Black Authors home

Lord I promised you a love poem
even through I do not think my heart is in it.
So many people forget to say thanks ,it seems everyone is just out to win it,
No one even knowing what the it is, just
trying to show out beyond the crowd of loners
making faces like we care for one another, proud owners of a selfish and
harden pride as the world grows old and compassion slowly dies and drys on the vine of “use to be how we treated one another”.
Lord i promised you a love poem and there is one thing that I do know,
your love has held us together every where we would go
more than anyone ever says or really more than anyone would dare
show, yet the goodness that you have given to us will quench the parched and thirsty soul of a down cast spirit, only if we could cry our selves to sleep,
searching for your love, would we, could we ,
be allowed to come near it,
knowing all along that the path to your heart is
deep within and not above?
Then there is the guilt that we have brought before your presence,
cheapen bags
torn apart and worn through with trashed broken dreams that did not come true only because before we
started out on the journey we forgot about loving you.
I promised you a love poem and i hope this will do ,
i know that if i ever loved anything it was because of you and
your love that first saw me through all that I claimed IT to be.

Liberals

I use to wonder about all those liberals taking aim trying to wipe the shame of their souls off on social media, and speaking out on the issues that affects the world and economics while disrespecting even the little wanna be minions, who cry them selves to sleep at night, because they do not have enough fight and are not loved like the rest of the peeps. I use to wonder at the mess we have made on this planet with the antics of pride and self serving hype, as the leopards continue to devour the helpless, knowing that they will never change their stripes while watching brother after brother being buried in a body bag made by a company call APATHY Inc. and you and me keep rolling in the grass lacing our dream like state of mind with visions of Fantasy Island hearing shouts of ” De plane De plane” as we run in and out of the issues again and again claiming “I need to take a break” while the whole world suffers because the liberals are trying to serve justice and the status quo ,and even little jimmy knows you should not crap and eat in the same room, so we rush to the dollar store and buy one of those throw away brooms, and sweep our integrity under that brightly covered living room rug made by “Moving on”. While watching the sun set on another day of pats on the back by a room full of liberals who are playing righteous just for fun, because its a good conversation piece ,”however don’t get it confused with my new lease on life, me and my family are above all that suffering and strife see we have seen the world and we know how things go, everybody in the know says our lives are the best, and the rest of the world is really in a mess so we are doing fine”,
so we continue to dine on Blind ambition and wonder what the future will bring.
Being liberal ain’t too hard because it doesn’t mean a thing!
Gregory Augustus Jones summer/ August 2015

Instant Justice

Instant Justice, is not on the menu. It would be something if you could put in a couple of quarters and buy some over the counter medication for the disorders or injustices we share; I might be wrong but I do not think you can buy compassion or care anywhere these days. It seems like the boys in the band have gone asleep again and the runaways are in a daze about where they are going. So here is a tip, do not trip about the latest gains in the journey toward humanity, somebody should “keep an eye on the prize and hold on” as the song says because before you celebrate victory here or there or anywhere, we need to stop and stare hard at that image in the mirror of our own souls or as the saying goes ,Charity begins at home.
Justice is just a word until the people make it real and if you think this struggle for dignity is ever over, you need to get a real feel for the issues at hand because instant justice does not happen in this land or any other place on this rock, the stock of this soup needs to be flavored with Christ’s Spirit, until it is, you can yell JUSTICE,PEACE, LOVE and FREEDOM to the top of your lungs and guess what
no body yes nobody will HEAR it.
gjones summer 2015

what’s up? !
Only a master planner with the know, growing spirits out of a field of dreams ,away from the schemes of man sowing souls in the fertile suffering of a troubled land,
Sitting on a throne made from a bucket of blood shed while Mister Charley plays with the heads of the wannabes, and the faithful are playing games with their own children while trying to stay on their knees , looking to the sky and wanting to eat that piece of the pie that they have been fighting for their whole life.
We are ducking and dodging from the strife created by our own greed and we need to be loved but too afraid to say it, as Mister Charley says “play it again Sam” and the arm chair tyrants call the shots in their high chairs while the baby’s walk the streets in this troubled place, looking for a trace of comfort and peace as we bail out Greece again. So “Where where is heaven” asked a depressed friend and we smile and say “here we go again” looking for something without when it has always been within. We will find no peace here until we reset this mess and start over again. “You never get it right the first time friend”!

