Category: 2018 Poetry

Read Poetry: the Tunnel Performance Society!, by Bob Eager

Old Vision : “This is What It Is”
Just a space for bikes to pass through ;
Next to the Underpass cars passing by it seemingly bland and irrelevent,
Practical place but inconscpicous.
Darkly lit at night families ride bikes through it in the day and others pass through it at night.

New Vision : “This is What It Could Be”
Seen through a new lens this place becomes a Unique experience;
Darkly lit ambience becomes something else entirely,
Not an afterthought in a coffee shop or poorly planned night with chairs turned
in the wrong direction. Creation of an open “UN” Mic!
Party for Creative’s….
Express ourselves however we choose poem, dance or song.

In the tunnel, we own the event. It is all about the art not a forethought or afterthought but the only complete thought needed.

Join Our Movement

——–

The Ringmaster Bob Eager invites you to join a new innovative performance idea. As artists shouldn’t we challenge the conventional thought of where a performance should. Join us in challenging the boundaries of what we call an artistic space.
Bob’s work appears also in Stray Branch, The New Beatnik, Oddball Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal and Tuck Magazine.

Read Poetry: Still, She Rises, by Deepika Janiyani

She often has a fear, hidden in her heart,
But still, she rises and tries to conquer the world…

She might show like, everything is under her control,
But deep inside she strives for love…

She smiles like a lamp, but there is darkness insider her heart,
But still, she rises and smiles for her world…

She might be broken inside,
But she will show everyone, she is absolutely fine…

She has a lot of unfulfilled dreams inside her heart,
But still, she rises to fulfil the dreams of others, in her world…

She often gets hurt, by her near and dear ones,
But still, she rises and fixes, their broken hearts…

Read Poetry: LEAVE ME WHOLE MOTHER, by Pat Ashinze

leave me whole, mother.
let my body sing pristine symphonies,
like seraphs praising the Holiest High.
let my shell be coloured in glazing spectra,
like the eonian beauties of space
let my thighs bleed for the will of nature 
and not for the sick myths of men.

 

leave me whole, dear mother!
for i remember the yells and screams. 
i remember the gagged pains of my sisters.
i remember how they succumbed in naivety.  
i remember the blood: fresh and fleshy.
i remember how they described the knife
that the elders used in ‘purifying’ them.
i remember how you marred portals
with diseases and superstitions. 

 

leave me whole, i plead and pray.
let my spirit pray for you in mirth.
let me enjoy the loving presence of man.
let me feel him flaming as he fills me.
let my passion flow in his motion.
do not let them make me one-eyed –
a girl with a mutilated honeycomb;
a woman with half-demised tentacles;
a fire with no heat and no smoke;
…a Saturn without rings!

 

 

Written by: 

Pat Ashinze.

