Divas of the Deepest Chocolate
What is “Divas of the Deepest Chocolate”?
A collection of memories and wishes brought about by seeing and knowing some of the best and most beautiful avatars of melanin-rich magnificence to grace this earth.
Have you ever taken notice of the soft, delicious glow of a chocolate bar left too long in a car during summertime?
Or perhaps the way a candy Easter Bunny gets “all over everything” if held too long between bites? All chocolatey and messy, but tasty and fantastic.
I remember how unwilling I was to stop until all that sweet, brown goodness had ben fully enjoyed.
This collection is filled with those type remembrances and the feelings they evoke.
About the Author
This Ned Williams is actually Ned Williams the fourth. Born in Savannah, Georgia. Spent a lot of time in Screven County (on Ga. Hwy 17 between Oliver and Rocky Ford) as a child, happily fishing and exploring and chasing my grandfather around on the small farm he kept after retiring from the post office following his service in Europe during World War Two.
I lived in Atlanta for a couple years after high school; but found my way back to Savannah, mainly because of my grandmother’s biscuits, and never left again.
Poe, Dickinson, Hemingway, and Kipling entered my life as part of the standard middle/high school force feeding of literature most American children endure and often dread. Foisted upon a defenseless teenager who preferred wrestling and fishing to the “classics”.
And to Hell with Steinbeck, Dickens, and Alcott!! Huge books the size of a family bible but with subject matter that matched none of my experiences or dreams. Now Shakespeare and Dumas I enjoyed. Hated the poetry. But couldn’t get enough of the swordfights and battles and comradery.
Writing, however, is a whole different thing. Of course, I did the elementary school rhyming “Roses are red…” and the obligatory essays and such. Kinda good at it, but found no real joy in it while I was a student.
None that I would ever admit to. No self-respecting, hormone-laden teen boy wants to own up to enjoying “that stuff”. Even if, especially if, he happened to be sorta good at it.
Word flow, vocabulary, and usage came easily to me.
Partly genetics. My mother did and still writes poetry. My father is more of a debating essayist. Along the lines of Frederick Douglass, Marcus Garvey, Ben Carson, and any good senior instructor at a trade school. His words are purposeful, informative, and always looking to guide his audience to the next evolution or epiphany. My mother’s writing is far more descriptive and expressive. All about what she sees, or feels, and her thoughts and opinions on a specific moment in time.
And partly education. Lillie Ellis and Gretchen Patricio kept their grammatical and literary feet in my butt (I have a failed semester of high school English as proof of this) until I developed some proper semblance of written English protocols. I was admonished against “glittering generalities” so often that I’d hear their voices in my sleep. As a result, I learned to be clearly and startlingly specific. It took forever before I understood, or could easily differentiate between, adverbs and adjectives and gerunds and participles; but I learned how and when to use them to best let my words create a mood that flowed into a rhythm that got my intentions from my mind to the mind’s eye of my reader.
And while I was no longer “fighting the pen tooth and nail” by the time I met Dr. Anne K. Watts, I was still somewhat stubborn. Dr. Watts, of course, didn’t give a rat’s ass about some rebellious 18 yr old and his careless, clueless machismo. No coddling. No catering. No apologies. She was distant, or helpful, as my behavior warranted. It was enriching and eye-opening.
Like iron ore, I guess I just needed some hammering, and crushing and smelting.
By the time I stopped letting my ego outrun my intellect and gained some actual life experience; I had discovered that being a writer and being a bad ass are not mutually exclusive. Authors like John Ringo, Stephen Hunter (love the swagger bloodline), Walter Moseley (Fearless Jones is a beast!), Ralph Ellison, and Brandon Massey opened my eyes to the strength and appeal of writing.
It’s a special magic that allows a writer to combine the best, or worst, of people encountered in his life into characters that tell a story readers can relish and enjoy.
The Jungle Book and How The Leopard Got His Spots are entertaining, yet hold no appeal for the adult me. Reading Kipling’s military-themed poetry like “Sons of Martha” helped me better understand my own thoughts and feelings. Definitely eliminated the stigma I had placed upon writing and the resulting embarrassment I sometimes felt.
I still enjoy fishing. Weightlifting has taken the place of wrestling as my favorite physical activity (too old to be rolling around in the backyard now).
I certainly enjoy writing. It feels good to express my thoughts and views. Feels even better to have the chance to share them with readers who are outside my everyday circle of friends and co-workers. I am not claiming to be the new Countee Cullen or Langston Hughes. Though it is interesting to note that I’m invoking names from 100 years ago. I’m definitely no James Baldwin. However, I am a man quite capable of telling my story in bits and pieces a reader can enjoy.
And while pretty sure I’m currently not the equal of John Grisham, Eric Jerome Dickey, or Richard Wright; I am certain that my collections of memories and emotions will reach and resonate with the souls of many who venture upon the pages I have penned.
Thank You for visiting. Hope you come back. Bring a friend, or two, if you do.
In Love With the Blackness
Color so deep
So rich—So dark
Invisible standing in shade
Ebony girl—I like it
Your look—Your color—Your skin
Against an ivory-sheathed wall
You are thick
Spread seductively on cream-colored sheets
Like blackberry jam
Your body calls to me sweetly
Like an icing-topped slice of creamy chocolate cake
Setting off delicious contrast
To its bone china plate
Hands drawn ever forward for a brief touch upon her perfectly brown skin
Rising hunger teased by her glistening, sugar-coated sheen
Mouth lured in with the promise of an exquisite flavor for your eager tongue
Every sense heightened,
attuned to her unique wavelength
Mind and soul captivated
by her look
and imaginations of the sweetness I have craved
Since first I laid eyes on her form and her face