Rappers delight

throwing lyrics around the room

waiting till the crowd goes boom with my rappers delight,

while holding on to my make believe dreams with fright in

the middle of the night ,I find my flights of fantasy to real for me

because I am living in a world I never knew mascaraing

inside my rappers delight, hopping while trying

to be hip and fading in the lies of the make believe cries as all truth dies in the middle of this fantasy in the dead of night trying to to be something i have never been,knowing my only friend is the bullshit

lyrics of a character that never was and never has been.

so the story ends for another wanna be chained up in the rappers delight. oh whata sight!

 

a rappers delight

Rev. Gregory Jones winter 2012

 

 

Welcome and enjoy the new offerings!

Stop and search my heart!

Before you start to jail me in your selfish and

narrow reality. You attempt to define my probable cause

by your own selfish and stolen interest and

mistake my world as saws cutting thru your gated community.

You expect me to plea bargain for time in your insane notion of

immunity.

No wonder you are afraid of the dark and life and the world of strife that follows you where ever you go.

you think locking me up with your view will make me over into the brand new you. Being yourself is not in the way your crew rolls through this life.

Take and brake, take and brake, take and brake every one and thing down to your

  definition of what is real is what you would like to do,

Because the real prison is inside of you.

Gregory August Jones copyright June 2012

Here is a new contribution!

In the belly of the beast

The days are gone when we could feast on the joy and fellowship of community, and the laughter has ceased in the sorrow of a hell that punishes without impunity , as our spirit is sucked out cold like the marrow of old bones wasting away in the belly of this beast.

We bubble and froth at the mind and mouth

as the yeast of aspiration   is poured  in but not released, and there is nothing positive that is increased, in the belly of this

beast but bad gas and the waste of another tomorrow and our body  and heart is full of sorrow because,

the lease on this life has expired, and the troubled spirit has retired from the fun and games played in the belly of the beast of status quo fantasy as those that care occupy their own interest and stay and play internet anonymous with dignity and respect and no one suspects that we are all wrapped in this mess in the belly of this beast

Yet everyone wants the chance to be passed out of this mess, and i guess its better to be a parasite in the belly of a monster than to be

a guest at the dinner table with him,

in  the belly of this beast at least you know where you are and and what you are made of, in

The belly of this beast.

Rev. Gregory Augustus Jones copy write winter 2011

We will use this page to share original work as well as invite you to learn about great African American writers.

We thank you for your interest in some of these great reflections of the heart and soul of our community!

Zora Neale Hurston

http://www.zoranealehurston.com/

Welcome to our African American writers home page!!

We will feature information about African American writers and some of  our  personal work in formation as we grow in skill and understanding   some of the fantastic talents of the great Black authors of our community. Thank you and welcome!

Langston Hughes

We celebrate the fantastic contribution of this writer!!!

 

Thank you for visiting our black authors page!

Here is a new contribution:

The underground

all brothers are in the underground

clandestine features and wearing the frown of desperate

soul seekers as we go underground looking for the rent

or crying for a break today, from the one act play we want to call life, but really its just the strife of living in the dark for so long,

so we sing the same old song of  what do i wannabe when I grow up enough to stop being in the underground , where the man did it and someone hid it from  us so life is a bust again and

I have lost the same old friend again and there is never a win win scenario  in this picture there is never a win win scenario in this picture,

In this underground where life is just the next round of suffering  and pain and the brothers are all here again .

We are all talking about how we will take it all over in the underground but really its all ready over.

There is no four leaf clover for the brothers in the underground just hell warmed over.

No news is good news in the underground!

Rev Gregory Augustus Jones

copy right summer 2011

South side Chicago Illinois

Edna Jones died on August 5th at 12:38 am in

Washington DC  this poem is dedicated to her memory.

I remember Mama

Working every day  dawn to  past ten

up the next day to do it all over again and nothing to show for it,

but three healthy children to honor your sacrifice for their lives and nothing to show but the strength it takes to work seven days a week

no man holding your hand or drying the tears of

loneliness and pain cannot stop because Monday comes and you have to do it all over again.

Who understands this kind of life where you put yours on hold and give everything in hopes that theirs will turn out different.

Well Edna you did it.

