumpled and tossed away sometimes. They are not all destined for posterity, but each mark a heartbeat in this world. ...

Pigs will not fly. Not even with counseling. Or coaching. Or fancy new clothes. Or affirmations. Or cuddling. Or the last bite of your sandwich. It is not for lack of focus. Or prejudice or profiling. Or being tied up on the phone. Or having a broken heart. Or having things easy. Or some withering away of faith. It is because they are pigs. At best, they may hang weightless for a moment, defy gravity for a moment, suspend our understanding of hard earth and crushing impact ... for a moment. At the end of it all, we will remember how this truth had always been wedged inside the marrow of our bones. Pigs. They will not. Fly.

Keep me. Nestle my core into the plush of your hand Wrist locked steady Careful now Careful now Don't cradle me bird's nest suspended Keep me. Canopy me with fleshy fingers Keep me. Thread yourself through all the letters of all my names especially those you whisper over me when I sleep (you  do  watch me when i sleep, don't you?!) Loop my alphabet around your neck Careful now Careful now Don't flaunt me bauble shiny Keep me. Drape my charms closer to your chest than the world Keep me. Tuck my affections in the pocket of your jeans Slip me deep in cotton corners weightless and constant Careful now Careful now Don't stroke absently at smooth surfaces Carry about my devotion As needed, reach in to trace firm contours Keep me. talisman true Keep me Keep me with you.

Dig my hole deep Intern legacy with my bones Coat my rich skin with thick oils olive, rosehip, pomegranate, shea Even in death Even in death Dig my hole deep Rest the most brilliant baubles against the contours of my waist blue glass, beads, cologne, ivory Send me with greetings for God Send me with greetings for God Dig my hole deep Entomb my artifacts of glowing and global truth my inimitable and glorious people power, wealth, intellect, melanin History will not bury me History will not bury me The Ivory Bangle Lady "This skull is particularly interesting, because the stone sarcophagus she was buried in, and the richness of the grave goods, means she was a very wealthy woman, absolutely from the top end of York society. H er case contradicts assumptions that immigrants are low status and male, and that African individuals are likely to have been slaves." ~Dr. Hella Eckhard, Archeology Dept., University of Reading (UK) http://www.react-hub....

You recall looking up to summer skies A sheer filter of crystaline blue between you and heaven It looked even bigger to you then Impossible Relaxed on a pallette of green grass Soft blades hugging your small body one at a time You remember the patch of Earth cool against your back tickling your neck an easy comfort for you to rest your head, so full of new thinking You did not know how to to lasso the clouds with those fresh, new thoughts still awkward and unwieldy between your ears You were afraid to name those clouds with your soft, wet words Fastening monikers that might be too new might not be just right Your small lips pucker into a whisper:      Elephant, you say      Kitten, you say      Cereal bowl      Mama's good church shoe, you say You learned to transcribe cumulus tales of summer Clouds scrolling like silent movies across your blue s...