The Making of a Novel and an Author   Leave a comment

Harold Lee Rush interviews author Rhonda Denise Johnson


Imoye ~ A Collection of 6 Poems   Leave a comment

In the Yoruba language imo means knowledge and oye means understanding. When two words began or end with a vowel it is customary to contract them into one word just as in the english language the words it and is are contracted to form the word it’s. So imo and oye together form the word imoye.

Read and listen

Prince Alarming~ Sequel to Sleeping Beauty   Leave a comment

Want to know what happens after the prince rides off with the beautiful maiden and they “live happily ever after?” Read and listen to the real deal.

Posted October 11, 2013 by rhondadenisejohnson in Short Stories

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F.U.Q. Frequently Unasked Questions (Part 1 of 2)   Leave a comment

In our hectic daily lives the questions we don’t stop to ask can often be more important than the ones we do ask. Many times, we don’t ask some questions because we don’t think there is an answer, or the answers don’t have an immediate practical relation to our current emergency, or the answers just seem too complex or they require us to open doors to the dark recesses of our minds where the boogie man resides. Whatever the reason, while you’re here now might be a good time to start asking these questions for yourself. What follows is not intended to be an exhaustive list of all the important questions. Think of it as a springboard from which you may come up with questions I never thought of.

1. Who am I?
How much of what you think, feel, believe and do is actually you and how much of it is unexamined indoctrination? We tell ourselves that everybody can’t be wrong if they all think the same thing. In fact, history shows us that when everybody thinks something it usually is wrong. Everybody once thought the world was flat. Fear of ridicule, fear of consequences, even the fear of being right keeps people from examining the status quo or questioning what everybody thinks is “common sense.” Did I say fear of being right? I did. It’s uncomfortable to be right when all your friends are wrong. Like Harry Potter’s Alvis Dumbledore sad “People will forgive you for being wrong before they forgive you for being right.” So we go along to get along. But is that really who we are? Are we afraid to give birth to a Self who may have to stand alone?

2. Why am I where I am?
If we find ourselves in a place, on a job or with a person where we are unhappy, why do we remain there? We say we’ve invested too much to quit now. Okay, if five years is too much to have invested, why compound the waste by investing ten more? If we are in a place where we should not be that means we are not in the place where we should be. This doesn’t mean we should jump up and quit every time things don’t go our way. It means when we are generally and chronically unhappy in a place we need to know why this is so and take steps to change our circumstances. No one else will change them for us.

3. Could I think differently?
We may think we are too old. Too set in our ways. Too accustomed to things the way they are. We may have surrounded ourselves with people who would think ill of us if we voiced a divergent view from theirs. Let me tell you something, if you put chains on a man’s body, you have not made him a slave. To make him a slave, put the chains on his mind. Does anyone have our minds enslaved so that we are afraid to let new thoughts take root? Are we enslaved by material things, not knowing that gold-plated chains are still chains?

4. Why am I feeling this way right now?
We sometimes have those days when all we want to do is throw ourselves on our beds and cry. We sometimes have days when we feel like we’re on top of the world and nothing can hold us back. Sometimes something happens to trigger these feelings. We may know the immediate trigger, but a trigger is not a cause. We must ask ourselves if that trigger justifies the intensity of what we feel. If it doesn’t then perhaps something else is the cause. The cause of intense feelings is often chemical. Our brains secrete certain chemicals that we experience or perceive as feelings. Dopamine is a chemical secreted by the brain that reinforces behavior by giving us a good feeling when we are rewarded for doing things. Ever wonder why chocolate is so popular on Valentine’s Day? Well, guess what? Chocolate increases feelings of sexiness. Certain types of music or atmospheres cause the brain to secrete serotonin, which gives us a feeling of well being and joy. Then there are foods such as red meant, coffee, sugar and alcohol, which give us an initial high but then bring us down low.

Bottom line is we don’t have to just go with whatever we are feeling at the time. The world is full of people who want to control us. They do this through food, mass media, music, feng shui and peer pressure. None of these things is intrinsically bad, but when people use these venues to manipulate our feelings then tell us to just go with our feelings, we can still step back away from those feelings and examine where they may have come from. This is the essence and beauty of being an intelligent individual.

