Category: poet

The Seaside, by Antony Schelts

“The yawning mighty ocean tired from its task,
Inhaling yoghurt pots and indisposable memories,
Exhaling it’s sodium polystyrene. Cafés dishing up plastic fish on plates of mercury.

Souvenirs of bygone happiness, soaked in flavoured ice. Arcades of candied rock and buzzing machines.
It spits and piers echoed by screaming children.

Pavements gritted with shoes filled with sand,
Streets pounded by the nuclear families holding secrets. Melting castles under the beating sun. Coated by the tide of oil.”

Thinking up castles, by Roxanne Arvizu

I can clean my room!
There is so much to do!
Like put away my skates
I better tie my shoes!

Sometimes on rainy days
I hide under covers
Pretending that its bed time
Praying no one discovers!

Me under and over, on top
in a ball
Just dreaming away
and feeling so tall

In a magical land
with fairies and friends
playings games with such fun
I hope it never ends!

I see that you’re cleaning
and I can help too!
almost finished with a tea party
with kittens that mew!

I am big now
My room I can clean!
Just a little longer here..
I do love to dream?

Thinking up castles
and kites on a string
ladybugs dancing
fairies with wings

apples and cherries
on trees galore
butterflies, flowers
ponies and more

A cottage so perfect
that everything rings
the staircase has windows
to gardens that sing

So happy with glee
in such pure delight
the fireflies dance
a ballet every night

knowing, believing
Everything is my friend
from the moon to the stars
to the great river bend

I want to clean my room
I promise I do
But there is a farm and a barn
and ranch maybe two?

Where the cows
love to tell a story they do!
to me, and the monkeys,
and four kangaroos

There is a garden of flowers
filled with books that I’ve read
What fun! All of these places
that dance in my head

in this garden
with flowers
plus more
I dream up more dreams
where i’m doing my my chores!

I look up at the sky
and dream dreams
all day
of what I will become?
the instruments I’ll play

On top of mountain,
Then a boat that I row
My thoughts are so BIG
like a giant rainbow!

Then out from the covers
Rarrr! I am brave!
like a lion well rested
I emerge from my cave!

I’m ready to help Mommy!
what can I do?
Mommy understands
because she loves me SO much
and I love her too.

DOLL, by Kirsten Warner

I forage for her, the doll of my disappointment

a spray of brittle twigs
a faggot of fallen fronds
crusty sticks with lesions of lichen

crouched over, calling up my ancient sister.

Then it is only a matter of seeing and she takes shape.

A forked branch and spindly legs start running,
over-wide arm-span
shock of invisible fingers
guts hanging out
circulation unspooled
half a skirt of flax flowers,
all bundled together
leaving a strong stick where her head will go.

Overnight she stands sentinel,
my doll of disappointment,
through my sleepless 4 AM and discarded novels.
My insides agitate like giant kelp in a blowhole.
Somewhere a strange crying
but each time I get up the whimpering stops.

In the morning the pillow is wet.
I’m flimsy yet my ache weighs heavy on the bathroom scales.
I count my losses in the vanity’s distorting mirror.
It feels like something died. Like I never had a chance.

I craft her head from crumpled cellophane
and glinting, spooky transparency,
attach a savage halo
consider lengths of yarn the violent red of secobarbital
but she’s done. I nurse the day

while she fossicks in the underneaths
grubbing out contagion,
cursing humbug and sideshow
drowning out the comfort of friends
muttering spells to turn my gaze away
daubing herself with horse manure
full of grass seed that will eventually sprout green.

Twinkie, by John Choe

What happens to a dream deferred?

Maybe it doesn’t dry up,
Like a raisin after all.

But ferments,
Like a pot of kimchi.
Maybe it sizzles,
Like a hot pan of bulgogi.

Does a dream deferred explode,
like a Samsung phone
Or last forever like a Twinkie?
Yellow on the surface and white inside, right?
A ching-chong chink painted with artificial colors,
like a metaphor for racism itself:
sponge cake injected with homegrown xenophobia
that never expires.