Read Poetry: Fight!, by Young Deuces

Frustrated!
Frustrated at the actions of the people who’s supposed to protect/
Frustrated that right now my skin makes me a logical suspect/
Frustrated that it’s 2016 & there’s still white people who will view me as a threat/
Frustrated that it can be me, my dad, my brother or my mother fucking seed that is next/
And please I apologize of the vulgar nature of my words/
But I’m frustrated at the fact this injustice still occurs/
I’m frustrated at the blind eye, the back and forth on my timeline/
I’m frustrated that we yelling but still our voices never heard/
Ignored by the system who says me as a person has rights too/
But how can you fight for a system when the system rather fight you/
Ignored by the media who sees first hand where the verdict may fall/
And instead of speaking with common decency they say “well the video doesn’t tell it all”/
Ignored by the cops aka worlds most dangerous crew/
Cause right now the crips don’t look like the worlds most dangerous blue/
Me being a black man, gives me more reason to be scared to get slained by the blue/
They say follow the guidelines and you’ll be safe I say shiiiiiitttttttt
How can I follow the guidelines when you keep changing the rules/
They scream…Hands up, I’m like nope don’t wanna get gunned down/
I can’t have a bag of skittles without getting gunned down/
I can’t have a hair brush in my pocket, if you ask me for my ID, I can’t reach for my wallet/
I can’t sell my mixtape, I can’t sell a cig wait/
I can’t sleep I can’t breathe I can’t be in my church or my crib/
I can’t be face down in the pavement with 2 cops on my back holding my hands, I can’t live!/
Grimey!
Nah I ain’t talking NORE I’m talking police/
Who has it in they mind it’s open season to in us down in these streets/
Grimey
Nah I ain’t takin Nore, I’m talking the news/
Who always got an excuse for them boys in blue/
Grimey
Is my own people going against my own people when all we need is unity/
My own people saying negative comments about my own people fighting for this community/
Grimey
Is denouncing your race just because your shade made differ/
Cause in they eyes, light medium or dark we all still niggaz/
Help
No matter your race now is the time to speak/
All lives matter yes, but right now black lives is catching the heat/
The police need help, help w/ training or maybe a better course/
So they can learn the gun is not your first option and should be the last resort/
Help,
Because the tv gone paint us as the villains/
Say our reaction came w/no cause to distract the world from the killings/
And I know You hearring our cries for help but instead of responding back/
You just sit and watch and wait for all of this to just pass/
But think, if you just stand up and say “This must stop, we gotta do better”/
We can stop the downpour and Prepare for the weather/
Think of the impact, if the police spoke to us all/
And said “those policed failed to do there job and will be punished by law/
Think if a judge took a stance and said enough is enough/
And didn’t give light sentences only ones that was tough/
Think of right now, and the trends that we see/
And how the law may say it now but it’s clear we ain’t free/
Think fight
Not with guns, but with a voice that’s clear speak
Think fight
Not with your hands but To wake people who is sleep/
Think fight!
Not the physical but for the right to live free/
Think fight
I’ll fight for you,so come and fight with me/

——
Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VaZeJ6ligeI
Twitter/IG: @Young_Deuces

Read Poetry: Walden’s Rebel south…?, by Jarl K. Jackson

Say the word, Henry, and it will be done –
It will be… 
So declares my soul – my spirit readily agrees 
(It smiles a wry smile)…
I am confused – happy…
Every one of those ten thousand things (?)
March on the other’s seat at last!
It must be June again – or July…
It must be autumn – November remember….

 

Declaration, proclamations and oaths (sworn and broken),
All in the fragrant (tragic-comic) silent night,
Remembrances…
‘Don’t tread on me’?

 

November?
Remember!
Recall: – Shenandoah – and ‘6’…

 

That color, catching the breeze there,
What is it?
A flag-
A stretch of cloth.
A bold and noble banner… mayhap – not?

 

With cross saltier-
Azure- – emblazoned – with pentangles -13…
Emboldened-
Upon a field argent… 

 

I would salute-
I wave-
I would doff my hat
(If I had one – and if it were permitted it… but then…)
I give thanks for what is to come – for what may yet… 

 

But… I will not.

 

I will thankful for the furled flag
Banner bold though it be, noble cause for it was – was not, – of 
many victories…
The greatest when it is put away at last.

____________________

“My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,

He going with me must go well arm’d,

He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty,

Angry enemies, desertions.”

 _____________________

                                   -Walt Whitman, -‘The Song of the Open Road’

Read Poetry: Back Speaks, by Patricia Biela

made

of

unbreakable

bone

and

flesh

like

binding

for

book

pages

and

hard

cover

i

work

with

arms

to

clean

bobby’s

socks

sally’s

slips

vertebrae

and

i

harmonize

blues

The ideas for this poem was derived from “The Migration of the Negro (The Migration Series)” by Jacob Lawrence, Panel No. 57. exhibited in The Phillips Collection, Washington D.C. (May 3 – October 26, 2008) and located in the books Jacob Lawrence and The Migration Series from The Phillips Collection (odd numbered panels) edited by Elsa Smithgall and in Over the Line, The Art and Life of Jacob Lawrence edited by Peter T. Nesbett and Michelle Dubois. Currently, the 60 panel of artwork, portraying the epic event of southern African Americans migrating North, is shared between the Phillips Collection (odd numbered panels), Washington D.C. and The Museum of Modern Art (even numbered panels), in New York.