5. What will happen if I ignore this craving?
The human body is equipped with certain cravings. The hunger drive, the survival drive, the sex drive, the social drive all ensure that we will seek the things we need to sustain our lives. Even with these drive we often define being a “real” man as depriving our bodies of the things it needs. But more often we go the other way and allow our needs and cravings to rule us. Why do I crave chocolate? I won’t die if I don’t eat any chocolate. I could go for years without eating chocolate. Yet, when the sight of it enters my line of vision and the smell of it enters my nostrils, the thought enters my mind that I gotta have it. I slip into an old pair of jeans and they actually feel comfortable. I can tighten my belt a couple of holes. I feel good. I want to reward myself with a Chip Ahoy chocolate chip cookie. STOP! Nothing’s going to happen if I don’t have a cookie. You’ll die. Oh really? You’ll go crazy. No I won’t You’ll starve. For lack of a cookie? The mind will tell you all sorts of things to make you think you need that cookie. Just remember this, if you don’t eat it, NOTHING’S GOING TO HAPPEN.

6. Why should I take what this person did personally?
One day a guy I knew at college looked down his nose at me and sniffed. I’d said hello and he just looked down his long nose at me and sniffed. I wanted to take my hello back. I spent the rest of the day wondering what was that all about? I considered that I had not done anything to him so why was he looking down at me? And I’d taken a shower so why was he sniffing at me? Saw something he didn’t like, huh? Something beneath him? Well, I couldn’t take it so I asked him. Turns out, he had a bad cold. He wasn’t sniffing at me. He was trying to breathe.

Taking what people do personally can ruin a good day. Nine times out of ten what they do has nothing to do with us. I am not the center of anyone else’s emotional world. So why am I so vain that I think this song is about me?

7. Is there another way to interpret this situation?
My mother loves to say that there are three sides to every story: your side, my side and the truth. Anxiety is often a symptom of a lack of imagination. When we get locked into a rut, it’s easier for the brain to run all our thoughts through that rut than to climb out of it and see what else is possible. Maybe we’ll just climb out of one rut only to fall into another. But at least the two ruts will give us a perspective on one another we would not have if we had only experienced one rut. Why not stay in the rut we know? Because truth is not afraid to explore. Truth is not afraid to ask questions. We may find that our original interpretation of a situation is closer to the truth than any of the others we’ve looked at, but at least we have looked at them and can give something of an intelligent answer to anyone who asks why we stuck to the original interpretation.