Didn’t you call me a Twinkie,
while you planted a funhouse mirror in front of me,
casting white guys in yellow face,
buck teeth, taped eyelids,
a sibilant Asian accent.
Is this what you see in me?
Maybe we can pull the white out of whitewash,
And pour in yellow to add more color.
I want to be the hero
In the next Indiana Jones,
hear my voice narrate like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas.

America didn’t you teach me to be myself,
And then make fun of me for being different?

Maybe we have enough Buddhas and Gandhis,
And not enough Genghis Khans.
Did I just say we need more leaders
who sip blood for breakfast?
Do I need to have a weapon in my hand,
need people to fear my spite to get some attention?
Will the textbooks teach you who I really am then?

Does a dream deferred cut like a surgeon following
dotted black lines on a teenager’s face?

To create a perfect double eyelid,
or an Angelina Jolie nose?
Tell me The Face Shop,
do natural Korean features not sell enough
skincare routines for you?

Since apparently I’m so good at math,
let me explain an equation I learned growing up:
Stereotypes + self doubt = prejudice,
the square root of which is irrational fear.
Now, multiply that by systemic discrimination
and you get y over x to the power of racism.
But this equation is unbalanced.
Some of these variables don’t cross-cancel out.
America, we have a problem.
America, we have a problem,
and it’s bigger than a multi-polynomial,
more complex than E equals Mc squared.
America, we have a problem,
and you can’t find the answers in the back of the textbook.

My mother always told me “ 아들, you have to fight your own fight
before anyone will care to help you”
So let me pull out my Samurai sword,
I am not your Chink,
I am not your Jackie Chan,
I am not your math homework answer key,

And I am not a Twinkie.

Let me tell you who I am,
I am a dreamer who sleeps on many great ideas,
I am a Korean who makes friends as easy as 3 min 3 step ramen,
I am East,
And I am West,
I choose to not trade my heritage for
scan, copy, command + P, clone models on billboards.

America, you have force-fed me pills to keep me asleep
From my dreams through this land,
But my alarm just went off,
no snooze.

it is morning, and I can smell the homemade sweet sikhye from my bed,

I am ready to wake up

Loving amidst the tragedy around, by Shruti Singh

I got covered everything in between the blanket and my favourite bedsheet.
Those journals that got tons of words,
Of separation and attachment
And love and war.
So every night in bed,
I wipe my tears off my face,
That had been settled there all day long,
Smudging my mascara,
And turning my eyes
Into a dragon’s fire breath.
They have many beauty and tragedies,
To gaze upon
But end up looking at your still picture.
You caught my attention everytime,
I was looking for peace outside
Or for ways to start revolution
To bring change in the world,
As if you were the soul
With all those beauty and
Tragedies at the same time.
I find my heart bringing love words for you
From all the corners where they were kept
Safe for long time,
But it brings a feeling of guilt too,
It isn’t of loving you,
But instead accepting my love
At the time, when people all around
Are losing their life, their loved one’s life,
I pity on myself,
Of getting love birds sing to me,
And longing to read Shakespearan romance
When all around the world
Manto’s words are flying.
No, don’t confuse it with a love poem.
I want to write about them,
Whose lips are dried without food
And water for so many days, that
Now they don’t even mind eating
Meat that isn’t meant for them.
But see my lines are too into
Your lip colour,
That they don’t find the metaphor
For those pale, abandoned
And trembling lips.
These poem long for
Every line of your hand,
That they don’t accept it
When I write about those tiny hands
That were playing
With the corpse of her dead mother,
Unaware that she won’t wake up
From the bed she is in now,
Maybe she has find her peace
Amidst all the chaos,
But left her child alone
In this scroching heat,
Not of the weather, but of people’s heart.
A love revolution isn’t the only
The poets are meant to bring, right !
But see my poem crave for love
And its tragedy, so much so,
That even the burning world
Can’t stop my pen from writing you.
Because if not in reality, at least
In imaginations and poems,
You are with me looking at the miseries
Crying together,
You, for the world and I for you,
But no, this isn’t a love poem,
Instead a poem of
Loving with tragedies around…

ALL-STAR DESIRE, by Franco D’Alessandro

As a high school football player, I wanted to die

Every day;

Not kill myself…

Just die

A lot.

