Read Poetry: Super Geezers, by Bob Grant

Super Geezers – Just some Teasers
Civilities rambunctious Sneezers.
Belch at any Time of Day,
no Concerns of What they Say

Have no Time for Politics,
Pick their Noses just for Kicks.
Speak their Minds without a Care,
take a Nap most Anywhere.

Cranky if They want to Be,
Dirty Jokes and Laugh with Glee.
Dot to Dot on their Age Spots,
Hide their Trash in Flower Pots.

Reminisce ‘bout Fond years Past,
answer Questions never Asked.
Complain about the Younger Age,
Read a Book to Feel the Page.

Thumb through Photos in their Hand,
Skip their Meals if they’re Bland.
Talk about their Aches and Pains,
to Heck with Staying in their Lanes.

Super Geezers have the Power,
Certainly their Place and Hour.
what Remains is Up to You,
Do just what You want to Do.

Genre: Aging, Senior Citizens, Seniors, Geezers, Life, Death, Relationships, Society, Senior Centers, Retirement, Independent Living, Assisted Living, Medicare, Old, 65 and Older, Social Security.

Read Poetry: PARENTAL LAMENT, by Mike Reed

My boy is sleeping safe in bed
Without a tumour in his head.

No hepatitis, septicaemia,
No lymphoma, no leukaemia.

His heart is strong, his breathing sure.
The marrow in his bones is pure.

No ADD, MS, ME,
CF, MD or HIV.

We drove him safely to his school,
And back again. He swam the pool

Untroubled, laughing, loving it.
No seizure, stroke or fatal fit.

No aircraft engine yet has failed.
No train come lethally derailed.

He moves from trampoline to tree
To bicycle, to skate and ski,

Unharmed, unruffled, innocent.
No injury. No accident.

He sleeps. We sleep. Another day
Is passed in ease. We made more hay.

No horror here, no sudden shark.
No plunge into the depthless dark.

No slip from sunshine into sorrow.
But there’s always tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

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: 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: Ballad of the East Wind, by Mark Anthony Tierno

Author’s Note: The following was paced to the tune of Ghost Riders In The Sky.

I) In a place of long ago,
and not so far away;
A wind did there rose,
straight out of Ca-alay.
Swirl the wind did round,
up and over ground;
Then went it up and through,
and over, Ocean Blue.

 

II) Then across the way,
a hillock it did spy;
Upon which sat a man,
‘ere here to die.
He was a sage of old,
with much knowledge to be told.
So, did the wind swirl and toy,
and ‘pon the hill did form, into a boy.

 

III) His robe was spun in silken blue,
his hair of blackest night.
His eyes shine did like moonbeams,
his smile did twinkle bright.
Then towards yonder sage he did walk,
and bent down he for to talk.
Said he, “I cometh here to talk to thee;
please, listen you to me.”

 

IV) Now, the sage did look up,
with his eyes of grey.
Said he, “please let me die,
please if I may.”
But the boy in silk was undeterred,
said he, “I wonder if you’ve heard;
Of Faerie dust and Dragon’s Wings,
and the babbling brook that just but sings.”

 

V) Then said the old man,
“What are these to me?”
Spake the boy,
“I’ll teach you to be free!”
And then up in a mighty blur.
a Blue Wind he did stir;
To carry them up in windy hands,
for to see, of unseen lands.

 

VI) The Wind carried them onwards towards,
out East across the Sea.
Passed they through colored clouds,
and waves a-flowing free.
Then stopped they ‘pon a musiked land,
with candied trees near at hand.
Where Faeries with fragile wings blue hued,
did flit about, quite nude.

 

VII) The Silken Boy then showed the man,
many a magic sight;
From Cochel Shells with magic spells,
to dragons taking flight!
But said the old man, “how frail these things be,
they are but Fantasies to me;
Let me show you now of my home land,
Come, ’tis near at hand.”

 

VIII) The man then went and showed the boy,
of streets all filled with grime;
Of lands so filled with filth and puss,
But persevere the Boy did now,
not die, nor flinch, nor even cow;
Not he when shown how murder greets,
nor poverty in yon streets.

 

IX) The man did finally give it up,
and turned to the Boy and said;
“How can you resist it all,
come down ‘pon ’round your head?”
But the Boy did but wave his hand,
and blue mist cover did the Land;
And, when the mist did clear,
’twas Paradise come near.

 

X) The East Wind’s Boy then turned around,
and spake to him like mist;
“For the Secret of Reality,
but listen you to this;
Reality is what you will,
more fragile still ’tis than your hill.
For do you not it but deem,
’tis all, but a dream.”

 

XI) The man was whisked back onto,
his hillock, thence turned to cry,
“How may such a Land exist,” he cried,
“please before do I die!”
As the Wind turned to leave it said,
“This Land you seek is everywhere you tread;
You have but your self to make it True.”
and thence he turned, and bid adieu.

 

XII) The old man now is quite the Youth,
and dreams oft’ of Dragon’s Wings.
He makes the World a happy place,
and listens as it sings.
So, see if you a Blue Wind Fly,
please to hurry out and cry!
For it may take you to the Land that sings,
of Faerie dust and Dragon’s Wings.

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: 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: Confessions, by Lizardin Bain

You say I’m pretty. You say I’m kind,

But does it ever cross your mind,

That you’re being awfully abusive.

 

Of course, it doesn’t. Why it should?

The nicest words they never could,

Hurt anyone or be intrusive.

 

And people think so, and my brain,

It tries to cope, but all in vain.

My heart prefers to be preclusive.

 

You sing those tunes without a care,

You fail to see that I can’t bear,

The notes that sound to me illusive.

 

I understand that I am flawed,

But all I see is brutish fraud,

Who is as rude as he’s delusive.

 

I do not trust when someone says:

“I fell in love in three short days.”

It’s highly doubtful and allusive.

 

Your words are brining only pain,

They are constricting, like a chain,

And I can hardly take your glee.

 

But you’re urging me to stay,

And not allowing me to say,

My desperate, urgent plea.

The anger hops up to the front,

You end up sliced. You end up burnt,

You cuss, you spit, you flee.

 

I ‘m left alone. I’m left unbound.

Denied a voice, denied a sound,

Like cursed, unwanted sea.

 

I curl inside. I close the door,

Refuse to roar and feeling sore,

I throw away the key.

 

And I am failing to confess,

And I am failing to express –

How love confessions hurt me.

Genre: love, relationship, hurt, another point of view, confession, sad