Dear Chicago | Mother Buries Four Children

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Chrycka Harper, Poet & Literary CriticLast Modified: 22:03 p.m. DST, 05 June 2014

This post is inspired by a DailyMail article, “Tears of a Mother who lost her FOUR Children to Chicago's Gun Crime Epidemic”

Dear Chicago,

Chicago River, North Shore Drive, Photo by David B. Gleason

Its been awhile since we last spoke on the Yard at Howard University, I remember you telling me about your dreams, strengths, and adversaries. Your style is unforgettable Your dialect is amicable Lifestyle and life view of the world deserves much respect. My eyes crinkle in smiles when someone proudly yells “south side” or “north side!”

But the news sees your beauty through grotesque eyes: Gun violence. The artificial newscasters utter shreds of murders and guns and blood and victims, But I know my Chicago is not inherently evil or menacing. I will admit the heart of the city is not pumping efficiently, but Chicago will tell you to not to spoil the body with contempt and hatred.

Shut up about Chicago, and hear its voice. Hear the twang in their step and language. Hear the rich black folks music. Hear the pride and the respect. The winds carrying their voices.... That's your beauty, Chicago!

I will not forget about your mother who buried her last child lost to gun violence. While I realize your feening to mourn, you have to keep speaking about the truth of your history to the world.

Keep me posted Chicago. May the grieving find comfort In the beat of the very heart that will save your city.

Sincerely, Chrycka

Follow Chrycka Harper on Twitter Twitter: @nahmias_report Poet & Literary Critic: @chrycka_harper

The Cage Finally Open | A Tribute to Maya Angelou

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Chrycka Harper, Poet & Literary CriticLast Modified: 00:07 a.m. DST, 31 May 2014

Maya Angelou - March 28,2008 - St. Sabina African American Speaking Series, Photo by Saint Sabina Photos

Not too long ago, Mandela joined the small community. He reunited with memorial friends, met with known ancestors, and joined the others to patiently wait for the next neighbor.

Eyes immediately focused on the glorious caged bird. Her songs send warm, comforting nostalgia to millions worldwide.

Our ears rejoice when she shares her wisdom, Our eyes rejoice when she graces the page with exceptional stanzas, Our mouths rejoice in smiles within her presence.

Maya Angelou, your songs kept us in remembrance of our history and heritage. But God said its time to unlock the cage So that the phenomenal bird can fly to its home.

Maya Angelou flew to her home, with Zora, Brooks, Wheatley, Aesop, but her spirit will never allow us to forget for the world.

Thank you, from an aspiring storyteller to a modern griot.

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A Tribute to Happiness

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Chrycka Harper, Poet & Literary CriticLast Modified: 17:12 p.m. DST, 20 March 2014

Happy Clappy, Smiley Faces, Photo by King Dude Dave

Happiness always Makes the world a safer place. Is the world happy?

Don’t forget men’s work Their tears, passions, drives, and quirks Bring smiles to kids.

A child carries Light for the lantern to watch The world move to peace.

Peace rests on women, For the sake of the household, So we can smile.

Smiles lead to the Happiness in which we seek. A human goal, free.

 
 
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Twitter: @nahmias_report
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LOVE is........

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Chrycka Harper, Poet & Literary CriticLast Modified: 02:10 a.m. DST, 14 February 2014

What is the Key to my Heart, Photo by Alessio FeciI pray that LOVE is understood by the lover's eternal heart's beloved, no matter the speciality of the lover's craftsmanship.

Everyday, we present to each other locked packages, specialized by their beholders. Mine comes in a medium sized, cold metal box. Gray with swirls of turquoise and lavendar And sugary sprinkles of tangerine; all surrounding the one key hole.

Only a few people in this world have ever touched this box, fewer have gotten the key, and even fewer have understood to use the key to unlock the box to unleash its contents: my LOVE.

Two of those people are my Momma and my little brother- Brown Sugar and my little colored boy.

Brown Sugar! Don't ever lose your flavor. Amateurs always aiming to annihilate your flavorful accent But their heat drives them out of the kitchen... So don't ever leave the kitchen...

And my little colored boy. Hands academically shackled so you can only listen to your muffled potential. Schools teaching you how to type your prison numbers So when do you have the time to draw our freedom?

After the video games... Sleep Eat Repeat... Draw the next best game Draw the sheep that you count Draw the food that starving children should eat Keep going! Your humility and wittiness will carry you.

My routine may not be warm embraces but the contents that surrounded you from the box I presented to you is LOVE

LOVE is the universal, spiritual embrace we all relish in. It is up to the receivers to find the key of understanding: that LOVE also comes in different colors, shapes, and sizes.

I pray that LOVE is understood by the lover's eternal heart's beloved no matter the speciality of the lover's craftsmanship.

P.S. I pray that my audience understands my love for them through this story.

Amen.

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Twitter: @nahmias_report
Poet & Literary Critic: @chrycka_harper
 

Toto

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Chrycka Harper, Poet & Literary CriticLast Modified: 02:10 a.m. DST, 17 December 2013

TotoToto, Toto Where am I? I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. My footsteps lead us here: But what is here? I heard we are at the Mecca But our leader is leaving and creativity has gone missing.

I heard we are in the Nation's capital, but the government is shut down, Obamacare is supposedly around, and everything seems upside down. It's all a rhythm that I am not familiar with.

Toto, Toto I don't know what to think. We never saw so many shades of brown adorned with different expressions of what it means to be brown. Yet verses of ghetto anecdotes flow from boys' mouths like scriptures.

Versace, Versace, Versace, they can click their heels three times and they still can't afford it or even spell it. But when I quote the Lord is my shepherd and everlasting collective love, they act like they can't even see the picture.

Women waddling around, bobbing heads arms tied behind their backs only to get so far. Multicolored lips, hair, and shoes yet their minds still live in black and white.

It's like they forgot about Lauryen Hill's doo wop doo wop That thing in which we cannot speak But their tongues are so familiar with. Children running in circles But missing out on the circle of life. One down then its on to the next one. I thought that we would give our soldiers the best weapons for war, But instead they get guns.

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Published: 17 December 2013 (Page 2 of 2)

No child left behind But they fly under radar All the time Success after success of missing land mines and traps until when? Until they reach enemy territory then what?

Battles exchange, victories are won Then our children come home But they still don't know how to wade in the water. Help can barely exit their mouths so they try to wade and do what society says.

We tell them to disregard their fantasy, but we continue to imagine our reality. The true reality is that these souls try to operate in the zone in which they are comfortable at dawn, but it still remains at twilight. To the point where event the doctors, lawyers, and police can't save lives But rather push the waves to their demise.

A demise that so happened to be at Columbine. Newton. The Navy Yard. Miles away from where my footsteps leave off...

Toto, Toto I know we're not in Kansas anymore. Kansas had yellow green grass and rolling flatlands going nowhere. We never fit in and never would.

But I know when my true home Have been removed from its village. Now the only thing I see is A sky without a sun. This is what happens when people Don't listen to history. Instead They play the same songs.

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The Prophet's Children | Khalil Gibran

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Child at Water Fall Wall, Photo by Cuba GalleryYour children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you. And though they are with you, they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts. For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite. And He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer's hands be for happiness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, So He loves the bow that is stable.

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Queen’s Pawn

Queen’s Pawn

"Once the game is over, the King and the pawn go back in the same box." ~ Italian Proverb Obvious ways breed obvious opposition. Noisy preparation is the armament of the hubristic man. To defeat an opponent thus self-inflated, a wise combatant, sublimates all hint of power beneath the veneer of the demeaned.

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