End it all. Be a hero. Not a queer-o.

As a high school football player, I was an

All-Star;

I wanted to love among those stars,

Not tread the earth among the constant fear;

I never knew the courage it took to wake up each day,

To not let the world know of the small explosions

That pulsed through my soul -the longings

For that unspoken unspeakable moment when

Everything is to be told

and he’s holding me.

At 17, the more I grew, the stronger I became

The less alive I felt

I was a faint fire in those wild, frozen ephebic woods

Waiting and wanting to warm anyone;

Comforted by only the warm whisper of coulds

I would do so much, I wanted

To do so much more,

But my self-imposed exile was an outstretched hand

To no man’s land.

Then I read A Streetcar Named Desire

And somehow saw myself in some way in Blanche

I didn’t want to kill myself.

The first boy I ever kissed did that –

the day after he lovingly set my lips afire.

Yes; Love… all at once and much too completely *

I just wanted more and more

-I was an expanding galaxy of want-

My only need, desire

I wanted more- than Blanche, and Brick, and Chance, and Lady…

I fell impossibly in love with a college boy named Nick,

And chased him for two years living on hope and maybe.

When I was a high school football player

I wanted

More to hide than be seen;

And I wanted more to be dead than alive;

But then I learned that

death is the opposite of desire, *

And I wanted so much more than to just survive,

To be so much more than just alive;

I wanted…SO MUCH….

I wanted

To be someone’s fire

I wanted

More and more and more

To be desired.

*lines spoken by Blanche DuBois from A Streetcar Named Desire

LEOPARD CUB LOVE, by Franco D’Alessandro

I’ve loved you like a leopard cub from the day
You stalked into my classroom —flip-flopping
Around the circle of desks— staring at me,
Wondering aloud: “who the hell is this guy?”

You —who crashed like a meteor, at 14, into my life
On that too-hot September day— began to wreak your happy havoc
In a stagnant place that unknowingly longed for you.
Like Odysseus readily recognized his long lost Telemachus,
We knew our souls knew each other.

You were a problem child I wanted to solve;
So I picked you up and carried you in my gritted teeth,
Slapped you around with a tender paw until you fell into line.
You were just like a lost leopard cub, separated from family,
The one that had a twin but needed to be on his own.

We’re leopards, you and me -social, secretive, and solitary.
But when I spotted you alone,
Laid out -paralyzed- on the ground,
I leapt down from my classroom tree
And roared onto the football field, to protect you, my cub,
Who, somehow, unreasonably, seemed a part of me.

I still don’t know why I chose you -and you, me-
To let in.
But in that late spring,
when you asked me to “bring it in”
For that first hug, I held you and,
Suddenly, knew that what life, loss, and lost love
Had long denied me, destiny had laughingly fulfilled.
Like a dozing puzzle-player,
You were a missing piece I pretended wasn’t necessary.
And I still don’t know why
You accepted my queer, childless, lone-leopard heart
I so long thought
Unworthy of a son’s love.

But answered prayers have a way of prowling into
Our empty rooms so quietly.
Your trust I’ve cherished holding;
The phases of your wild youth
I carry like secret treasures unfolding.
You, not of my flesh but of my soul;
That silent prayer that —in being answered—
Made me whole.

Prison Rules, by James Sears

(The names in this particular poem have been changed to protect the guilty.)

Back, back in the day there was a young man, called Little Kevin, who lived in the hood.
No father, but plenty of sisters and brothers so he did things that could have been miss-understood.

For protection, he joined a gang.
To fit in, he started to speak slang.

Kicked out of school because, he liked to bang.
Out late at night is where, he liked to hang.

And for money, well he be began to slang.
Because robbery and murder were not his thang.

Nor were they in his blood,
See, my man Little Kevin was just a common, everyday, DC, street thug.

By 16 he was the man and by 18 he was the leader by natural selection.
Had a baby on the way because he refused to use protection.

He was still living with his mother when he had his second kid.
That was when he got popped and sent up the river to serve a 10-year bid.