Crocogators Go West   1 comment

The crocogator is an urban legend in the African-American tradition. In “Crocogators Go West” I use some of the identifying characteristics of this legendary figure but take him out of his native home in New York’s Harlem and send him to Los Angeles. In his adventure he finds out things about himself he had not known and develops a new appreciation for his female companion.
I been fooling with you younguns all day. Now your mama and papa say they going to dinner.. And gone leave me to fool with you all night? No sir, it’s time for you younguns to go to bed. Say what? You old enough to do what? Gone tell me this is California. Like I don’t know. Younguns is younguns in any place. Yawl got a place. To bed is your place this time of night Yawl still just kids. Think you something. Well I know something will put you under the covers quick. Ain’t nowhere but under the covers will keep away the crocogator.
Say what? You been where? And you think you too old for fairy tales? Ain’t talking about no fairy tales. Crocogator eat up every fairy he see. No listen, do you younguns know the tale of the crocogator? What you never heard of one? Why crocogator’s the baddest dude in Harlem. Don’t tell me this is the west coast. I been out here a while and I ain’t never yet seen no dude out here bad as old crocogator. I see yawl got rattle snakes out here but we been dealing with snakes since Eden. They ain’t nothing new and nothing to be scared of. Just don’t take no apples from them though. Rattle snake make a nice appetizer for a crocogator meal. Once we had a old cowboy met up with a crocogator on Lenox avenue. Tried to wrangle him but cowboy didn’t know crocogator got teeth at both ends. So cowboy bend over to tie crocogator’s hind legs and got his nose bit off. Yawl younguns sure can ask some questions. Leave it to you to ask how he let loose with teeth at both ends. He don’t. That’s what makes him so mean.
Now hush . I’ll tell you about a crocogator name of Stackodaddy. Stackodaddy had a woman and… I told yawl younguns to hush. Asking questions like that young as you is. Don’t know how they did it. Got sense enough not to ask. And you reckon he’d tell me? I’m just telling what I seen. I got eyes in the back of my head and can see legends and things what ain’t quite true but I ain’t gonna get my nose bit off asking no crocogator about his business with no woman.
Anyway Stackodaddy had a woman. And she was just as bad as he was. Woman name of Stella. Six feet tall and black as your daddy’s shoe polish. He ask her why she so mean. She say cuz if she try to be nice to him he prolly get tired of her and go find somebody else. She knew him up and down. Knew his mama couldn’t breast feed him with all them teeth. Yea, he was born with them. Chewed up his bottle at two months old. Ate up his warden at twenty years old. By time he was thirty five men in Harlem had bullets with his PIN number on them. He brandished a big pepsodent smile when he took them all out and I don’t mean to dinner.
Stackodaddy try to make Stella mind like they say a woman spose to do. I reckon when they got that rule they didn’t have Stella in mind. She sure didn’t seem to know. Stackodaddy do what he can. He say Stella I don’t want you wearing your neckline so low. Ain’t no other men’s got no business looking at you. Stella take off her shirt right there and go outside in her brassiere and say Daddy Stack, it’s my business. I knowed I shouldn’ta mention that word front of you. Just say brassiere and yawl have a fit. Silly chillin. Thought you was so grown. Anyway Stackodaddy say Stella, you see all these teeth. Now you come back in here and don’t you do that no more. See even the baddest dude in Harlem ain’t nothing in the hands of a bad woman. Stella laugh. She wave at the postman.
One day Stackodaddy think about his life. He think about having a bunch of little crocogators around the house to pass on his legend. He knowed Stella was the onliest woman in the world could handle a brood of crocogators without getting herself ate up. So he ask her to marry him. He buy her a ‘gagement ring and go down to the tall woman’s store for a bunch of lacy underclothes. He say you can’t go outside in these. But Stella say no I’m going to school. Gonna get educated and do something with myself. Ain’t nothing you plan to do with me. Stackodaddy let loose at both ends. He cuss for three days. He think about tying Stella up and calling the preacher to his house but he ain’t never yet raised his hand at Stella. And I ain’t saying he was scared to. Old crocogator ain’t scared of nothing. He just ain’t never get around to doing it. He see a friend fall on his knees and beg his woman to marry him. She did but that’s something else a crocogator don’t do. So Stella determined she gone go to school and Stackodaddy have to handle his own heart. These was strange feelings Stackodaddy hadn’t knowed he was capable of. He almost cried crocogator tears. . But he caught himself, hitched up his britches, packed up his grip and headed west looking for something new.
First thing he noticed about California was the funny looking trees. They looked like God used them to put on his shaving cream. And all the houses was flat on the ground. You didn’t have to climb stairs to get to the bedroom. Made of that stucco. Look like corn meal. Look like it would crumble away. Not solid like a brick. Anyway he find himself a place near some railroad tracks. Didn’t mind the trains at night cuz he wasn’t hardly home no how. Anyway one morning he found himself at home sleeping off this new stuff called tequila. Didn’t take much tequila to kill anybody but a crocogator. But that’s something yawl younguns don’t need to know nothing about ‘cept to stay away from it. Anyway he were half sleep when it feel like a train come by. A powerful, big train. Musta had a hundred cars cuz it just roll on and on. The lights went out and something crashed in the kitchen. The dresser fall over and the bed just go thump thump bump bump. Stackodaddy wonder to himself what kinda train is this. He stagger cross the floor. Stagger worse than tequila. He looked out the window. Didn’t see no train but the whole mother ground was stomping at the Savvoy. Old crocogator ain’t scared of nothing but he jump out the window cuz he don’t want to be buried in no cornmeal. He see somebody flailing around in the dark. He say what the hell’s going down. Somebody say your roof is going down, dummy. Stackodaddy bare his teeth. All of them. Oh so you a little signifying monkey is you. Well I’ll kick your… Monkey say you’ll kiss what? Stackodaddy do more than kiss him. He eat him up.
After while the ground lay still. Crocogator mighty shook up but he ain’t scared of nothing. He look around town cuz he miss having a woman with Stella back home getting educated. He see somebody he might like and ask her for her phone number. She just give it to him like she been waiting all her life. She say when you gone call me? He say when you gone be home? She say whenever you want. Stackodaddy think to himself Stella wouldn’t never say nothing like that. Stella make a man say when will I see you again cuz you never know. The baddest dude in Harlem got to be the baddest dude west of the Pecos ain’t can’t do with a cream puff woman. Woman made of cornmeal. He sashay away as fast as he can ‘fore she get ate up by little crocogators.
Anyway he look around town then one day he open his door and the baddest woman in Harlem step cross his threshold. She say she found him in the phone book. He say he thought she was getting educated. She say she got the ‘sociate degree and gone finish in L.A. cuz Harlem ain’t the same without the crocogator. ‘Sides all the mens is scared to date the baddest woman in Harlem and educated too. But crocogator ain’t scared of nothing. Stackodaddy say he believe she right. She agree to marry him if he ain’t gone try to make her mind. He say he can’t no how and he don’t want her to go away no more. She say she go if she want to but right now she don’t want to.
So they get married and have a bunch of little crocogators. Like yawl younguns they thought they was bad. The baddest little crocogators in L.A. gone be like their daddy and not be scared of nothing. They didn’t want to go to bed neither but Stackodaddy got them teeth at both ends and he get them coming and going. He put them in the bed and make them get under the covers. He say anything what ain’t under the covers will get bit off.
Why yawl younguns ain’t in bed yet? Don’t you know crocogator’s still in town? He maybe live down the street and he go round like Sanny Claus to make sure all the younguns is under the covers. Now git! Don’t let me have to tell you again. I’ll call him. I’ll sure call him.