Bio
Patricia Biela is a native of Maryland and is a UVA grad with a BA in Psychology. A first generation American, she is of Angolan and Haitian descent. Biela is a Cave Canem South Fellow and has participated in 18 writing workshops including Callaloo, Cave Canem South, How Writers Write Poetry–International Writing Program-The University of Iowa, Hurston/Wright, Provincetown, and Dr. Tony Medina’s Poetry Boot Camp. Her poems appear in Barely South Review, Berkeley Poetry Review, The Caribbean Writer, Drumvoices Revue, and World Haiku Review among others. She has a poem exhibited in Epiphany Salon and Spa, Washington, D.C. Biela has editing experience, and has written over 25 articles, some of which appear in Brainworld Magazine and Funds for Writers—Writing Kid. She is a third generation educator, teaches poetry workshops to retirees, and to other adults. Biela is honored to be in the Duke Young Writers’ Camp teaching family. Her poem, “Please Leave a Message” can be found on CD Baby, iTunes, Apple Music, iHeartRadio, Spotify, Napster, Google Play, and more

Read Poetry: A Prayer Forgotten But Answered, by Randy Peyser

Dear God,
Please heal my heart wherever it needs healing.

It was a simple prayer,
not the kind you’d expect to have lightning bolts thrown at.
Nor the kind that begs for mercy
or the end to some horrific experience
that no being should ever be subject to.

It was just a simple prayer
quietly whispered into the space
of a languid afternoon.

There were no witnesses to this request,
not even the raised ear of a dog to note its mention.

Nor was this prayer a dwelling place,
like the one shouted daily to the heavens that began with
“Please God” and ended with “send me my soulmate”.

This was more like a slip of a prayer,
briefly stated before it fell off the prayer pile,
only to be quickly forgotten about.

And here it was,
just one week later,
when she inquired: “Do you like Vietnamese food?”

Was Vietnamese food my friend or pho?

It didn’t matter.
She insisted.
“I just have to take you to this restaurant.”

And off we sped in a moldy Subaru that was never meant
to hold people whose legs are longer than ski poles.

The Goddess of Parking Spaces was too busy to heed our call.
10 minutes of circling the block later,
we found the only parking place left
in all of San Francisco.

New discovery: Vietnamese food equals 30 different ways to cook fish guts. Fortunately, there was one non-fish dish I could stomach.

As I gulped down the last bite of this non-fish dish,
my companion was already heading toward the exit.

Why the hurry?

Tip tossed down,
I raced to catch up with her outside.
I swung the door open.
And there stood a man.
Facing me straight on.

“Hello Randy.”

Who was this man?
An advertiser from my magazine?
Someone I’d met at a conference?
My mind raced like a ticker tape
to put the stranger in context.

Wait a minute. Those eyes.
Holy shit! I know those eyes.

I’d slept with those eyes.
Eleven years ago and 3500 miles across the country,
I’d loved those eyes
and the man who wore them.

It was Brian, the greatest love of my life,
the man who had asked me to marry him,
the man who I was supposed to grow old with,
the same man who shattered my dreams into tiny splinters
dotted with the furtive longings of unmet expectations.

Here he was, 11 years later, on the opposite coast,
in the doorway of a Vietnamese restaurant,
and only a week after I’d gently asked to
heal my heart with whoever I needed to heal it with.

We spoke for ten minutes.
“You know, I was just scared,” he said.
And there it was,
the reason Mr. Heartbreak
had guillotined our relationship that Thanksgiving,
the week after my 28th birthday.

And here it was,
the closure I’d needed for 11 years
had finally happened.
My prayer had been answered.

And that was it.

Brian drifted off into the life that was his to experience.
And my friend whisked me away in the moldy Subaru.

At 28, he had been my one true love,
my consistent refuge from the gnarly edges of life.
Now at 40, he was merely a shadow who just happened to know my name.

You know, life doesn’t always play out the way you imagine.
Hearts break and sometimes they never come back together again.

But if a prayer half-forgotten can be answered,
in spite of 11 years and 3500 miles,
perhaps next time,
I will whisper a different prayer.

