Africa, death, freedom, K.G. Bethlehem, life, literature, magazine, Military, online magazine, poor, proverty, Uncategorized, World, writing

DALORI, Nigeria

Hey everyone, if and when you get a chance please visit Some’ n Unique Magazine Blog for more informative, well written subjects that are important to you!!

Some'n Unique Magazine, LLC

WRITTEN BY
KG BETHLEHEM

Dalori, Nigeria
Dalori-Nigeria-locator-JPG

It’s almost a guarantee that if you speak about the unspeakable, that you are in fact thinking in terms of plain speech. The speech that is not covered with hidden vocabulary and pillows to help bruised egos. It’s the type of talk that is filled with anger. This is the type of anger that borderlines pure insanity and wishes nothing but contempt to what was just seen. It is hard to come to the realization that you saw this evil thing. This evil act of aggression in the name of religion and power but are both the same? Could it be by the one wielding such methods of control but the same results in this case. This case of murder. Unapologetic death.

You look at history and see the near genocide of the Native Americans in North, Central, and South Americas. You see the Trans-Atlantic slave…

View original post 282 more words

activism, Africa, african american fathers, african american mothers, african american soldier, children, civil rights, education, Elders, encouragement, family, fatherhood, Fiction, freedom, life, literature, maya angelou, poetry, Uncategorized, writing

In short what my history means to me..

black-history-month

Black history month means so much for me..

As James Baldwin’s speech awakens me,

As brother Malcolm glare,

I was so encouraged by Shirley Chisholm’s courage.

maya&james

I guess I can think of this as a short time in reading, learning, about one’s own history.  I can do better by making this a honor all year round.  History should never be focus to one month, that is way too small minded. What’s worse is if that is true in our minds to accept such limitations.

021612-national-shirley-chisholm-congress-political

So history makes me think, and reflect.  Makes me happy and angry for all logical reasons.

The-Murder-of-Fred-Hampton

I love my parents,

and my brother and his family,

and my daughter and her other family.

Also my friends and their loved ones,

As well as extended family known and unknown.

I love community. I love progressive thoughts. I yearned for kindness, to show and to receive..

That makes learning such knowledge complete for me.

coolest man i ever known..
coolest man i ever known..
Africa, african american fathers, african american mothers, children, family, Fiction, life, literature, parenthood, poems, poetry, poetry readings, poetry slams, teenagers, urban fiction, writer, writing

Friday Night Poetry Corner #15A

Good evening everyone!!

This will be a 2-part edition of Friday Night Poetry Corner. For now continuing with Black History month here is a short yet, jazzy real life poem that I enjoyed throughout the years. Written by a deep-rooted poet she capture the theme of youth as a fun, reckless yet visual masterpiece and she only needed a few lines to accomplish that. This is Gwendolyn Brooks timeless joint called…

We Real Cool

We real cool. We
Left school.

We Lurk late. We
Strike straight.

We Sing sin. We
Thin Gin.

We Jazz June. We
Die soon.

(Here is another powerful one; no explanation needed :o)

The Mother
by Gwendolyn Brooks

Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
The singers and workers that never handled the air.
You will never neglect or beat
Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,
Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.

I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed
children.
I have contracted. I have eased
My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized
Your luck
And your lives from your unfinished reach,
If I stole your births and your names,
Your straight baby tears and your games,
Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,
and your deaths,
If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,
Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
Though why should I whine,
Whine that the crime was other than mine?–
Since anyhow you are dead.
Or rather, or instead,
You were never made.
But that too, I am afraid,
Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.

Believe me, I loved you all.
Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you
All.

brooks