You gave up everything so that they your sons and daughters could find joy and love and let freedom ring inside their own reality.

Teaching the world what it means to raise strong men and women that refuse to become fatalities of mis spent lives . strong daughters and sons who can live with the best of the best yet never forget who they are

not marred by success so never forgetting the quest for being just or good and still keeping the hood close but not to near no fear and never learning what it meant to quit

Edna you have done  a good thing raising these sons and daughters to mean well in their passing of the strength and kindness of a woman who held together her family on faith and wit and did not take shit from no body.

Laughter and simple living was your key and putting together a dinner with a onion ,tomato paste and a box of red cross spaghetti.

I will always remember your joy and love and spirit that still hovers above over your sons and daughters and well Edna you did it and you did not take shit from anyone and your life well it was full for fun and adventure and love and sacrifice and comfort and care and anywhere i go i know you will not be far from me because your love is just as much a part of me as the rain or clouds or skies because no one goes anywhere when they die they just hide for  awhile in the hearts of the ones they loved and touched until they

pry themselves loose and travel through the memories of those that pass us by to meet again in the by and by at the intersection of our love.

Mama I will always love you!

Prelude to the memoir” Beginnings”

I grew up where no body else wanted to live, learned how to take before i learned to give back the only thing I every had, just glad to still be alive, just glad to still be alive trying to survive in a world

full of hate.

A reality of my face and space book escape to Pandora never be your self ,shelf life, while waiting on Jesus to return and make it all right

but it aint all right, right now it aint  all right, right now.

So i write to kill the pain and i am so glad to be able to feel again

but it still aint right right now but i am glad to still be alive once again.

Rev. Dr. Gregory Augustus Jones

copy right summer 2010

These are the stories that  reflect some of my child hood experiences.

These are the places that my life has carried me.

Sometimes these stories are very personal, sometimes these places reflect the pain and suffering of a troubled yet blessed life.

I share the space with those I respect and love those African American writers who have touched and influenced my life.

These great men and women show the world the unlimited universe of talent etched in the souls of those who have stories to tell.

I will continue to share moments from this journey as well as reflect on the greats who let us be a part of the stories that are told.

Thank you for visiting !

Whatcha doing here?

why have you come home again and where have you been?

you clock in as a sometime friend who shows up now and again.

why because you think what you are doing is going to be classified by some holy roller as a sin / Think again, when will it end your

to and fro life that always puts itself ahead of the strife that it causes everyone else. Stop showing up with a grin and recognize the pain you always place us in

So daddy’s home again to stay,

until the next time he runs away

welcome home.

copy right April 2010 Rev. Gregory Augustus Jones

See new authors added!!!

Welcome to the home page of black authors created to enhance the readers knowledge regarding the tremendous contribution that authors of color have made to the shaping and defining of black culture.

We will feature various writers  of color and attempt to share some of the latest authors presented by this group of awesome people in the communities of color in our society.

We will also provide various links and samples of the work they share as well as a few works  of our own.

If you are an author and word like to share samples of your work in progress please comment and we will respond.

Remember Keep writing every single day.

We write about the world that we live in and see

sometimes we just write about the person we yearn to to be.

what ever the matter is drives the pen into our reality.

Things i seem to remember as a little boy

Toys made with broken glass pieces  of rags and painted  old sticks still brought joy to the play time

even through i did not have a dime to spend on  a  play station we learned how to build our own x box with our imagination, when i was a little boy the joy was within and the dreams could be made alive without all the mess,

this time put to the test,

not how much i had in my pockets but was i smart enough to create rockets out of old tin cans, and could i play well with new friends, and how long could we have fun before we would come in to eat any thing that was on the table being a picky eater was a fable that only rich folks told.

so now i have grown old and it seems the moments we shared when i was a little boy gave us so much more joy then

these adults in baby clothes.

Back then a little imagination brought alive the joy that

allowed little boys to have any toy they chose.

Back when we were little Who knows where our minds would be the imagination would become our reality.

I guess the brain will never be what it use to be,

like,  when we were little boys.