Read Poetry: The Girl on the Bus, by Ed Teja

She turned her face toward the light,
the moving, blinking, shadowy light.
I watched patterns of darkness
pool above her high cheekbones,
her eyes deep, dark hollows
containing all her sorrows.

“It’s an enigma,” I offered, speaking
in a reassuring tone and with a beat to match
the motion of an ancient city bus
rocking down dark streets striped in light.
“It’s all truth can ever be,
our poor, sad truth.”

The look she gave me said that this lady knew all that.
Life in a hostile city had taught her well
how truth, obscured by light and shadow,
often hid in the confines of contrast.

For a moment she faced me,
half smiling some sad rejoinder.
Then, when the light changed,
she flickered with it from the bus.

Genres: society, angst

Read Poetry: Am I Really Black?, by Rose Cockerham

Am I Really Black?

Sometimes other people around the block ask me “What are you?”

At first, I want to respond in a smart-ass way by saying something like,

“Oh, I’m a human, what are YOU?”

But just end up saying, “I’m Black”.

And of course, all the years of questioning has got me questioning,

Am I really Black?

Well, this morning, I decided to moisturize and style my hair with olive oil,

But I’ve always used either relaxers or quick weaves;

The other day, I bought KFC for lunch,

But threw away the bag with the logo and hid the Chicken Little sandwiches in my purse before I went into work.

Whenever one of my white co-workers tells a story, I have to force out a chuckle because I simply cannot relate,

Yet I’m probably the only Black person who thinks that the “Martin” show isn’t that funny.

What makes a Black person REALLY Black?

Is it the level of richness of their skin tone, or type of culture they grew up in?

This must be the sequel series to the ‘nature versus nurture’ question.

Despite my exterior shade,

I’ve had many moments of crushing on men who were

Chocolate, both dark & milk.

Whenever I can support a Black Business, I do.

I’ve watched Poetic Justice, Love Jones, and all three Friday movies on repeat ever since high school.

I’ve just began to realize the delacy of squirting siracha on ramen noodles.

Some of my inspirational women include Rihanna, Gabrielle Union, and the late Dr. Angelou. To this day, it still feels like she could’ve been my play-grandma.

I play RnB and hip hop on the daily,

And I take pride in being a Black woman of God before anything else.

But….on the flipside,

I receive assumptions that I MUST be mixed with either Caucasian, Hispanic, Asian, or even Samoan if my cheeks look plumpy enough.

I’ve been told that I act like such an “oreo”, or I speak too properly, or I surprisingly get good grades, or simply put, I just don’t act Black.

I’ve never got into a fist fight in school,

The only time I say the ‘N’ word is when I’m repeating a Dave Chappelle skit at home,

Or pissed at other driver’s maneuvering skills from the inside of my car.

I don’t want to use that word to casually describe my own beautiful people. Why in the hell WOULD I?

I never smoked weed, and don’t really intend to;

I actually enjoy eating both pumpkin AND sweet potato pie;

And with the risk of being burned at the stake, I never liked mac n’ cheese.

Based on my parents’ color and lineage, there is no doubt there were a few cups of rich, black soil sprinkled on land to grow the family tree which stands today.

But I honestly don’t feel like proving my level of blackness, or brownness, or down-ness to those who are fixated on dividing our own people.

So, Am I Really Black?

Heritage-wise: Yes

Culture-wise: Meh.

Me-wise: Duh.

Read Poetry: FiVe YeArS aFTeR, by Sara Thomas

You were born
Five years after
I was broken,
And you grew
Inside my emptiness

I loved you
From day one,
I kept busy
With your neediness

I held you
Close to me,
I was scared
Of my fearfulness

You grew up
The years flew,
You were tired
Of my sadness

You were smart
The world your oyster,
I was embarrassed
By my unworldliness

You became a man
The pride I felt,
Gave me strength
In my loneliness

You grew old
At last you
Understood me
And I could rest
In my peacefulness

#parenting #love #loss #family #mental health #poetry #life #peace #forgiveness #acceptance #childhood #relationships #identity #grieving #hope #growing up #mothers