Ruth A. Vasser: After the Comma

czvasser's avatarCommunity Greens

commaNever place a period where God has placed a comma. – Gracie Allen

Ruth A, Jones was born June 28, 1921 to Robert Jones and Cornelia Waters at the Flower Fifth Avenue Hospital on Fifth Avenue and 106th St. She was the first of two children. Her younger brother was named Robert and has predeceased her. Her mother, Cornelia, was one of three sisters from Baltimore that settled in New York in the early part of the 20th century. As a child, she was nicknamed “Babe Ruth”, not because of the baseball player or the candy bar, but because she was named after her mother’s oldest sister, her Aunt Ruth. Cornelia moved into Harlem as her sisters settled on Long Island. She spent her early years in Harlem in the 159st and St Nicholas area. One of her proudest achievements was her graduation from Wadleigh High School. He mother, who…

View original post 330 more words

Conversations Overdue

czvasser's avatarCommunity Greens

Ruth_VasserPresident Lyndon B. Johnson pulled up his shirt to show the press his scar from gall bladder surgery. The resulting photo sent the world into shock. How could any decent person, let alone the president, expose himself in such a way publicly. There was certainly lots of indignation about the event.

Today there is so many outrageous personal photos online his actions wouldn’t even be noticed. For instance, stories of the nude photos of the wife of Donald Trump, a presidential aspirant, surfaced a week ago and barely raised eyebrows albeit the photos were 10 years old.

I grew up in an era when the rule was, “If you don’t have anything good to say, don’t say anything”. Nowadays, everyone is an Imus-type shock jock. Everyone is trying to say or do something more attention getting than the next person. People live to go viral

People do intentionally bad things while they…

View original post 316 more words

The Hitman in the Hallway

united-in-diversity-logoSiamese crocodile left breast
rises like an afterlife
and falls taking buckets of time.

Eye-beams through the keyhole
Gotham on the ground calling for super heroes
to repair the damages of democracy.

Breath huddles inside brown paper bags
until the count reaches someone missing
then the ready or not begins.

The bedroom turns anticlockwise
to match
the crystal knob’s protection.

Lotioned hand holds spoons of demise
and projectiles of painful alternatives.

Cut umbilicals leave pools of aftermath
quicksand that becomes acne on the face of god.

Unintended thoughts told frantically
to curved lovers
are braided into hangman’s rope
leaving petechial hemorrhage.

The boogeyman here now
has greater weight here after
prayers, spells and talismans
imperfect protection
against the hitman in the hallway.