Copyright 1996 by Rhonda Johnson

Spotlight on The Harlem Renaissance   Leave a comment

Beginning roughly 1917 a cultural explosion burst out of Harlem, New York. It was called The New Negro Movement. Yes, we 21st century African Americans disdain the term “Negro,” but that is what they called themselves, and these cultural geniuses were the sovereign lords of their own progressive vision.

Why is this important to us today? Why is any people’s history important to them? If we forget the ancestors from whom we came, we will be like trees without roots, tossed to and fro by the definitions that others ascribe to us. When we let others tell us who we are and how we came to be where we are, what they tell us will always be for their benefit and never for our own benefit. So we must know that there is more to us than slaves, thugs and ballplayers. We must write our own story. And to do that, we must know that writing is something that we do. Writing is not something we copied off of Massa, but it is a natural expression of who we are.

Today, we will look at a group of men and women and examine the creative synergy they created when they decided to take up their pens. This is not meant to be an exhaustive study. It is an overviews, meant to introduce young writers to a handful of those who stood at the vanguard of the traditions and heritage in which we write. My hope is that after reading this, the reader/writer will feel spurred to further study by in depth biographers, such as Arnold Rampersand.

Who was the New Negro?

The Harlem Renaissance began almost thirty years after the end of the so-called “Radical Reconstruction.” For about twelve years after the end of the Civil War, former slaves where able to breathe relatively freely. While many continued to languish in poverty and the squalid conditions of share-cropping, a significant segment, which W.E.B. Du Bois identified as the ”talented tenth,” flourished in various areas of life. They bought land. They were elected to public office. They started businesses. They built schools. They patented the inventions of their own hands. They progressed in ways that scared the hell out of southern Whites. These Whites went to Washington and told then president Rutherford Hayes that if he did not do something, the Blacks would “own the south.” So he signed what came to be known as the Compromise of 1879 and a reign of terror began. The Ku Klux Klan was born. Jim Crow laws were enacted. Blacks who owned land and businesses were lynched.

So it would seem that African Americans lost all the things they had gained in those twelve years. They were back to square one. That’s where the New Negro stepped in. Tired of moving backwards and sideways, these men and woman decided to use their gift with words to move forward. The renaissance also included musicians, painters and other artists, but for the purpose of this paper, we will focus on the writers.

