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Planting Seeds, Poetry by Abu B. Rafique

Four:
If I told you that I want all of this to be like this thirty years from now,
Would you call me hopeful, or stupid?
Do you think we’ll stay? Or will one of us go?
If I get lost,
I hope to go in a circle,
And wind up back with you.”

Genre: Nostalgia, Wanderlust, Youth, Love, and Melancholy

Planting Seeds by Abu B. Rafique

One:

Sometimes I wonder, if I’m remembering something hard enough, are you remembering it too?

It’s like smoke now, slightly sweet,

And overwhelming,

And enough to make me dizzy if there’s too much.

I saw you in your pale yellow sundress with a tired smile on your face,

And the sun setting around us filled the sky with a pink light that made you shimmer as you walked,

I wished then that I didn’t have to leave anymore.

You and I walked two miles up the dirt road to your home,

And you showed me your grandfather’s apple trees,

You asked where I was going and then told me where you would like to go.

I remember the smell of,

Apples,

Your perfume,

And the candles inside.

You gave me a necklace before I left and you seemed to understand.

I’ve met many since then, but none seem to UNDERSTAND.

I think of you,

Often.

Two:

Where should we go?

Should we go,

North? To Canada?

Or west? To California?

Maybe south? To Georgia?

Should we live up in the mountains?
Out in the desert?

In a lonely cabin?

Does it have to be “we?”

You can stay,

I don’t like me, so I’ll go.

And keep going.

Maybe, eventually, I’ll be able to get away,

Maybe not.

I guess I’ll go,

And find out.

Three:

You sit there in your denim jacket,

And black jeans,

And black boots,

And colorful hairbands on your fingers,

With your hair tied back in a ponytail.

And you want to give a chance,

And get a chance,

And stop pushing away,

Or running away from,

Everyone who tries to love you.

Four:

If I told you that I want all of this to be like this thirty years from now,

Would you call me hopeful, or stupid?
Do you think we’ll stay? Or will one of us go?

If I get lost,

I hope to go in a circle,

And wind up back with you.”

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Reflection, Poetry by Barbara Hunt

She disappears as the dark abyss swallows her whole As she sits alone heart breaks with her soul filled with emotions

Genre: Dark, Death and Hurt

Reflection by Barbara Hunt

Darkness shadows and fear flash there jagged teeth towards her
She disappears as the dark abyss swallows her whole As she sits alone heart breaks with her soul filled with emotions
She looks at herself in the mirror and sees not herself but the dead girl smile back she shatters the mirror and drops to the floor uttering her name in the silence

* * * * *

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Ocean’s Bottom, Poetry by Antonia Giordano

I see a girl standing there lonely and wonderful

standing on the edge of vast space

No one coming to save or tell her to stop

She never called for that kind of attention

One deep breathe of hesitation betrays her fear

Genre: Fear/Motivational

Ocean’s Bottom by Antonia Giordano
I see a girl standing there lonely and wonderful

standing on the edge of vast space

No one coming to save or tell her to stop

She never called for that kind of attention

One deep breathe of hesitation betrays her fear

but she stands there and as she jumps,

she cant’ see where she lands

* * * * *

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She’s a man, Poetry by Bryan Chan

Unloving and unnurturing,

A woman without a woman’s touch,

Potential mother but then again, not very much

Limited by her ideals, faminism?

No, supremanism

Domination is all she seeks to clutch.

Genre: Love, Heartbreak, Rhyme, Relationship

She’s a man, by Bryan Chan

With trashy ideology and principles,

Her words are bland and hollow,

Mindless substance which have been borrowed.

Unloving and unnurturing,

A woman without a woman’s touch,

Potential mother but then again, not very much

Limited by her ideals, faminism?

No, supremanism

Domination is all she seeks to clutch.

The personality of a wall,

Cold and hard,

not very far from her standards,

white-washed and scrawny,

Crumbling and sickly,

Thinks herself high and mighty,

But in reality,

She is far from great,

The chinese have made far better gates.

