Published Writings
Surrender, BEYOND THE FRONTIERS: African American Poetry for the 21st Century, E. Ethelbert Miller, editor 2002.
Catoctin SlaveSpeak, Catoctin Furnace Historical Society and Maryland State Arts Council 2019
Creating Catoctin SlaveSpeak
In the museum, I touched bones
Smudging them in prayer.
At the furnace, I walked earth
And sniffed decaying soil.
In the library I read words
Finding them not there.
In the night, I lay down listening
While woods whispered to me
In the morning, I opened my heart
And watched sky for signs.
Then I wore iron shackles
Clamped down round my legs.
And words few wanted to hear
Flew like birds from my mouth.
Elayne Bond Hyman
Though part of a larger narrative, “He Never Said Goodbye” stands on its own, fully formed. It is a truly compelling story told in prose that is so forward-leaning you can’t wait to get to the next sentence, the next paragraph. A verifiable master of language, Ms. Hyman’s evocative visual imagery draws you into scenes that pulse with sensual and emotional authenticity, wondrously enhanced by the Delta urge of her musical voice. Rounded syllables and rhythmic beats flow off the page like great blues or jazz, yet never distract from the inspired storytelling.Bill Haxton, poet, Voices Beneath The Waves
This is Not WarTorn Ukraine
The war has come to my backyard
Where once upon a quiet neighborhood time
Modest bungalows and breast fed babies
Awaken in the nightmare hours to
Flash of gunfire on city streets
As anxious fathers unravel behind
Curtained windows
The war has come to my backyard
Where once upon a quiet neighborhood time
Free range deer and wild flocked turkeys
Shiver in the mourning hours to
Sounds of drills and screaming saws
Split rocks, rip roots, fell trees
In broad daylight.
The war has come to my backyard
Where once upon a quiet neighborhood time
Coupled elders and dog-walked singles
Toss in daytime hours afraid to
Venture on paths well worn
But shorn of gentling green
While creeks croak “I cannot breathe”
Neighbors turn guns on neighbors
Mothers grieve sons as marriages collapse
Viruses spread by baseball bat wielding politicians
Threatening public servants without rebuke
The spines of trees are splintered
The walls of homes are squeezed
By trigger happy hands
In once upon a time
Neighborhood flung to my backyard..
This is not WarTorn Ukraine, March 2023
Audio Recordings
Wisdom of the Elders
This piece can also be found here.
Prayers from the Earth. Bernice Johnson Reagon, vocals, 1996
Track 1: Creation's Prayer
Track 8: Harvesting
Track 10: On the Line
Track 13: Amitiyah's Benediction
Videos
- PSA: YMCA of Frederick County Mission Moment
- PSA: Super Bowl LIV “Ragged Old Flag”
- Catoctin SlaveSpeak Performances
- Braided Lives, Catoctin Furnace Historical Society
Works in Progress
They Came Across the South Mountain
A 67000 love story written as historic fiction and based on real lives because our stories are too precious to let anyone else tell them. It is a Maryland story of three generations of free people of color living at a time when freedom wasn’t free. As the title suggests, these were people who migrated from county to county and state to state, and those who stayed at home. It is a survivors’ story of those for whom the bonds of kinship were unbreakable.
A luta continua…
The road to publishing leads beyond well worn trails into the hilly wilderness of self-publishing. Fortunately, unlike the solitary practice of writing, I am not walking alone. Fellow book artists travel with me. Known as the Frederick Book Arts Center Quartet (FBAC Quartet) we meet weekly at Frederick’s Common Market to inspire and hold one another accountable as we find the trail to making our own books. The trail went cold, until I met Sarah Matthews, book artist and print maker. Together we’re the dynamic duo. They Came Across South Mountain is available: https://www.blurb.com/b/11869844-they-came-across-south-mountain
Stay tuned to hear our song through the whispering wind of mountaintop trees.
Life and Times of Perfect Pierre
A memoir, written as a series of journal entries, this is the ongoing saga of a twelve pound well-baked mixture of chihuahua, with a dash of unknown spices, called Pierre. He rescued his Mam from a solitary life among elders, in need of a canine ambassador to scale the wall of their out-dated attitudes and rigid resistances to living in an increasingly diverse and socially inclusive Frederick County, Maryland. His origin, like his end, is yet to be determined for he and the author are too busy living one day at a time.
