Challenge yourself: Write your story in six words.

In November 2006, writer and editor Larry Smith issued a challenge to fans of his Web  publication, SMITH  Magazine. Inspired by Ernest Hemingway’s legendary shortest of short  stories (“For sale: Baby shoes, never worn”), Smith asked his readers to  describe their lives in six words. The Six-Word Memoir contest officially ended  after a month, but the stories kept coming. Five years on, participants have  contributed more than half a million mini-memoirs. Smith has published five  compilations of the intensely personal accounts and continues his online quest  to spark the creativity of aspiring writers. “There is inspiration everywhere,”  he says. “Even if you don’t think you’re a storyteller, you are.”
http://www.oprah.com/omagazine/Six-Word-Memoirs-O-Magazine-Mini-Memoirs

My wedding ring has no ring

Music is poetry

http://youtu.be/dBFBIk98y_Q

www.myspace.com/maikowatsonmusic

 

My Resolve

I proudly declare “I am a Canadian”

But tongue belies what my heart speaks

I am not a Canadian

How can I be when my entire self

aches for home, my home

where rests my foreparents

the place where my mind sleeps

and the raging tempest within me

subsides

 

Canada  my foster mother

a refuge in a story of impoverishment

like a good Samaritan

given me food and shelter

took care of my family’s needs

Has its place in my life

how can I say I don’t love you

There is a special place reserved for you

 

Canada is my friend

To whom I shall give the children I bear

This will be their home

And where their seeds will be sown

where their hearts will lie

where their bodies may die

and rest in peace.

 

Beatrice Watson

© 2003

My Resolve

 

I proudly declare “I am a Canadian”

But tongue belies what my heart speaks

I am not a Canadian

How can I be when my entire self

aches for home, my home

where rests my foreparents

the place where my mind sleeps

and the raging tempest within me

subsides

 

Canada  my foster-mother

a refuge in a story of impoverishment

like a good Samaritan

given me food and shelter

took care of my family’s needs

Has its place in my life

how can I say I don’t love you

There is a special place reserved for you

 

Canada is my friend

To whom I shall give the children I bear

This will be their home

And where their seeds will be sown

where their hearts will lie

where their bodies may die

and rest in peace.

 

BAW  © 2003

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love poem

Stormy  Wintry Nights

I love the feel of your warm breath

Brushing against my cheeks

Wrapped in our cozy, snugly, lily-white down comforter

Toes tickling toes playfully

For pots of heated sections on the sheets

On those wild stormy nights

The feel of your ebony skin, tout and rippled

With the stamp of an over-exercised machine

In stark contrast to the white of the sheet,

 

Story nights brings out the cupid in us

Hearts open wide and red blood

Hot with the juices of cupid’s arrow

Surges like a rushing river

That flows from one heart to another

Seamlessly as the night flows in day

And day into light.

 

Stormy nights beckon us

Into the spiral of tornadic energy

Emotions break their bonds

Sensations reach their peak

It’s a time for the gathering of families

Into the proactive arms or love

Within the hearth and home

Offering shelter and security

In the hollow of your neck

And the smell of that rusty musty

Masculine scent of musk

Offers me everything I need to feel safe

On those stormy wintry nights in Winnipeg.

 

 

BAW © 2008

Go away

I cannot speak to you today

Because there is nothing more to say

Last night when you knocked me to the floor

It ended when I closed my door

 

You can keep your stupid flower

The honeymoon is over

I never want to see you again

The sight of you makes me pain

 

I am a woman of pride

And with you it was rough ride

I’m not used to men like you

A buffoon who hasn’t a clue.

 

I’ll go my way and you go yours

I’ll find a man who can buy me furs

And who can treat a woman right

Not one who’s always looking for a fight.

Addicted to Walking

Addicting

energizing

refreshing

loving…..

the wind

in my face

sweet sometimes

its pinches

like acupuncture

other times

it lulls you

in its soft embrace

its fingers

coursing through

your skin,

your clothes

your hair,

like blood courses

through veins

never too much.

 

Serendipitous moments

await you

sometimes

it’s a bird,

sometimes an old woman

sometimes a face

tugs your heart-strings

simple reminders

of humanity.

 

Sometimes its a

stranger who

through familiarity

now seems like a friend

you pass and smile

at each other

every day.

 

You feel at one with

the universe

feet touching

mother earth

human noises

shoes on

concrete

whizzing cars

droning buses,

chugging trucks,

trains

blend in a medley of notes

you listen

you hear,

you see

while walking

sometimes amidst the

hustle and bustle

with feet on the ground

you soar in the sky

lost in the rhythm

of movement and sounds

walking….

 

BAW

© 2004

This thing called Love

I told myself

there is nothing to this notion

called love

I was hurt, jaded and cynical

about anyone who spoke to me of it

It didn’t fit

Then you burst into my life

like a splash of cool. bubbly water

over rough parched skin

My heart began again to sing

Days became a journey of

Migration into sublime fun

Eager anticipation, loveination

My imagination dance, skated

And boomerang all over the place

You were forever in my mind’s face

I was an awakened soul

A lovely mess, if truth be told

Deliciously confused by all these feelings

Which I was madly dealing

I had to admit the horrible truth

Love is alive and growing to booth

And it had taken root in me

And turned this rock of my being

into substantive jelly.

BAQ (c)

Midnight Train

At the stroke of midnight

the owls make a funny cry

just as the midnight train passes

I relive the moment

when you walked out of my life

it was in the warm darkness

you walked into the night

catching that midnight train to Kenora

I felt the weight of my heart upon my feet

trudging through the desert of loneliness

where the sun of the Kalahari

could not compare

to the heat from the tears burning its way

down the cracks in my cheek

 

I cried waterfall of tears

until the well of my being ran dry

The night owl that watches cried for me

reflecting the sorry I cast to the world

the chug f the midnight trained

shukutu, shutuktu skutun chugged forever

like a rusty wheel on the tracks loved built

 

The midnight train to Kenora

Is the train that took my heart away

the train that I wished would stay

And hope it would return some day

 

 

BAW (c) 2011

I define myself

Today I claim my blackness

tomorrow I may claim my whiteness

I choose who I am.

Who are you

to dare define my identity

deny my authenticity

of a black person?

 

When we expect

dissect

deflect

inspect

circumspect

disrespect

Another

sister

brother

stranger

digging

judging

speculating

you begin to show

your inferiority

your minority

claiming superiority

of real blackness

in artificial neatness

superficiality becomes inequity

and iniquity.

BAW (c) 2012

History

History is a funny thing

deconstructed it’s his-story

Is this the story we want to pass to the next generation?

Our journey starts deep in Africa

we come from Nigeria,

Ghana

Guinea

Liberia Zaire

to the USA

England

Portugal

Holland

France

Germany

Russia

We came by boat

across the atlantic oceans on ships

packed with Africans chained

and bound in the hold of that big boat

pissing and shitting upon themselves

the weak and dead tossed into the ocean

like spoiled cargo

The ocean holds our people’s bones

we owe the ocean a debt.

Those who made it across the death-bed

worked in sugar and cotton plantations

as house boys and girls

yard boys and girls

they assumed the masters’ names

they were their property branded and stamped

so there could be no confusion

We still bear that stamp we still carry foreign names

that speaks to that unspeakable history.

The struggle for freedom continues in the body politic

in the mind sinews in the mental hues

are we still following the colonial cues clues to appease

and please to keep us in our place.

Slavery is not in the body

it’s in the mind

you have  to find the key

understand the psychology of the caged bird

that refused to fly

even when perched high