Book Now Available

My Relation to the Sun, a book of Poetry and Photography by Rebekah A. Frimpong is now available to to buy online!  Go to My Relation to the Sun and purchase your copy there.  Look for book readings, films, and more later this year in celebration of the release of the book.  This book was self-published by Rebekah A. Frimpong's creative think tank BGNB Productions and CreateSpace and Amazon Books online.  This is Rebekah's first book, and is dedicated to her late mother Joanne Hopkins.

This Woman's Work

This Woman's Work (reflections on motherhood)
by Rebekah Frimpong



This woman's work is akin to
strong women carry babies on their backs
keeping their heads high facing the sun

I carried my son full term
9 months
40 weeks in the womb
Each kick he gave me pushed me to live each day remembering
remembering what it is all worth

My son's father left us at about 30 weeks
since then it has been him and me
My sun and I
my sun = my son is my circumference

I think of this woman's work; my own worth
This title as mother I accept and honor
I love deeper now than before
my back is stronger then before from being bent inward
to birth life forward

My skin shines a bit brighter
laminating a glow from nursing my joy
I see life from a different perspective
this woman's work is endless
dreams of my offspring's future
I smile wide reflecting his smile; my sun

The depth of connections like mother and son
this woman's work is this woman's worth
I think about the space between now and then
and between love and hate and the space between knowing and not knowing

I relish in the idea of pure joy at the idea of being a celestial guide for my child as he navigates through life
this woman's work is as I define it: beautiful

New Poem: Broken Home

Broken Home by Rebekah A. Frimpong

Your words sting my heart

And I wonder about this cycle of flesh

movement is constant 

We argue in the wind

not referencing solutions 

yet the change we yearn for comes as frequent as autumn snow 

Cycling backward trying to fix the problem

never finding resolution because we created the source of our own despair

doomed to repeat a past unwanted 

we keep cycling back

Why?

Is your ego bruised? 

Did you forget love? 

The key to break this cycle of self hate

the love given to you by your mother 

you forgot her sacrifice and let your progression stay stagnant 

your dreams stuck in mud 

You looked in the mirror and ignored the reflection 

you cursed your dreams saying they were Sinking destinies lost at sea 

where ships of desire float on 

weary waves from the chains of your pride 

Free yourself from this cycle

broken hearts and broken homes

I see too often fatherless children cry out 

Daddy was caught in the cycle

repeating hurt once afflicted upon him 

Now mommy is like the other 

single mothers seeking love

repeating the cycle of lost love

she keeps pressing repeat

thinking the cycle is like a record player that can be stopped 

wanting to press repeat in hopes to erase time and go back to that place of love 

But mommy it is too late 

the cycle has started once more and tears have already formed in her infant's eyes 

Now we point fingers bashing men shaming women when the cycle repeats

as if God's Womb is barren like the minds of ignorant men wandering deserts 

wanting to quench their thirst reaching for water glasses half empty 

This wicked cycle man created he is too scared to confront 

You lost me

A child cries out 

Daddy you lost me

Daddy is too busy impregnating women whose names and souls he does not know 

He is too busy running from ghosts of a fatherless past 

repeating a cycle of abandonment 

inflicting loss on generations he has yet to meet 

We are at war with ourselves our hole hearts corrupted 

we don't see this invisible circle of collision and fate

Doomed to repeat; cycles of hate of violence, wars , broken families and intolerance .

What more needs to be said: stop the cycle 

Turn off repeat 

Go home and now sleep 

Writing In the Moment

The writing process is not easy, sometimes you will see writers write in blogs about the process being "painful", "awakening", or even "combative".  There is a lot of fighting with self and trying to get a grasp on the audience that you so want to please.  But how can we get to writing in the moment? Taking the time to breath and see that each thought that enters our mind that is more than just basic instint could led to getting us where we want to be as writers; finished.  We writers want to get whatever it is hid up inside us out and finish what we seek to resolve.  I write for this purpose but also to heal, to help me get to a place of ultimate contentment.  Being at peace with your words is for a writer, the begining of a new relationship.  Our words can stand the test of time and can make an imprint more lasting than one made in sand.  So I seek to write in the moment, get those words out that need to be said, take my voice and expound to degrees beyond what I imagine by letting creativity be my guide to getting to the core of my imagination.  Check for the release of my book to finally be available for release in May 2013.  I took last year to revise and reflect...stay tune