She inspires love and passion,

But so do pies,

And cakes,

Not to mention chocolates,

But hers is a poison one cannot negate,

It is mistaken love,

Lest should I think it fate,

She leaves a rush of resentment,

An after taste of hate.

* * * * *

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No Question, Poetry by Saintswest

Are the stars in the sky?
Are the birds in the trees?
Is there green on the leaves?
Is the water still blue?
Why do fish swim upstream?
Why does everything
Seem to not mean a thing
When I am with you?

Genre: Love

No Question
by Saintswest

Will the sun rise today?
Will the air smell as sweet?
Can the days be longer?
Could this love be stronger?
Has the rain begun to fall?
Are there people here at all?
Why can’t I see a thing?
Why do I only see you?

Are the stars out tonight?
Is it cloudy?
Is it bright?
I am here with one tonight
And I’ve never been more right
And you love me like I do
And I love you like you do
How could I have ever wondered
Why these eyes see only you?

* * * * *

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WATCH FEBRUARY 2016 Poetry Readings

Best of Poetry performance readings in February 2016. Performed by Kaleb Alexander and Maya Wolosyzn

Stranger In Love� – Poetry Reading by Poetess Chantelle Cherie

Marvelous Universe Poetry Reading By Karina Pinella

Dear Lie – Poetry Reading by Stephanie Crosby

Call me guilty – Poetry Reading by Stephanie Crosby

Assumptions – Poetry Reading by Denise P Isaac

#1 fan Poetry Reading by Stephanie Crosby

Paris � The Atrocity 13th November 2015

FRAGMENTS Poetry Reading by Melissa R Mendelson

Forgiveness Poetry Reading by Sherille Williams

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***

Director/Producer: Matthew Toffolo
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: John Johnson

Hustlin’ Fo’ Love by Jai FromDaWay

I stay nickel, dime and dubbin’
Caressin’, Kissin’ and Huggin’
A penny fo’ ya thoughts but what’s
the price fo’ ya lovin’?
To me you’re priceless and worth
all the strugglin’

Genre: Street Poetry

I stay nickel, dime and dubbin’
Caressin’, Kissin’ and Huggin’
A penny fo’ ya thoughts but what’s
the price fo’ ya lovin’?
To me you’re priceless and worth
all the strugglin’
Trying to flip like to love
I’m emotionally hustlin’
I got roses, long walks and romantic talk
all bundled up.
I’m slingin’ quality time fo’ cheap
I’m trying to double up.
I’m on the grind, O.T., and you be the re-up.
I’m pullin’ all-nighters.
Just hit me…I’ll be up.
If lovin’ you is a crime, then I’m taking the plea.
The charge is hustlin’ fo’ your love and I plead guilty!

* * * * *

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Mending Mother by Leslie Caplan

I looked deeper in
aching to abyss to understand
And I understoodtand
And I understood

Genre: Healing, Family, Relationship

Mending Mother by Leslie Caplan

I found a photograph at the bottom
of an unopened box
Crackling cardboard dried out from
being rained on
I reached in
Sifting through old letters,
scrawls of random thoughts,
poems that turned into
a thousand page book

I poured it out
onto the open floor
let the air in
let the stream of yellow light
spill in
and wrap around each keepsake

At the bottom,
under the fold and crease where the box
holds itself together
was a picture
At first I thought it was me
But it was you
as a young, budding woman
in a black and white capture
of your innocence
How hopeful your eyes gleaned
how deep the longing for what’s ahead

I held the photo in my hand
sat under the window and let the light
magnify your face
I saw myself
The face of the womb in which I grew
before I was even a thought
in your world
So long before an injection of insane
came in and corrupted your radiant youth
and the palpable wisdom
held in the cup your hand

So young and ivory skinned
Plump in cheeks and heart
And even though the picture was black and white
I saw the rosy tint of freshness
on your face
Your rich light almond eyes
I could see right through

You were lovely.

