Through these diaries you can collect the inks as they arrive on my page - adding each troop and their tough cookie salutes to your arsenal of personal power. You can also help the ink spread by sharing them with friends.
Do you tell a secret? But it’s BIG and if it lands on you, you’ll be crushed. We’ll be crushed! Then I say it. There. It’s out. And it doesn’t fall. It flies. And we watch it. And it’s beautiful. Beautiful … because it’s free. WARNING:
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On a dark day, this page from the first book (In My Room) and poem about The Army of Ink helps … Black peacemakers of inner conflict . emerge from the depths of innocent souls . standing firmly in experience . boots too big tripping up lies so old . delivering poignant punches of universal truth . that swell much bigger than the silence . inky stamps of self approval . together we rise . a revolution of self .
In the darkness little helpers gathered . spilling rich black ink into soft white sheets . tailoring picture books to fill empty spaces … a few lines from a poem I wrote. Now it comes to life through a very special little book. Special, because it’s been handwritten by a young soul and for the message the handwriting carries. Many young people I meet don’t write because they believe or have been told their handwriting is too messy, spelling all wrong, stories too bad to tell; and no-one would want to hear them anyway. So I asked one of these young people if they’d like to handwrite my next book. We’ve been meeting regularly for well over a year now. Papers shuffling back and forth across tables in parks, libraries, cafes and quiet nooks …
Sometimes I don’t know what to do … but I suppose I don’t have to know everything.
I once wished upon stars . books with crosses . as the white man stole birthdays . red man pretended . black collars wrapped around truth . now I wear the hat that makes me taller than the glaring . stays on as I rattle my little box . make sticks come alive . hard things run . soft things dance with my breath . spin circles that wrap all the way around me . and everything disappears .
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I’d rather turn into a pumpkin in January … than kiss a toad in December.
I never liked that bit when you’re at a party and the clock strikes 12 and everyone wants to grab you for a drunken pash – ERK! Have a good one – back in 2010 … x (safe cyber space kiss)