Writers of the Harlem Renaissance

Alain Locke
(September 13 1885-June 9, 1954)
At age 22, Locke became the first African American Rhodes Scholar. This writer, philosopher and educator was the mastermind behind the Harlem Renaissance, and his book, The New Negro: Voices of the Harlem Renaissance, gave the movement its original name. It may be safe to say that without Alain Locke there would have been no Harlem Renaissance. At least, there may not have been such a strong confluence among the Black writers of that period. The period lasted until roughly 1934, when the Great Depression forced the writers and their philanthropic patrons to focus on mere survival. Locke was one of those patrons.

Georgia Douglas Johnson
(September 10 1880-May 14, 1966)
This poet and song writer held weekly “salons” for prominent figures in the Harlem Renaissance. In her house—called the “House“—politics and personal opinions flowed freely among the New Negroes. Doubtless, these conversations served as inspirations for more than a few of the literary creations of the participants.

In 2009, Johnson was inducted into the Georgia Writers Hall of Fame.

Langston Hughes
(February 1, 1902-May 22. 1967)
Though best known for his poetry and Jesse B. Semple stories, Hughes was among the grassroots creators of the literary form known as jazz poetry. Like the Hiphoppers of today, they were doing it back then too. In 1925, Hughes worked as the personal assistant of historian Carter G. Woodson at the Association for the Study of African American Life and History.

In 1930, Hughes published a novel, Not Without Laughter, which depicts the life of a young Black boy. One of Hughes best known poems is “A Dream Deferred:”

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Angelina Weld Grimké
(February 27, 1880-June 10, 1958)
Grimké was a pioneer of creative protest. Long before the famed marches on Washington, she penned Rachel, a play that protests lynching and other forms of racial violence. One of her most memorable poems was “The Eyes of My Regret:”

Always at dusk, the same tearless experience,
The same dragging of feet up the same well-worn path
To the same well-worn rock;
The same crimson or gold dropping away of the sun
The same tints, – rose, saffron, violet, lavender, grey
Meeting, mingling, mixing mistily;
Before me the same blue black cedar rising jaggedly to
a point;
Over it, the same slow unlidding of twin stars,
Two eyes, unfathomable, soul-searing,
Watching, watching, watching me;
The same two eyes that draw me forth, against my will
dusk after dusk;
The same two eyes that keep me sitting late into the
night, chin on knees
Keep me there lonely, rigid, tearless, numbly
miserable –
The eyes of my Regret.

Clause McKay
(September 15, 1889-May 22, 1948)
Scholar Molefi Kete Asante included McKay in his 2002 list of 100 Greatest African Americans. Born in Jamaica, McKay was a prolific writer whose influence continues for generations.

64 years after his physical demise, the genius of McKay resurfaced to haunt the literary and intellectual world. In 2009, Jean-Christophe Cloutier uncovered the manuscript of a satire set in 1936. Amiable With Big Teeth: A Novel of the Love Affair Between the Communists and the Poor Black Sheep of Harlem was buried in the Samuel Roth Papers, an archive at Columbia University, and in 2012, with the help of professor Brent Hayes Edwards, Cloutier authenticated that McKay did write this manuscript in 1941. With a title like that, one can only imagine at its contents.

Nella Larson
(April 13. 1891-March 30, 1964)
Larson was not as prolific a writer as other luminaries in the Harlem Renaissance. But she received much critical acclaim for her two novels, Quicksand and Passing. Interest in her work renewed during the late 20th century, when her interracial themes resonated with the then angst over racial identity.

Jean Toomer
(December 26, 1884-March 30 1967)
Toomer was a major player in the Harlem Renaissance. His first and most critically acclaimed work, Cane, was considered to be important not only to the Harlem Renaissance but also to that segment of American society known as the Lost Generation—described in Ernest Hemingway’s novel, The Sun Also Rises as the generation that served in World War 1.

The Great Depression during the 1930s made it difficult for writers to get published, but Toomer did not stop writing. He remained as prolific as ever and his unpublished manuscripts are now held in the Beinecke Library at Yale University. One might ask, why Yale and not one of the many Historically Black Universities and Colleges.

Anne Spencer
(February 6, 1882-July 27, 1975)
Her work was included in the Norton Anthology of Literature by Women and the Norton Anthology of American Poets. Her life of 93 years spanned centuries and eras, allowing her to host everyone from George Washington Carver to Thurgood Marshall, from W.E.B. Du Bois to Martin Luther King, Jr. Her home in Lynchburg, VA, where she lived for 72 years, is now a museum that commemorates her contribution to literature.