Unexpected Victim

An Ode to Trayvon; The Legacy of Black Boys
Written By Rebekah A. Frimpong

"The Unexpected Victim"; the title on my epitaph
They said I was young Black and "dangerous"?
Unexpected victim; my dreams were not respected
They say: "Black boys don't dream, they die young"  
but I saw my visions true and my steps towards a legacy were not yet written
I tell them: " my mother knew I'd be something and my dad was proud "
labeled an unexpected victim, I had fear in my eyes
at that moment I did think he would pull the trigger
to him I was just another nigger (his words not mine)  
a word older than my mind
They say: "Black boys don't know love"
I felt like the world did not let me love it
Judged for breathing, I saw my fate play out
like a headline on the news
Slain Black kid; No Weapon No Hope
Did he even see me? I mean see my light, my gift?
I am human, I am some one's son, I am not a statistic
Black boy blues
Black boy true
unexpected victim: shot by the bullets of racism
sketched chalk outlines are the last memories my mother and father have of me
Yes, us Black boys we hurt too
The world pretends our pain is not real
Black tears, Black fears
no one cares
the reality that I could be you and you could be me
does not sink in...
An American tragedy but this is America's legacy
hanging Black boys, imprisoning Black boys, shooting Black boys
from my grave I speak as a child ghost
 I am Trayvon Martin; The Unexpected Victim

Love is a Movement

Gone Too Soon
By Rebekah Frimpong


It was the darkest night 
heard the news and was in such a fright 
my heart fell apart
where do I start
to find the words to describe your light 


I guess I found love in the beat in your music
A melody that set me free
allowing me to write words of this love movement
my pen hits the paper your spirit making it glide
I wonder will this pain subside
God why do you take the good so soon?


I want to go to the ocean ride the waves 
look up and have a conversation with God
where to water meets the sky the sun just over the horizon
hoping to meet you again one day
the love you filled the universe with
will be reflected back in the smiles of those you affected


This is the song in my heart you inspired
Gone too soon...

RIP Tracy GM James and Randy Ponzio


Gone too soon... 

Words of Wisdom

I hope one day write a poem from these words:

"You should never be too busy to care, too scared to speak, too dumb to love, or too worried about what others say"-Rebekah Frimpong

Open Mic Testimonies

So last week I started hosting my first Open Mic series in Brooklyn NY.  The experience was amazing and the poets came out and shared great pieces.  I am hoping to expand the crowd and the spread the love as the series continues tomorrow.  I got a chance to share one of my favorite poems and I even dabbled a bit as a DJ.  If you are in the Brooklyn area come by and check us out!

Email bgnbpro@gmail.com to sign-up to peform.

Under Construction

Sometimes, there are poems that seem to be fragmented or undone but are still worth sharing...  

Photo By Rebekah A. Frimpong

Pieces of Me
-By Rebekah A. Frimpong


My bare feet pressed against the ground
I could feel the earth at my toes
the rays of the sun light on my back
I ran all the way home
not noticing my feet were bare
I wanted to hurry and catch a glimpse of him
see my love one last time before he departed
hold him tight kissing slightly behind his ear
we had been lovers for two years


Each season we would count the days until the leaves would turn
he made me feel priceless
Never had to worry for anything
my heart was whole and full of joy
our love was fragile and new but I thought it could last


Little did I know this would be our last embrace
the last day our lips would touch, our fingers intertwine, or I gaze into his eyes
He wanted out and said he wanted nothing more to do with me
He was ready to throw down my heart
watch tears coat my cheeks and my love drown in misery 
I stood still hearing him explain his reasoning:
"you are too perfect like a red rose without thorns, I cannot be happy knowing I am the one going to make you bleed"


For I did not know he was hiding a dangerous secret
a vicious lie that would break me into tiny pieces fragmented like broken glass


I was left an empty shell, he played a deadly game 
ripping my soul apart from my spirit 
an inhumane act of justice

The Wind Tells

Her Story-By Rebekah A. Frimpong

She was free
searching for answers in the mysteries


She was young
waiting for age to heal her rancid wounds


She was courageous
not scared to love knowing the consequences


She opened her brown eyes
saw a vision of her future unfolding before her


She covered her head with a veil
hoping to mask her beauty so her mind would be acknowledged


She gave her heart to him
she gave her whole being for a chance to live forever
because she wanted more
more than what blows in the wind
the passion and vitality within the movement of water


She longed to be strong and powerful 
like the energy that connects people together when words are not spoken


She knew all too well how the fable would end
but she wanted to tell her own story


She wrote on walls with her nails
scratching and carving out a way with blood and tears


She was like a little girl waiting for a father's embrace
alone with nothing but her dreams


She drew in the dark
silhouettes embracing and old memories


She accepted her fate; a sentence of loneliness 
She raise her head to the sun and knew she understands nothing.