To the core of my holding
Soft before the world you inhaled
made you bitter to a pucker
Your hands mirrored mine
The shape of your brow
the shine of your lips long before
they dried out from all the salted cries you swallowed

You were beautiful.

I looked deeper in
aching to abyss to understand
And I understood
That somewhere along that paved line of your life
your heart caved
and shattered into too many pieces
to pick up and put back together
and you had to pretend
to be unbroken
pretend to love the man you married
and bore three daughters with
that you pretended you knew what to do with

And all you could do
was raise them inside
the shattered chamber you held together
for the sake of their survival
praying they’d thrive
in spite you

and I did.

I can speak for myself and say I did
And I took what was good in you
sane and whole in you
and I found my way
with what you did give me

life
courage
fire

and eyes so deep they blink
off the stillness of a photograph
and shed a tear so fertile
it grows life
mends and heals and breathes into
my whole life
within and without you
my life in honor
of you.

www.courageousheartinmotion.com

* * * * *

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From the Water, Poetry by Allison J. Call

Like many of you, I burrow seasonal trenches

Up and down and through,

Weaving my way through the ideology

That tomorrow’s winter will ever be colder than today’s.

I prefer a Sunday dance around a newspaper

And a misty cup beside my father’s silence,

Genre: Relationship, Family

From the Water by Allison J. Call

Like many of you, I burrow seasonal trenches

Up and down and through,

Weaving my way through the ideology

That tomorrow’s winter will ever be colder than today’s.

I prefer a Sunday dance around a newspaper

And a misty cup beside my father’s silence,

And I prefer the cold hands of a February morning

Tightening its delicate grip around

My most vulnerable.

I prefer all this, all this to what’s really.

My father counts one every year,

Because dawn is MY years old,

I control the seasons

And he couldn’t possibly die.

He is too wrong, too opposite of me.

Too set in his ways to let the ice grip him

As it grips me.

He’s too much my father to be a poet.

And he never told me that he was, and if he

NEVER told me he was, then

How can it be?

And outside, mint-mist fog ripples like a clock ticking

Wildly without a cog to push it

And without a hand to tell.

I come alone in the morning into the minty smoke

That has sky for veins.

I come alone on a Sunday

To count the drops of the lapping lake water

Or the warm, black metal tins along the edge of it.

In silence, war wears no coat and makes

No promises.

War’s tangled colors are the ticking fog, the water, the tins,

The newspaper dance, the warm coffee.

War is my father whom I cannot define

And of whom I come from without definition or border.

From the water I come virginal, frozen.

From the water I come a bastard, an orphan,

And alone.

I come from my father but I am not my father.

I am the water.

The morning light water.

* * * * *

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A Brief Encounter, Poetry by H. Alahmad

It was cloudy

And the thunder was rowdy

Suddenly an angel descended from heaven

And called me at eleven

Genre: Love, Rhyme, Romance

A Brief Encounter by H. Alahmad

It was cloudy

And the thunder was rowdy

Suddenly an angel descended from heaven

And called me at eleven

We met at a place of festivity

I felt I am outside the bounds of gravity

I wanted to fly

High in the sky

She said buy me a lollipop

And take me to a bookshop

If I liked books before

Today I adore them more than my Porsche four by four

Because they will testify that my encounter was real

Although it was surreal

My angel was gorgeous

Like a rose from Damascus

She has beautiful eyelashes

Those convert the heart into ashes

She was so white

And her teeth were so bright

Her voice was like music to my ears

But it brought to my eyes tears

When she said I have to go

It was like the end of the show

I wanted time to freeze

I kept saying please please please

But time had no mercy on me

And refused my plea

Time has a heart made of stone

And refused to give me a loan

All I wanted is one extra minute

But I was unfortunate

The books were crying

And words were dying

When she said bye

And ascended high

I wish I was shot

And buried on that spot

The books will be my coffin

And words will be my next of kin

It was a brief encounter

* * * * *

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