Arna Bontemps
(October 13, 1902-June 4, 1973)
As Head Librarian at Fisk University for over 25 years, Bontemps put together such works as the Langston Hughes Renaissance Collection and other archives of African-American literature and culture.

Bontemps was a novelist and a playwright. He was one of the few African-American writers who put together an anthology of the stories of the slaves titled Great Slave Narratives.

Zora Neale Hurston
(January 7, 1891-January 28, 1960)
Although the Great Depression of the 1930s dried up much of the philanthropic spirit that financed the artistic endeavors of the Harlem Renaissance, Hurston published her most well known work, Their Eyes Were Watching God, in 1937. Anthropologist and folklorist, she published Mules and Men in 1935 as the culmination of four years of anthropological research in the southern states. In 1938, Hurston published the results of her travels in Jamaica and Haiti, Tell My Horse.

Hurston was very much a major figure of the Harlem Renaissance. She had works published in Alain Locke’s anthology, The New Negro. In 1920, she got together with Langston Hughes and Wallace Thurman to form a group called the Niggerett. They published a literary magazine called Fire!!

Wallace Thurman
(August 16, 1902-December 22, 1934)
The magazine, Fire!! was aimed towards younger Blacks. In this joint venture with Zora Neale Hurston and Langston Hughes, Thurman criticized the old guard Black leaders such as W.E.B. Du Bois for their efforts to integrate with Whites and use art to prove their worthiness to Whites by White standards. Yet, even the “New Negro” wasn’t ready to embrace such a radical stance, and the magazine folded after one issue.

In his most notable novel, The Blacker the Berry, Thurman addresses that age-old boogieman of color discrimination within the Black community.

James Weldon Johnson
(June 17, 1871-June 26, 1938)
Born during that most progressive period called Radical Reconstruction, Johnson saw first hand what African Americans can do when not encumbered by White racism. He is most well known as the composer of “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” which came to be known as the Black National Anthem.

True to his African heritage, Johnson was the master of all trades. He was a professor at New York University and then at Fisk. He served as diplomat in both Venezuela and Nicaragua. Poet, songwriter, novelist, playwright, civil rights activist, lawyer—he did it all.

Lift every voice and sing
Til Earth and Heaven ring
Ring with the harmony of liberty
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the listening skies
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea

Sing a song
Full of the faith that the dark past has taught us
Sing a song
Full of the hope that the present has brought us

Facing the rising sun
Of our new day begun
Let us march on
Til victory is won

Countee Cullen
(May 30, 1903-January 9, 1946 )
Long before James Brown urged African Americans to “Say it loud. I‘m Black and I‘m proud,” Countee Cullen wrote Color, a collection of poems that celebrates the beauty of Blackness. He was a prolific writer of poems, essays and even a play, but this collection stood out as a bright star in the celestial atmosphere of the Harlem Renaissance. From Color we have the poem “Incident.”

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, ‘Nigger.’

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That’s all that I remember.

As African Americans, and as Africans period, we have always used some form of art—writing, music, dance, drama, painting, sculpture—to express the depth of our despair and the height of our euphoria. The pen, they say, is mightier than the sword. That is only true when people respect what is written. The writers of the Harlem Renaissance are respected because of their honesty. They had White patrons who financed their travels here and there and White publishers who accepted their work. Yet, they never sold out to what they thought others wanted them to write. With such a heritage, can we do anything less in the 21st century?

Las Angelinas   Leave a comment

I heard her important sounding boots on the pavement
I didn’t turn around
But I knew it was a her
It was a her sounding sound
An important her
Compared to the soft patter of my Sketchers
It sounded like the approach of doom
somebody was going to be in big trouble

Not me
I kept walking
Umbrella in one hand
Aqua Fina in the other

It was just a silly nonsensical angelina thing
Drinking water and wearing tennis shoes in the rain

But it made me feel more important to the sky
More important to the itinerary of water
Than clunky heels
And troubled minds

Copyright 1998 by Rhonda Denise Johnson

Posted May 25, 2013 by rhondadenisejohnson in Poetry

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