Why do I write?
Not just to tell my story
But to to tell her story
His story
And our history
This is how we pass it down
We must realize our roots and grow
The great late Langston Hughs
Said his hands was on the the plow
And that plow was plowing freedom
Well, if that plow headed to freedom
I'm on that plow too
So I sit down and write
Planting seeds
For the youth
Hoping that the flowers from my garden bloom
I nourish their minds
Giving them the ability to plant roots
Hoping they become strong
To become a forest
To nourish the new youth that comes along
Than all of us can come together and sing along
To some old ***** Spiritual

"Free at last, free at last
I thank God I'm free at last
Free at last, free at last
I thank God I'm free at last"

We pray for children
who sneak popsicles before supper,
who erase holes in math workbooks,
who can never find their shoes.

And we pray, for those
who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire,
who can't bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers,
who never "counted potatoes,"
who are born in places where we wouldn't be caught dead,
who never go to the circus,
who live in an ******* world.

We pray for children
who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,
Who sleep with the cat and bury goldfish,
Who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money,
Who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink,
Who slurp their soup.

And we pray for those
who never get dessert,
who have no safe blanket to drag behind them,
who watch their parents watch them die,
who can't find any bread to steal,
who don't have any rooms to clean up,
whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser,
whose monsters are real.

We pray for children
who spend all their allowance before Tuesday,
who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food,
who like ghost stories,
who shove ***** clothes under the bed,
and never rinse out the tub,
who get visits from the tooth fairy,
who don't like to be kissed in front of the carpool,
who squirm in church or temple and scream in the phone,
whose tears we sometimes laugh at
and whose smiles can make us cry.

And we pray for those
whose nightmares come in the daytime,
who will eat anything,
who have never seen a dentist,
who aren't spoiled by anybody,
who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep,
who live and move, but have no being.

We pray for children
who want to be carried
and for those who must,
for those we never give up on
and for those who don't get a second chance.
For those we smother…
and for those who will grab the hand of anybody
kind enough to offer it.

We pray for children. Amen


-Ina Hughs

If we were on a canvas;

I. Ocean blue greys in heavy handed strokes,
Bleed into a green of sun lit canopies .

  Burnt umber and soil with quick wristed flecks of something like the yellow of thick honey

  Intermingling over deafening white, the colors collide messily but not unintentionally

  Not oil, not acrylic,  not even water color .

  Rather something made truly of these very things,

  Ocean depths and hurricane hights, black tire marks burnt into cement and the mud that squishes beneath bare feet. The colors of momentary bliss . Unapologetic and unraveling.

II.  Dust collects heavily on a lustrous and listless painting , dimly lit in an empty gallery.
 
   Only my fingertips disturb the sediment of dust and salt, the face of these colors only haunt me .

  And those who remember seeing it look sadly apon me and tell me only; that there are more muses in this world than one.
 

III.   You're somewhere doing something ,
    But no matter what satisfaction is gained
You know there is no recreation of those hughs,
And a piece of you too mourns the capability to finish the art set in place by fate and choice.


If we were on a canvas , we would be hidden in lonely parts of eachother, because whatever we made this of is stained into our skin no matter how hard their loving hands try to cleanse them .
We are the very mess we create.
Unapologetic.
Unraveling.
Undeniably human.