Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
...and what shall we do about Haiti
...and what shall we do about Haiti?
Haiti?
what do you mean?
I mean the souls that still hover
in the expulsion of methane
from the spirits shoveled into rubble
Haiti?
what do you mean?
I mean the tattered humans
with missing limbs
in a land where pre-quake
they didn't even have handicap
accessibility
Haiti?
what do you mean?
a country without a capitol
a capitol without schools
schools without teachers
teachers without books
Haiti?
what do you mean?
Don't you mean
Tiger Woods?
Don't you mean Chile?
Don't you mean the oil spill?
Don't you mean the last Shrek movie?
Don't you mean Gary Coleman's funeral guest list?
Don't you mean the woman who left her millions to her cats?
I ask you...WHAT DO YOU THINK I MEAN?
Haiti?
what do you mean?
I mean the souls that still hover
in the expulsion of methane
from the spirits shoveled into rubble
Haiti?
what do you mean?
I mean the tattered humans
with missing limbs
in a land where pre-quake
they didn't even have handicap
accessibility
Haiti?
what do you mean?
a country without a capitol
a capitol without schools
schools without teachers
teachers without books
Haiti?
what do you mean?
Don't you mean
Tiger Woods?
Don't you mean Chile?
Don't you mean the oil spill?
Don't you mean the last Shrek movie?
Don't you mean Gary Coleman's funeral guest list?
Don't you mean the woman who left her millions to her cats?
I ask you...WHAT DO YOU THINK I MEAN?
Monday, June 14, 2010
THE FOREVER ENCORE
THE FOREVER ENCORE
(ode to HAITI REBUILT:
The celebration it will take to rebuild our Haiti is likened to the celebration of the many hands used to produce the wonderful sounds of an orchestral overture)
The Haitian man played multi-colored notes
beaconing colored peoplewith instrument totes
conducting a tempo
of hues dancing
the prismatic rainbow
sounds were romancing
yellow notes played
sun-kissed fandangos
brown notes flamingoed
a big band tango
white notes strummed
delicious dulcimer rounds
black notes drummed
lightening lion sounds
green notes recycled
earth saving stanzas anew
Red Cloud played totem poles
a denim sky blue
Royal purple sang
a majestic presidential tune
the peacock colored orchestra
played way past high noon
making raw music
plucking in the full moon
the multi-colored Haitian man
played multi-colored notes
as the children plaited his hair
in intricate shapes of baroque
and the angels arpeggios relayed
that "tomorrow, " they wrote,
"today must be replayed
when the multi-colored Haitian man
again plays his multi-colored notes."
THE FOREVER ENCORE
(an ode to Haiti rebuilt)
by Yolantha Harrison-Pace
Thursday, June 10, 2010
LET HER DRINK
I went down to the creek
There's a pig in the
Drinking water
Let him stay
There's a goat in the
Drinking water
Let him stay
There's a mule in the
Drinking water
Let him stay
Ther's a baby in the
Drinking water
Let her drink.
Nobody knows the Haiti I've seen...
There's a pig in the
Drinking water
Let him stay
There's a goat in the
Drinking water
Let him stay
There's a mule in the
Drinking water
Let him stay
Ther's a baby in the
Drinking water
Let her drink.
Nobody knows the Haiti I've seen...
Sunday, March 21, 2010
the wrITe FACTOR
The wrITe FACTOR
(written for an English speaking writing class while on Premiere Writer’s, The Emerging Voices of the 21st Century virtual tour--India)
I really, really, really (yes I used 3 reallys) think I can write. I have awards, as well as award winning tags after my books. I have followers and have received writing accolades galore. I’m a guest columnist for the newspaper, had plays I’ve written produced, had things printed all over the world, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera (yup I used 3 etcs…) For every great thing I’ve written there are thousands upon thousands of words that have been burned up in a landfill some where. At 55 I don’t have the same writing leisure that I had at 25 or 35 or 45 for that matter. People, writers, artists are dying all around me. Many of my friends are dying without a written legacy, leaving this earth without anything that will last beyond their graves. Big deal you say, don’t be such a diva you say, don’t take yourself so seriously you say…but look at our world…the beauty as well as the devastation.
Have you seen the Rocky Mountains in bloom at full moon? Have you seen a newborn billygoat? Have you been splashed by the Niagara Falls? Have you ridden a mule or an elephant or a camel? Have you hugged a Heisman Trophy winner? Have you swatted flies off of a dying baby? Have you hooked your brother in the forehead with a fishing rod? Have you kissed Maya Angelou or the Cowardly Lion in the original Wizard of Oz or Bob Hope? I have. But nobody will ever know unless I write about it and write about it well or at least write about it “good”.
