Category: poetry

Read Poem: LOVE by Marie Diaz-Cervo

I love how he looks at me; I could see that he admire and loves me.
I love how he can see that I liked him and made the move to give me his phone number.
I love how he can see that I find him very attractive.
I love how I can be myself around him.
I love being around him and I cannot get enough of him.
I love his lips and the way he kissed me; I love his face, his height, his skin why not I’ll say it everything about him.
I love the walk we took by the water and discuss our lives.

I love the way he holds my hand.
I love the time alone that we shared that brought us closer.
I love how we share our dreams and the plan to implement them.
I love how he shares his concerns and issues with me.
I love how we stared into each other’s eyes and knew that we want each other.
I love how he kissed me with such passion.
I love how he touch my face with such passion.
I love how he hugs me with his protective arms.
I love how he gives me advice about many things.
I love how he goes out of his way to find something that I need.
I love how he gives me compliments in front of others.
I love how times heal him, and he realized that what he did was wrong.
I love how he held my face and said: “you know that I love you right.”
I love the way his hands touch my back and my waist.
I love how he is so protective of me.

—
Marie Diaz-Cervo

Read Poem: TRUTH BE TOLD by Singleton M. Tate

Walking down the Boulevard,
making reality fiction,
watching living pictures
of tragic lyrics, enabled
by ruthless cowards…

I wait at the bus line,
wondering in these
sad times, why does
this cancer of despair,
thrive in our air…

Thousands upon thousands,
waning their existence,
looking for a piece
of the fabulous life,
yes, fame at what price…

Hearts without feelings,
our economy is reeling from
drugs, alcohol and murder,
corruption’s game name your prize,
brute force empty sea of lies…

Spurious, I’ll look for a
‘Glimmer of Hope’, as I’m
choked by the tears, that
stream in the
‘Era of Bling’,
let the ‘Truth Be Told’,
as ‘Humanity’ sells its soul…

by Singleton M. Tate

Read Poem: The Fat White Lady by Michael Quaintance

the fat white lady is no longer fat,
she is the full bodied and robust expression of her decision to see, to be and to be seen
she is, the open—self-actualizing unfolding
of her unrestricted and unparalleled self.

the fat white lady is no longer a dependent,
she is the will and the way, the empowered self
given voice and invoice
permitted a seat on the south bound bus
she suffers for those she would save
but never suckle
for those we need to watch… suffer
for those we need to have…. suffer
for those we need to deny… have ever suffered
those, who have never
will never
live next door to or lay naked on the lawn
the neighboring lawn
the adjoining lawn
licking and leaving the stains and scents of their private and
culturally curious
pains and pleasures.

the fat white lady is no longer an assumption
she determines the route—the line to be taken
according to
in accordance with
designed and designated by
“I have always found her work to be so insightful
and his words, so uplifting—transformative—humble and yet, so utterly universal,
she determines and declines the design;
wearing her costly but non-descript raiment
for meetings at the tables where Starbucks is no longer served
she appropriates normalcy and re-conceptualizes
the terms and meaning of incarceration.

the fat white lady is without color, is beyond color
refuses to condescend to or be swayed by notions of color,
having mastered the weight of weight
all things are seen as a matter of choice
(has she not been an object and survived?)
all things are seen as a matter of choice
(was she not relegated to the back room and
frequently left naked on tombs, denied and discarded?)
all things are seen as a matter of choice
(was she not all too often the after-thought and the apology–
the condescension and the eulogy?)
all things are seen as a matter of choice
(the barely tolerated step-child of preference and the preferred,
did they not refuse to let her sell or be sold?)
all things are seen as a matter of choice.

the fat white lady celebrates the once intolerable
challenging our notions of tolerance
calling to question
his-story and her-terectomy,
no longer blanketed, she consumes the bed
of roses
of equitable inequity
strapping on intent
she impales
all those promises
that were once lies
shared only by the slender and the thin
rhythmically
piercingly
brutally
she invades the hollows
taking everything but the echoes
leaving everything but the floor.

the fat white lady dances
trance dances
Isadora in chains
breasts unleashed and permitted to swing
from one locked door to the other
freedom is the illusion
she is empowered by her understanding of
by her memory of
by her recitation of
the ten commandments of the undesired
and now when all things are illusions
she is free to be
whatever we are afraid to see.

the fat white lady is no longer fat.

michael quaintance
quaintance.michael.k@gmail.com

Read Poem: Lessons by Ana Paz

What do you want to be when you grow up?
A question we all hear when we are young
When I was growing up, I thought I wanted to be a cook
I would take pride in what my mother would do
close to a miracle
To feed all of us belly full with hardly and food
I will never take that skill for granted but at the time I didn’t think it was cool.