Rev. Gregory Augustus Jones

copy right spring 2009

Please take time to visit this site!!

http://frank.mtsu.edu/~vvesper/afam.html

Gloria Naylor is a fantastic writer! Please visit her site and view a sample of her wonderful work!

http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/407137/Gloria-Naylor

Our Featured authors this month will  be August Wilson seen on our lead blog and in the authors page

Toni Morrison  as seen here is an excellent example of the power of black women who write . Please visit her sites!

http://www.tonimorrisonsociety.org/

Ernest Gaines is another famous black writer.

“A gathering of Old Men” and “A lesson before dying” are two of his many famous works.

http://www.achievement.org/autodoc/page/gai0bio-1

This is a great young writer that will continue to produce great works.

Sista Souljah

We thank God for her life and the great work that she shares with the community!

http://www.sistersouljah.com/

Everyone has read this famous author Maya Angelou

I will never forget the moment that I read

“I know why the caged bird sings”

Thank you Maya for sharing your story with the world.

We want to continue to share our  stories on this page.

The following is a short piece  written by Rev. Gregory a Jones author of this blog.

Hey! Let me tell you a story;

about a little boy lost among the brambles of hate and cold

trying to find peace before he grows too old to care about anything or any body.

Facing the dreads of a world burnt to a crisp and not worth the ticket we give our lives for.

A world that cries for more, but is full to the brim with selfishness and hate.

Too late to change it now is how we are taught.

Not worth the trouble for the ticket we brought.

We scatter the crumbs of our hope on waters filled with the hungry lives thrashing around in a river of lost souls.

Jumping like weary salmon up a incline that is just too steep we still try to make the leap with out letting the crowds of hungry lives devour our spirit.

This love that God has sometimes seems not to want anyone to get near it.

So we take on second class lives in a world of first class pain just so we can get the chance to jump up the incline once again.

Do you want to know where old souls go when they die?

They fold back into the wasted lives that are still living out the lie that they were told oh so long ago. They swim a thousand miles of uncharted waters to get to spawn their ego.

If we are fortunate we get to jump the incline once again and spread our lives upon the waters of our soul or so the story goes.

When will we  ever meet love face to face? No one ever knows.

We just keep on  swimming  this river trying to make it back home again.

Copyright spring 2009 Rev. Gregory Augustus Jones all rights reserved

Guess who is coming to dinner?

Nobody never knows when supper time comes in this house

even the mouse has trouble finding when will we drop the crumbs from the table because life is a label of undetermined content and the dinner table is a place of unknown origins, you see everybody lives in their own reality, in this house.

Sometimes people come in at ten and that is when dinner will begin around a drunken orgy or a reefer madness crave, there is nothing that can stave off the hunger for attention so somebody might mention having breakfast at four in the morning after the cell phone rings and deliver the stings of a miscarriage in the yesterday relationship.

Can you imagine children  that think its hip to fix dinner after their parents have passed out, eating cereal laced with Guinness Stout.

Well guess who is coming to dinner?

Maybe a boy or a worn out mother that has been treated like a toy again or maybe just maybe one day a caring loving friend.

Until then BYOB.

Copy right Rev. Gregory Augustus Jones June 2009

All Rights reserved

Where have all the people gone?

It seems only like yesterday, that we saw all the children laughing and

at play among the smiling faces of friends and family all gone

all gone.

Where have they all gone to?

Where did the my mother and brother fall

is there anyone that cares at all about this mystery, where have they all gone?

Why does the tears continue to fall like rain from a cloudless sky?

Why should the poor be left to die such a horrible death the breathe pressed out of the lifeless

bodies that had died long ago

Well i just don`t know where all the people have gone

perhaps this hell will spawn a new attitude

instead of the crude mission song sung by those who care but not too much.

Maybe this hell will touch the hearts of those who can come and go at will.

Maybe they will hear the heart songs of the dead and learn how to feel the pangs of those of us who  ask

Where Have All the people Gone Still!

By Rev Gregory Augustus Jones copy right all rights reserved  January winter 2010

We must never forget the Great writers in African American Literature like:

Richard Wright

http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/s_z/r_wright/wright_life.htm

James Baldwin

http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americanmasters/episodes/james-baldwin/about-the-author/59/

These are GREAT WRITERS!

The world may never know

how many great people with fantastic talents to show,

the hungry humanity even in the throes of a empty and unfeeling heart,

there has been greatness from the start,

even in the after glow of the rape of creativity, chances are the victims still held on to their dignity.