I know that a little girl got raped by her father and nobody knows about it but the little girl, her father and me. I know that millions of dollars have ended up in somebody’s pocket instead of going to directly aide the people of Haiti. I know that consistently African American children are getting to High School reading at a 3rd grade level and not knowing that 8 X 7 is 56. I know that one of my female friends got slapped so hard by her husband that it dislocated her jaw but nobody knows that except me, her and her no good lousy husband. I have known that a pastor was sleeping with one of the married women of the church. I know that a little boy in the 5th grade placed on Ritalin is selling his pills to the teenagers on the corner on the way to his elementary school every morning. I know a woman who relocated to Louisville from the Katrina devastation and she only got $200 dollars from all the money given by good hearted folks from around the world for hurricane relief. And once again nobody will ever know unless I write about it and write about it well or at least write about it “good”.
What do you know that the rest of the world needs to know? Nobody needs to know all that stuff you say? You are just stirring up more trouble than its WORTH. Imagine if somebody had written about the Priest’s indiscretions with just one little boy, how many little boys would have been saved. What if I printed in the paper all of the names of the graduating seniors in Kentucky who can’t read the Preamble of the Constitution, the Gettysburg Address or the 23rd Psalms let alone understand what those documents mean. Would the “gap” then become WORTH closing? (Thank God you say, that I’m bound by the student privacy act.)
How many children would not die in Haiti if I had the guts to write Clinton, the Red Cross, Save the Children and Samaritan’s Purse to ask WHERE IS ALL OUR MONEY GOING? What do you know that you should not take to your dying grave? What will you say when God asks, “What did you bring that information with you to heaven for, when you should have left it in writing to be known while you were alive and as a reminder after you were gone?” If that becomes the case for me, then I guess you would have to put on my tombstone. Yolantha Harrison-Pace, 1955-20??. “She will never rest in peace because she was--THE WOMAN WHO NEVER WROTE.”
Yolanthapace@gmail.com
Twitter.com/writerwriter07
www.premierewriters.com
www.capacityInc.org
(written for an English speaking writing class while on Premiere Writer’s, The Emerging Voices of the 21st Century virtual tour--India)
I really, really, really (yes I used 3 reallys) think I can write. I have awards, as well as award winning tags after my books. I have followers and have received writing accolades galore. I’m a guest columnist for the newspaper, had plays I’ve written produced, had things printed all over the world, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera (yup I used 3 etcs…) For every great thing I’ve written there are thousands upon thousands of words that have been burned up in a landfill some where. At 55 I don’t have the same writing leisure that I had at 25 or 35 or 45 for that matter. People, writers, artists are dying all around me. Many of my friends are dying without a written legacy, leaving this earth without anything that will last beyond their graves. Big deal you say, don’t be such a diva you say, don’t take yourself so seriously you say…but look at our world…the beauty as well as the devastation.
Have you seen the Rocky Mountains in bloom at full moon? Have you seen a newborn billygoat? Have you been splashed by the Niagara Falls? Have you ridden a mule or an elephant or a camel? Have you hugged a Heisman Trophy winner? Have you swatted flies off of a dying baby? Have you hooked your brother in the forehead with a fishing rod? Have you kissed Maya Angelou or the Cowardly Lion in the original Wizard of Oz or Bob Hope? I have. But nobody will ever know unless I write about it and write about it well or at least write about it “good”.
I know that a little girl got raped by her father and nobody knows about it but the little girl, her father and me. I know that millions of dollars have ended up in somebody’s pocket instead of going to directly aide the people of Haiti. I know that consistently African American children are getting to High School reading at a 3rd grade level and not knowing that 8 X 7 is 56. I know that one of my female friends got slapped so hard by her husband that it dislocated her jaw but nobody knows that except me, her and her no good lousy husband. I have known that a pastor was sleeping with one of the married women of the church. I know that a little boy in the 5th grade placed on Ritalin is selling his pills to the teenagers on the corner on the way to his elementary school every morning. I know a woman who relocated to Louisville from the Katrina devastation and she only got $200 dollars from all the money given by good hearted folks from around the world for hurricane relief. And once again nobody will ever know unless I write about it and write about it well or at least write about it “good”.
What do you know that the rest of the world needs to know? Nobody needs to know all that stuff you say? You are just stirring up more trouble than its WORTH. Imagine if somebody had written about the Priest’s indiscretions with just one little boy, how many little boys would have been saved. What if I printed in the paper all of the names of the graduating seniors in Kentucky who can’t read the Preamble of the Constitution, the Gettysburg Address or the 23rd Psalms let alone understand what those documents mean. Would the “gap” then become WORTH closing? (Thank God you say, that I’m bound by the student privacy act.)
How many children would not die in Haiti if I had the guts to write Clinton, the Red Cross, Save the Children and Samaritan’s Purse to ask WHERE IS ALL OUR MONEY GOING? What do you know that you should not take to your dying grave? What will you say when God asks, “What did you bring that information with you to heaven for, when you should have left it in writing to be known while you were alive and as a reminder after you were gone?” If that becomes the case for me, then I guess you would have to put on my tombstone. Yolantha Harrison-Pace, 1955-20??. “She will never rest in peace because she was--THE WOMAN WHO NEVER WROTE.”
