activism, children, life, literature, Uncategorized, writer, writing

The Children (Friday Night Poetry Corner #183)

Manchester Safeguarding Children Board – Manchester Safeguarding …
Manchester Safeguarding Boards



Good evening everyone and welcome again to another Friday Night Poetry Corner. This week, this poem is talking about our children in a working society. This message needs to be heard and understood, there isn’t any excuse to not to read. The name of this poem is called “The Children” written by strugglinglife. I know you will enjoy this work and when you have time, stop by her page for a few to read more of her wonderful work.


This poem is dedicated to the innocent lives of young children lost, in an era where their perpetrators are those close to them. Whilst government mulls about increasing the protection of the innocent, this poem highlights their insecurities and the loss of those who have gone too soon. 

They come to play,

They come to play

A shaded game of hues in hurt,

They play and play,

Like children discovering a new trend

Lessons unknown,

They do not listen…listen…listen

The velvet hurt, begins to flow.

When does it end, does it at all

They say it’s a game, you know

Hush…hush…be it not so

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adventure, african american fathers, children, fatherhood, K.G. Bethlehem, life, literature, parenthood, Uncategorized, writer, writing

A plan that forgot the verbs





It was just another wonderful Saturday with poor planning by the hands of a forgetful father. Not forgetful by reason of spitefulness, just ordinary neglectful planning. The day began as I furiously searched for something for me and my 8-year-old daughter could do. The standard checklist:

*Museums? (Nah, did that already, quite recently)
*Parks? (too damn hot for that, maybe in the evening—yeah most likely I would just forget)
*Movies? (already bought tickets tomorrow for Antman & Wasp so that’s a no)

Got it, let’s do a service project. There is one happening in the next hour and it’s only 1.5 miles away.

I gave out the orders, “Brush teeth, wash face, lotion and put on clothes. Now after the first two commands, she forgot and after a friendly, yet impatient reminder she got back on task. I followed behind her, and finish my duties a few minutes before she did. I was even texting friends and looking up new podcast venues and still was on track, and mindful of the time.

We left as I gave her the game plan for today. We drove to the homeless event and made it there with 5 minutes to spare but…

No one was present, it was in front of a convenient store.

My little one, lifted her head out of a book she read the entire time during the ride remarked, “Daddy, I’m not sure this is the right place.”

I answered, “This is the correct address.”

She replied while giving a disapproval look, “Well, someone is wrong.”

I drove off due to a misstep of miscommunication (it was their fault, I didn’t plan the damn event) and began standard errands…

*oil change
*grocery shopping
*picked up lunch

Then I thought about one more thing before calling it a day…

She needed a library card.

Before comments start being written, she does have a library card where her mother lives. I mostly buy her used books at local 2nd hand bookstores. This time I asked her did she want another card and she happily said yes. This day made a great turnaround of mediocrity and boredom.

At the end of it all, she received her card and check out two books in the process.

My day ended with me picking up a stuffed crust cheese pizza, so it was a win, win and win for me and my little boo boo.

Moral of this story:

Planning is the prudent and rational but can lack a bit of fun.
(I know, that’s a BS statement lol).

children, Fiction, life, literature, poems, poetry, poetry readings, Uncategorized, writer, writing

Friday Night Poetry Corner #168-How I Learned to Walk

Good evening everyone and welcome to another Friday Night Poetry Corner. This week, the fantastic poet Javier Zamora poem called “How I Learned to Walk” is an introspective, descriptive piece that is brilliantly written. He is an amazing poet.

How I Learned to Walk


Calláte. Don’t say it out loud: the color of his hair,

the sour odor of his skin, the way they say

his stomach rose when he slept. I have

done nothing, said nothing. I piss in the corner

of the room, the outhouse is far, I think

orange blossoms call me to eat them. I fling rocks

at bats hanging midway up almond trees.

I’ve skinned lizards. I’ve been bored. It’s like

that time I told my friend Luz to rub her lice

against my hair. I wanted to wear a plastic bag,

to smell of gasoline, to shave my hair, to feel

something like his hands on my head.

When I clutch pillows, I think of him. If he sleeps

facedown like I do. If he can tie strings

to the backs of dragonflies. I’ve heard

of how I used to run to him. His hair still

smelling of fish, gasoline, and seaweed. It’s how

I learned to walk they say. Calláte. If I step

out this door, I want to know nothing will take me.

Not the van he ran to. Not the man he paid to take him.

Mamá Pati was asleep when he left. People say

somehow I walked across our cornfield

at dawn, a few steps behind. I must have seen him

get in that van. I was two. I sat behind a ceiba tree,

waiting. No one could find me.