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    Fruits of Our Labor-My Words, My Harvest: A Compilation of Poetry and Prose
    Fruits of Our Labor-My Words, My Harvest: A Compilation of Poetry and Prose
    Fruits of Our Labor-My Words, My Harvest: A Compilation of Poetry and Prose
    Ebook80 pages55 minutes

    Fruits of Our Labor-My Words, My Harvest: A Compilation of Poetry and Prose

    By V.Y. Peterson

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    About this ebook

    This extraordinary debut collection of poetry and fictional prose, chronicles the realities and disparities of divorce, relationships and mental illness, within communities of color. Each poem and story, are complete in itself; collectively they create a tapestry as intricate, as defined and as colorful as the people they represent. To the many generations of kinfolk unable to identify or acknowledge the mental illnesses faced and were therefore unable to cope; to each and every one of us who are now struggling, fighting to find our voice… to all the little ones who were unable to rise, or to speak; did not have a voice... to those whose sounds became “inaudible voices”... including some of my own... I dedicate these words.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateMar 29, 2013
    ISBN9781481743013
    Fruits of Our Labor-My Words, My Harvest: A Compilation of Poetry and Prose
    Author

    V.Y. Peterson

    V.Y. Peterson has been acting, directing and writing for over 20 years. She has dedicated her writing, to bring awareness to pressing issues here in America. With her work, she hopes to reach her audience by acknowledging the adversities that are present in communities of color, that are impacting life everyday such as: AIDS, divorce, incarceration and mental illness. She has written countless plays, poems and short stories, that outline her desires for a greater America. V.Y. Peterson, holds a B.S. Degree in Criminology and is certified with a Q.M.H.A credential and as a Mental Health Facilitator. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her 3 daughters.

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      Book preview

      Fruits of Our Labor-My Words, My Harvest - V.Y. Peterson

      © 2013 by V.Y. Peterson. All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

      Published by AuthorHouse 03/25/2013

      ISBN: 978-1-4817-3358-8 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4817-4301-3 (e)

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      Table of Contents

      Four Hundred Years Worth

      My African Seeds

      Name

      Defined Black Man

      Blue Eyes

      Gold And Diamond

      Beauty Of The Third

      He Must Roll

      Black Woman

      Radiant Black Star

      Staircase—(A Short Story)

      Problems

      ?

      Eternal Flame

      Idolatry

      Soulmate

      All Of You

      Wishes

      One Sentence; One Question?

      F A L L

      What?

      Visibility Of His Beauty

      Honeysuckle—(Short Story)

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      To Fly High In Formation

      This book is dedicated to my 3 daughters: Amber, Diewo and Madina:

      The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few—Plant your own seeds, water them, watch them grow. Eventually, you will be able to enjoy what your hard work has produced!

      But if ever there is little to gather; plant again . . .

      Mommy

      Four Hundred Years Worth

      . . . and I never thought this could happen,

      That after four hundred years

      Of bloody acts:

      The

      Deliberate rapes-

      Murderous greed-

      Economic persecution-

      Tormented bodies-

      Bastard children-

      Disowned babies-

      Separated families-

      Brutal beatings-

      Deadly whippings-

      Horrendous slayings-

      Horrific lynchings-

      Stolen names-

      Erased identities-

      The name game:

      Nigger-?

      Negroid-?

      Colored-?

      Black-?

      African-American-?

      Has it ended, what will we be named next?

      Murdered husbands-

      Abused wives-

      Molested daughters-

      Killed sons-

      Racial injustice-

      Forced racial mixing-

      Mistreated human life-

      . . . and I never thought this could happen,

      After four hundred years

      We are still standing!

      24668.jpg

      My African Seeds

      . . . and like a planted seed in time to grow,

      We did sow; she became in summer time, when the days are

      longer and the nights seem quaint.

      You leant me one… well actually two by that third year

      And with the second seed, she would be called Madina;

      Together

      Beauty emerged with them both.

      But the first seed, I was told; she’s to be a regal gift

      You named her to be your first born… her name—Diewo—

      But for you alone,

      For another seed from me,

      grew many years before I knew you…

      Amber, the girl child!

      Such beautiful brown skin, delicately coating her regal soul;

      Ethnically defined; the mainstreams contradiction

      Visual parallel of those before us on

      Goree’ Island; middle of the Atlantic…

      Senegal’s backyard

      . . . what a playground this must have been for you.

      My children, my precious gifts,

      With them I am proud, even if your feet got weak.

      I thank you as always, for the seeds you leant.

      You prayed for me.

      They all did that day

      -La ilaha ilAllah; was prayed

      . . .Prayed to your God

      The blessed ceremony; a ritual defined…

      He released her crown of beauty to the shavings…

      Will it grow back?

      You assured me so. It took a while…

      Continuous prayers given to her that day… an earful of history

      The griot told me

      I now know who she is and who she will become…

      They all came out to pay the respect…

      To wear bold colors… yellow… red… green.

      They danced for her

      Food to indulge… the women prepared for me… rice, fish and

      fritters galore…

      Lamb

      Poor little lamb

      She was first to be the queen of the West… for your lineage… in

      your time.

      A namesake remembered… Sundiata Keita would be proud…

      His destiny lives on,

      greatness shown in the name.

      I forgive you…

      I did so back then…

      Though your absence appalled me…

      Do you know another way?

      Youssou sang for her on stage… a superstar

      I promise you, they will know…

      I will teach them… I will show them both… they are royalty

      My African Seeds!

      24671.jpg

      Name

      . . . and before I became, we were branded by a name unknown-

      When I became, I was branded by a name unknown-

      Must succumb to the identity attached; no need to fight…

      The beginning starts no where that we can catch. Some say we

      can trace and track back in time…

      Can we really?

      Four hundred years, plus rape and steal… how can we keep up?

      What is my name-really,

      Who am I?

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