Scratchin’ in the Gravel
(Play Audio)

Scratchin’ in this here gravel
like the hungry roosters do
searchin for good
what was missed
to satisfy me.

Scratchin’ gravel everywhere
grittiness of a life spent for Jazz
go fill the emptiness
the huge hungry places
love and truth inside of me.

Scratchin’ in the gravel
small sorrowful stones
widenin places of regret
music embedded as I scratch scratch
a soulful chick like me.

*Mary Lou Williams’s composition
In Honor of Mary Lou Williams, Jazz Genuis
Poems or Stories can not be reproduced in any manner without the written
permission of Fabu.

Lightning Girl
(Play Audio)

Struck with power
standing wet under a solitary tree
in a wide green pasture.

Even electric bolts
didn’t scare her, slow her down none
just bothered her some.

Flashing out of her mouth
for the rest of her life
were words that shocked and stunned.

Poems or Stories can not be reproduced in any manner without the written
permission of Fabu.

Dreamless Night
(Play Audio)

Before the sun’s rays lightened the darkness
Cassandra stood by the window.
Curved and sad her back
Casting a bent profile
On the moon-drenched ceiling.
Cassandra looks out at nothing
But sees too much.
Lowering the blinds
Snapping them shut
Turning to an empty bed
Cassandra thinks of her lover
Trudging a harsh white land.

Dedicated to my two cousins named Cassandra: the first
who was my friend, dorm roommate and who died much
too young and the second who has yet to fully live her life.

Poems or Stories can not be reproduced in any manner without the written
permission of Fabu.

Telling Our Stories
(Play Clip of Story)

Each of us has a story to tell.  Both telling and listening to our
stories are important connections between people and form the
basis of healthy, wonderful human relationships.  If the person
is five or fifty, each has their own personal story that begs for a
listening audience.  There were three people who told me stories
as a child.  The first was my father, Herman Grant Carter, who
was the parent who tucked me into bed and told me bedtime
stories.  He would reach up and grab a volume from The Child
Craft series and read to me.  I was eager to read the stories my
Daddy told me.  When I could read and looked for the stories, I
discovered that they were not in a book but rather his stories
came from his imagination.  The second person to tell me stories
was my maternal grandmother, Effie Florida Cunningham Partee.
When I was visiting her in Mississippi she would tell her
grandchildren stories about slavery and life in the South.  When
I followed her around the yard as she tended to her flowers, she
would tell me even more stories about when she was a child.  My
grandmother made me see life from the viewpoint of an artist.
Lastly, I attended a very small church in Fayetteville, North Carolina
before my father was sent to Viet Nam and we moved permanently
to Memphis, Tennessee.  There was a minister in the church who
was elderly.  He told all the children his ghost stories from Texas
and we were fascinated by this master storyteller whose stories
came alive in his voice and in the movements of his body.  This
is the beginning of the story “The Day The Sun Refused to Shine”
and it is based on my Grandma Effie’s stories about Mississippi.
These people formed me into a storyteller.