Because when I was growing up I want to be a footballer
When I first came to England the language I couldn’t speak
but I created my own with the ball and my feet
Eventually exceeding what was expected of me
The some of the boys
tried to pick on me

Don’t you know you just a girl?
Why don’t you
pick flowers
Play with a doll
Play with your hair
Play with that kitchen set
As a little girl I couldn’t comprehend
That you were belittling and pushing me down instead
But then again
being stubborn is one of my best traits
So I did learn this lesson a few times again
Like when I said I wanted to be the head of a company one day
You laughed at me
Or when I told you I wanted to aspire to play roles where I could show
I had brians
where I could be the superhero
not constantly subjected to the male gaze
you said that wouldn’t sale today
Well then I started falling victim to social contraints
Questioning my worth
And even my reasons
Can you stay on the phone
It’s late and dark
And I’m questioning which way to go home

Then, I question my appearance
Was it too revealing?
I didn’t realise that my clothes even if it was covering every single part of my body could seem provocative and I was giving out an image that I wanted it? See I had to learn to be wiser,
forced to think twice and apparently,
not bring it upon myself
I had to learn when it was black friday my body could be an item on a shelf.
You see
As a young girls
You’re taught
indirectly
Not to question society
But to question yourself
And that’s when I realise that there’s no difference between my experience and mum always always having to be in the kitchen
But like I said
Being stubborn is one of my best traits
So I would observed and listen
Mother telling me how to season
But when a man told me it was where I should be
I never listened
Because I now know there are many ways to be imprisoned and I never knew messages could be hidden.
I wasn’t just cooking
I was learning resilance
Like waxing on and waxing off
Really you were feeding me lessons on how to wake up when enough is enough
Mother used to say in life there is no luck
So young lady what do you want to be when you grow up?
Now I know I just wanted
permisson to believe and dream
To be allowed to ask questions
To learn the right lessons
To be motivated to succeed
No matter what that success looks like
I wanted to excel
And I wanted my success to be as much yours as it is mine aswell.
I wasn’t trying to compete
But if I have to I will win
And it’s not because I want to it’s because I have to
It’s seems to be the only way that you will see my value
I’m not just a girl
I’m rooted and ground as a tree
Growing towards where the light may be
Able to give life beyond me
As beautiful and rare as a pearl and
As relentless and tough as my curls
I am not just a girl
I am a woman now
And whether it’s nature, nuture
Or both
I choose adapt but to never mould
Not even
In a mans world…

Read Poem: NOTHING MUCH FOR MINORS by Sahaj Sabharwal

 
Minors are those less than eighteen, 
As they don’t have knowledge in keen.
 
They don’t have a driving licence,  
As don’t have driving sense.
 
Minors are given just pen and page, 
Their life is not more than a cage. 
 
Holiday is not given even on sundays,
As their age is negligible for fundays.
 
Parents are worried not to get blame,
From minors they just want their fame.
 
Circumstances are same for every minor,
Parents are just their life designer.   

Read Poem: HEAL THE WORLD by Ansh Thakur

Clone, are the souls in all the terrains
No one exotic on the pale blue spot
All feels the torment, all feels the blest
All relish the windy fall, all lingers the rains.
.
Same are the features, same the binds
Of every men, women and children
Same is the heart
Diverse are the thoughts but same are the minds.
.
People of all lands enjoy the melodies
Read from the same vision
Learn from the same mind
Duel in the battlefield with similar strategies.
.
But remember, war is futile
It ills our own souls
Evils our wonders
So bear no more, stem war immobile.

Poetry Reading: Winter Afternoon by Carlo Danese

Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss

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Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com

Director: Kierston Drier

Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne

Editor: Kimberly Villarruel

Camera Op: Mary Cox