The world may never know in its rush to claim value in everything it desires there is a humanity that inspires even the least of us .

So old world do not be in such a rush to claim and proclaim your

victory, until you have taken the time to listen to every story,

because the glory is not what you claim as yours, but that you have seen and felt what seeps through the pores of every  child of humanity.

Rev. Gregory Augustus Jones

copy right winter /spring 2010

Do you really understand the view?

You show up once in a while to check in on the natives

but do you really understand the view from the other side of the glass?

Standing on the inside looking out from the department store you created for your own fantastic journey into

the lives of the rich and famous.

We live lives of disparate heartache as the world is pressed into the narrow view of a few powerful people who are powerless to stop the surge of brokenness that washes over

the mess left by presidents who lived in Hyde park but never understood the stark reality of a me mentality.

We wonder if anybody will ever hear the real songs sung from weeping sons and daughters who never get the chance to prance through the evergreens of a privileged life. Facing ever day the strife of a torn world left to the

academic study of  the rape of dignity.

Some how the pain is just not understood by you and me as we dance the ballerina dance of conformity, while Dante’s inferno burns the ambitions of another generation

of  social wannabees,

so here we sit in the window with a view but when you look up from the limo of your self-interest do you really understand what you see? Can we understand another worlds reality?

copy right 2010 Rev. Gregory Augustus Jones all rights reserved.

Every day things are changing

Have you ever wondered why there is a change to each day ,that there is never the same sky or the wind is different each time it blows

and caresses our face and tickles our nose differently and each time,

no one knows why things are different each day and changes until by and by we get lost on the fly careening toward the answers of lifes enduring why.

Its a wonderment you see that each moment is different and it was made for just you and me me.

copyright summer 2010

Rev. Dr. Gregory Augustus Jones

We need a break today

From all the games people play about caring for the

ones who get left behind in our mad dash to be number one in a world of greed and self- serving   sorrow, there is nobody holding the keys to tomorrow, but the BP  CEO (Callus Egocentric Opportunities) spilling blood colored oil all over the wildlife and blaming the mess

on mis management and strife, while i go play golf

and celebrate a life of careless greed. The power i lust for is more than i could ask for or even need.

As the lights get dimmer in Englewood and Hyde Park

grows greener while the little people bleed

out.

Rev. Gregory Augustus Jones

copyright summer 2010

WANTS TO BE WANTED

What do you want of me?

why do you keep asking for what you cannot see in

me or those beyond the reach of your self perfected reality?

We are those who are slain yet remain alive inside your “snow globe of expectations and doubt” we who have no voice ask that you would exercise your clout with the powers that be, give us a chance to stand outside of this pain filled reality, of wanting but not knowing,and knowing but not caring,and you never sharing within this mount you call Hermon.

So do not preach to me the sermon on the mount about,

the Be Attitudes, It was you who was the first to be rude,too rude to stay and pray for a blessing and now instead you come messing with everybody’s   game using the same premise that you can disrespect everyone that does not play along! Take your selfish world and…….

BE GONE!

What do you want, anyway???

copyright March  Spring 2011

Chilling

What does it mean to be chilling after all the killing of the spirit,

that goes on in this town, down town and around all the lost boys and girls, around the world,

as the flag unfurls and reveals the skulls and cross bones of a nation who plays at being caring but is really crazy

as the president plays at driving miss daisy and Sam plays that song again in the new original Rick`s cafe Americana

and Pollyanna cannot find her way home because the road is covered with oil drenched dead bodies of little children   as the new political season is started with $35,000.00 plates of sea scallops brought from some other place than the gulf,

Is it a wonder that the little people have had enough of this make believe reality, where integrity is done on the fly and honesty is caught in a dive by, and the wheel man is self interest riding in the new 2011 mode of transportation  a car called GREED.

Maybe all the poor people need is  to succeed from this land of opportunity and plead for a more kinder and gentler reality.

America is the Disney land of the world  and the poor , and old and the children are suffering from this outrageous

and self centered dream   of a few,  who have much to do but, do not care for any,  but have plenty time for their wealthy greed fill schemes , of having more and paying less, while

the good Negroes keep driving Mrs Daisy through this hell drenched mess.

“Now Mrs Daisy dats between me and dem”

copyright by Rev Gregory Augustus Jones April 2011