That first night Little Kevin caught hell in the cell he was in.
He went from being the man to being someone’s girl-friend.

Brutally ganged raped, ass-salted, violated, modern slavery, was what he faced.
He was forced to follow Prison Rules if he wanted to one day walk out of that place.

There were many rules he had to follow but I will only highlight three.
The first rule was, Little Kevin had to sit down, no standing while he peed.

This might not sound like a lot but stay with me if you can.
Sitting down to pee sends a psychological message that you are not a man.

The next rule was easy to follow while serving time.
He had no possessions because Little Kevin’s prison lover told him “Boy, what’s yours is mine!”

Everything Little Kevin owned belonged to his man.
His food, his cloths, and even his life were in another man’s hands.

The next rule is the reason why I am here with my tongue wagging.
For the next ten years, Little Kevin was forced to walk around prison with his pants sagging.

Check it out, sagging pants is like wearing a wedding ring while you are in jail.
It let’s everyone know that someone already owns and controls your tail.

This gave his man the ability to always see Little Kevin’s butt.
And it gave him easy access when he wanted to get that nut.

For 10 years Little Kevin lived like this so that he would not be beat.
He followed prison rules until the day came when he was able to reenter these exact streets.

From street king, to jail house queen, and now he was an actual hood legend to the youth.
See, Little Kevin’s prison lover was locked-up for life so he would never be able to get out and tell you all the truth.

Little Kevin’s body was free but his mind was still in prison as he was out on the streets bragging.
So he continued to sit down on the toilet to pee and he kept on wearing his pants sagging.

The youth saw Little Kevin as a hero, role model, and legend who followed no rules.
So they copied his style, his sagging pants, because it was perceived as being cool.

Now, when you see young people out there wearing their pants low, you know the truth.
And you need to recognize the impacts people like Little Kevin and his prison lover have on today’s youth.

James F. Sears, Jr September 2011

From the Heart of a Military Leader, by James Sears

Have you ever stood strong when fear was all around?
I mean, did you actually stand tall while others fell to the ground?

Have you ever done what common sense said not to do?
Even when others ran and said, “Come on man, do not be a fool.”

Has fear ever gripped you so tightly you had to concentrate just to breathe?
I am talking about the kind of fear that brings even the strongest men down to their knees.

Have you ever had to remain calm and lead others to a safe place;
while fear was clouding your judgment and causing your heart to race?

Have you ever been so engulfed by fear that 48 hours passed without you missing a single beat?
Heck, I almost went three days on just two hours of sleep.

Have you ever thought, this could actually be the last breath I take; because death was all around you with no room for error, absolutely no room for a leadership mistake?

Have you ever been so frozen by fear that you just did not know what to do?
I have, but I had to go on because 237 Soldiers were looking at me to lead them through.

See, fear in the face of leaders could destroy the will of many people;
while fear that goes un-faced could become deadly and extremely lethal.

Ok, well have you ever had to give an order that even you were afraid to carry out yourself?
I mean, a command so crazy you would not do it for all the world’s wealth?

Have you ever had to send someone out on a mission you knew they may not complete?
That would be one of those nights were this leader did not get any sleep.

Have you ever had to give CPR to someone who worked for you?
Well, I worked on Specialist Sierra for over one hour but he just did not pull through.

Have you ever had to carry the body of someone who saved your life?
The whole time I was thinking, what in the world am I going to tell his wife?

Have you ever had to tell someone that her loved one was no longer alive?
Trust me, you can actually see her heart breaking through the tears flowing from her eyes.

Have you ever stood over a person who was dead due to an order you gave?
Look, do not stand too close at the funeral because you might want to jump into his grave.

Have you ever had to stand before a grieving family? Yes, it is completely sad.
Their Soldier gave his life for his country and all I had to give them back was a U.S. Flag!

I am a leader of Soldiers because that is what I was called to do, and just for the record,
I am not telling you this to prove anything to any of you.
Most people just do not understand a true combat Soldier, warrior, and leader.
Well, here are some insights for all you poetry writers and readers.