Yolanthapace@gmail.com
Twitter.com/writerwriter07
www.premierewriters.com
www.capacityInc.org
Friday, February 5, 2010
America--LOOK WHAT I FOUND...
“Come, they are here. Let me show you.”
We step into the entry for Pastor Jules’ bakery. The entry area is barely larger than my front porch, about 25 feet by 12 feet. I am overwhelmed. I count approximately 76 children in various stages of nakedness. Some laps are holding 2 and 3 smaller children. There are probably closer to 90, for the children seem to keep shifting making it hard to get an exact count. I had with me my back pack with treats for the children. But I had only filled it half full, not realizing what I was coming to witness. I began to hand out ‘Lil Debbie Crackers’ knowing that I did not have enough. But to my astonishment every child gets fed. Every time I reached into my back pack there were more crackers. After every child is proudly holding a pack of crackers, to my human amazement there are still crackers in the back pack. I dump the contents on the table used for kneading Pastor Jules’ bread. I dumped out enough crackers for the children to eat again on tomorrow...Oh the miracle of it. I whisper a thank you that is insufficient for such a sufficient God.
We step into the entry for Pastor Jules’ bakery. The entry area is barely larger than my front porch, about 25 feet by 12 feet. I am overwhelmed. I count approximately 76 children in various stages of nakedness. Some laps are holding 2 and 3 smaller children. There are probably closer to 90, for the children seem to keep shifting making it hard to get an exact count. I had with me my back pack with treats for the children. But I had only filled it half full, not realizing what I was coming to witness. I began to hand out ‘Lil Debbie Crackers’ knowing that I did not have enough. But to my astonishment every child gets fed. Every time I reached into my back pack there were more crackers. After every child is proudly holding a pack of crackers, to my human amazement there are still crackers in the back pack. I dump the contents on the table used for kneading Pastor Jules’ bread. I dumped out enough crackers for the children to eat again on tomorrow...Oh the miracle of it. I whisper a thank you that is insufficient for such a sufficient God.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The beauty of a land that has never been told
There is so much more to Haiti than the earthquake and what we are being bombarded with on CNN, and I’m living proof!
What happens when church ceases to be just good preachin’ and good sangin’ and good usherin’? What happens when Samson, Moses, Hagar and Miriam become real people that set real examples for an extraordinary life. When scriptures, God’s love and Mercy sticks---then a missionary is born. The stories about Joseph and his coat of many colors (I love fashion) from the pit to the palace--sounds just like me, from the wrong side of the tracks to the Miss America pageant circuit. My life is proof that the Bible is not just a book of fairy tales. HERE’S TO HAITI is a missionary memoir of wrestling, arguing, questioning then listening, partnershipping, and collaborating with God to make a difference in a nation that until January 12 was truly forgotten. What makes a missionary? How do you know you are called? How do you answer when you are called? Honestly, I knew God had dialed the wrong number when he called me. But he kept dialing and dialing and dialing until His ring tone was driving me so crazy that I finally had to pick up. Like Moses, I stuttered horribly, but also like Moses, God has turned me into the voice of His people. Join Marti Tucker of Premiere Writers plummets me, Janice and Stan (2 other brilliant voices) into a wonderful 90 day tour as one of the Top 4 Emerging Voices of the 21st Century. Heeeeeeeere’s to Haiti!!! The beauty of a land that has never ever been told
What happens when church ceases to be just good preachin’ and good sangin’ and good usherin’? What happens when Samson, Moses, Hagar and Miriam become real people that set real examples for an extraordinary life. When scriptures, God’s love and Mercy sticks---then a missionary is born. The stories about Joseph and his coat of many colors (I love fashion) from the pit to the palace--sounds just like me, from the wrong side of the tracks to the Miss America pageant circuit. My life is proof that the Bible is not just a book of fairy tales. HERE’S TO HAITI is a missionary memoir of wrestling, arguing, questioning then listening, partnershipping, and collaborating with God to make a difference in a nation that until January 12 was truly forgotten. What makes a missionary? How do you know you are called? How do you answer when you are called? Honestly, I knew God had dialed the wrong number when he called me. But he kept dialing and dialing and dialing until His ring tone was driving me so crazy that I finally had to pick up. Like Moses, I stuttered horribly, but also like Moses, God has turned me into the voice of His people. Join Marti Tucker of Premiere Writers plummets me, Janice and Stan (2 other brilliant voices) into a wonderful 90 day tour as one of the Top 4 Emerging Voices of the 21st Century. Heeeeeeeere’s to Haiti!!! The beauty of a land that has never ever been told
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