Poetry and Death by yolanda nicholsen

She'd entered my dwelling, my stalker a complete fatal attraction, mimicking my every move, simply distraught I was ,who could this intruder be, ripping pages on my Elliot Ness desk, pages I'd written I in disbelief this burglar searching through leaf's binderies ,I was frozen with fear, as thee gunmen arrived she begin chanting, cackling, I tried to escape, from the terrace doors I noticed a ladder against the stone way, she wore long dark legs, with giant knees, for climbing into windows and fleeing, her gunman also long legs very dark skin, I'd suddenly remembered, seeing her by day ,driving a Hyundai talking loud, boldly amidst the children playing, I'd written several children books poetry my true calling I attended Joseph Medill school of journalism as a child I'd also met Mrs. Cicely Tyson, she visited my second grade class 1971 after the movie sounder debuted at the Shubert theater in Chicago she walked right up to me wearing a cast and asked what is your name pretty brown girl I say my name is Yolanda King she said well what do you want to be when I grow up my knees cross on the gymnasium floor hands folded on my lap just as my teacher instructed us, I said I'm going to be a writer she said indeed you are, do you know you have the same name as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. daughter Yolanda, I nodded yes somehow this created a structure for my dreams, as I sat in that townhome, shaking with fear of what these killers want, pages were ripped shots began, flooding my window I nearly fell down the spiral staircase when this woman yelled kill her she's the writer the poet from Chicago in disbelief, I remembered Martin Luther King Jr I have a dream speech I remember sitting with my blind grandmother ,1968 listening to a giant zenith radio hearing a nation cry, King is dead they killed him, I remember being picked up early from school, by black sedans men wearing black glasses rushing me to catholic churches, riot drills sirens hose's my eyes wide shut now here I was, retired writing poetry writing children books, is this the way I will die I prayed, afraid one of my children were hit , afraid to open the door I looked over the balcony, the gunmen headed for my door waving a gun, this dark woman chanting kill her, as he approached my door, a truck with appliances refrigerator washer and dryer was parked, five gunman emerged from the appliances killing him, I shook as gunfire covered all sound by gods grace the man coming to end my life died at my feet By: Yolanda Nicholsen written 8-19-2024 at 7:56 pm