How did you feel when the World Trade Center fell, the Pentagon got hit, and those planes hijacked?
This leader was devastated! Thousands dead on my watch, and it was my job to prevent those attacks.
You really do not understand the sacrifices we have made for the armed forces.
Heck, I have missed birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, and been through a couple of divorces.

We learn loyalty, honor, and respect for the U.S., for government, and for freedom, but we actually fight for our fellow Soldiers, you would understand if you ever took the time to meet them.

So yes, I have faced fears for you and even for those that act like complete jerks,
because failure is just not an option for me in my line of work!
I am a descendent from kings, forced into slavery, then turned into a Soldier so here is my quote,
Brothers “I fought for this country before I had the right to vote.”

I am the Buffalo Soldier who fought the Indians and settled the west.
Absent from those history books, it was my blood, sweat, and hard work that helped build the U.S.

I bravely charged up San Juan Hill and was later discredited in the press;
because racism would not let the world view me as this nation’s best.

I am that courageous hard-working Sailor who signed up at that local rally;
to learn I could only serve my country from deep in the ship’s galley.

I am that black flier who defied all odds to fly, fight, and win.
Well, you may have heard them say that I am one of those Red Tail, Tuskegee Airmen.

I fought in all the U.S.’s conflicts to include two world wars to stop global oppression,
but it was not until the Korean War when we overcame segregation.

The media and the public want you to call me a hero,
but you treated my Vietnam brothers, those Soldiers, like complete zeros.

Those Vietnam Warriors followed orders, fought with honor, and had no regret,
but when they came home, they came home to your insults, no cheers, just total disrespect.

Well, this leader has faced his fears through multiple wars in the Middle-East.
So, I salute those Soldiers dealing with fear right now because they allow us to enjoy reading poetry in peace!
James Mr. Speaker Sears

THE SPACE, by SYANDENE

It is
the space you fill
when the dawn
freshly breaks
the space you fill
with a anticipatory
brew of certainty
come what may

The space that says
there is no routine
only the linking
of mapped souls
through
inner conversations
and
earnest supplication
for how we
get through
in seeing another day

And as I start my day
I am reminded
of the happiness that
cycling into
the path of the sun brings
sensing the changing seasons
of being

Seeing workmen
backs – breaking
in the heat
of the mid-day sun
but happy – eyes decorating
constructional achievements
with pleasure

A mature couple
studying the geography
of a new locality
A new home sought – maybe
A new life researched – possibly
their day out
placed against
dancing sun’s rays

hands held
A ritualistic spell
connected in harmony
for the new day

Snapshots of women
pushing
new age designed prams
cradling innocent cargo
sleeping – oblivious
prepped for the
various struggles
they will encounter
bringing joy and pain
in this life’s relentless
refrain

A runner
fighting off exhaustion
for that final push, up
‘I can do this’ Hill

And the urban but
incessant babble
of school children
absorbed by the
ineffectiveness of what it means
to have the latest
technological gadget
in their possessions

I cycle
freewheel through
the cascade of monotone images
imbued to be outspoken
about the healing powers of
love and unity
for a world
rent in two
by the
fashionable commodity of
hatred and greed

reminded of my
grandmother’s timely words
” Chicken memba Gaad wen im drink”
meaning
thankfulness and reverence
must be the order of
the day

Knowing we aspire to
an idealized concept of we
knowing we lack nothing
want everything
and maybe
only visible things in between

Knowing that the
landscaping – reshaping
inward making and outward making
of the mapped soul
seeks no type of
hidden mystery
hurts

But now older
and much wiser
I am no longer
a subject to the
ligature marks of
life’s discordant cry

Free to journey into
onto and through
the iconoclastic footprints
left by the eclectics

For mine is a measured walk
inspecting the houses
inhabited by
wizened women
speaking truth in
its unaltered state

Sipping on
sacred science
the 7 tones of purity
the effusion of Ancient Mysteries
and the oneness of the
harmonized self

As they note
The New Ascension
unfurl its well preserved wings

That I too may climb higher
go within
and fly

(c) Syandene Jahia