Category: Uncategorized

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

Read Poetry: Notion, by Lucrezia Mancini Nardi

Once thin skinned like orchid petals all
frustration was mistaken for tears.
Then resilience took over so to cry
only having the feeling of no amend.

So far bones resounded metal cold,
lack of nearness is not about fears
but to save weeping for better times,
trying to roll over any sign of dead-end.

Whether eyes or not drops come from
They’re salty stories and may reveal
promises made to oneself but unkept in life
like the notion tears fall not at our command.

– I own all rights to this poem –

Lucrezia Mancini Nardi

Read Poetry: At a Glance, by Joyce Villeta

When I thought I had it all
Trouble came and made me fall
I stripped myself from finding love
Not from men, but from above
I held joy inside my womb
I chose to end it way too soon
I never even had a chance
To think it happened at a glance
Devastation hit me hard
It was my choice; I chose the card
That led me to my biggest fear
The one that never lets me hear
The sound of peace cause I have none
I’m blinded, lost, there is no sun
It’s gone; the road ahead is rough
It’s time for me to say enough
I can’t forget the sight of when
I cried because the pain won’t mend
So here I am thinking of you
A year ago, I still feel blue

Read Poetry: Curse Coffee Cups, by Andrew Green

Curse the coffee cups and spoons
The yellow fog, the window panes
Curse the dying of the light
Curse the rage against the night.

Curse daffodils, satanic mills
Pleasure domes, the albatross,
Comparisons to summer day
The last man in, an hour to play.

Curse roads divergent in a wood,
The knock upon a moonlit door
The airman’s helmet and the hawk
Painted women and their talk.

Curse Gunga Din, curse Kubla Khan,
Curse the Tiger burning bright.
Curse Dulce Et Decorum Est
Let Drummer Hodge not find his rest.

Unstop the clocks, unmuffle drums
Forget the honey with your tea.
Forget the grin of bitterness,
The look of rooms returning thence.

Forget the friendly bombs on Slough
And men in brightly lit canteens.
Curse the damns of your content
The crumpling floods that force a vent.

Zero hour will never come,
We won’t ride a merry go round
Or Whitsun train that’s late away.
We won’t be naming parts today.

Stop the cannons, stop the charge,
Stop Hiawatha in mid song.
The eye will simply look on glass
It won’t look through; it shall not pass.

No knock kneed men will cough like hags
Three will never meet again.
Blood stained hands will be washed clean
And woods won’t come to Dunsinane.

Too many words crammed in my head
The rhythms dance, the cadence strong
I need new words to call my own
My head rings with another’s song.

Read Poetry: “The Craft” by Benjamin Hare

All those who wander should beware,
Because no soul is safe inside their mind;
Never look into the terrible stare.

On the night of the moon’s most devious glare,
Stay in your dwelling, soundly confined;
All those who wander should beware.

The damned ashes of lost forebears,
Eyes of vengeance and malice, better off blind;
Never look into the terrible stare.

Candle smoke and deafening pulsations penetrate the air,
Like a mortar and pestle, an axe to grind;
All those who wander should beware.

Venture out only if you dare,
But be enchanted, impossible to unbind;
Never look into the terrible stare.

And if you see them, say a prayer,
For the theurgic beings are the supremes of mankind;
All those who wander should beware,

Never look into the terrible stare.
“The Craft”
All those who wander should beware,

Because no soul is safe inside their mind;
Never look into the terrible stare.
On the night of the moon’s most devious glare,

Stay in your dwelling, soundly confined;
All those who wander should beware.
The damned ashes of lost forebears,

Eyes of vengeance and malice, better off blind;
Never look into the terrible stare.
Candle smoke and deafening pulsations penetrate the air,

Like a mortar and pestle, an axe to grind;
All those who wander should beware.
Venture out only if you dare,

But be enchanted, impossible to unbind;
Never look into the terrible stare.
And if you see them, say a prayer,

For the theurgic beings are the supremes of mankind;
All those who wander should beware,
Never look into the terrible stare.

Read Poetry: Cracks in the Sidewalk, by Irene Leland

When the cracks show in the sidewalk

The one that links your home and mine

I will know our love is breaking

And another path I’ll find

And when the hill begins to flatten

The one where we now often play

I will know our love is lessening

And I will go another way

Now I know smooth roads can be shattered

And mountains can be beaten down

Love can also lose its meaning

As though it never had been found

But if a mountain’s high and mighty

It can stand the greatest storm

And if a highway’s long and lasting

It will keep its stable form

And if a love is like that mountain

It will rest within the sky

And if a love is like that highway

It will forever lie!

But we never built a highway

And never climbed a mountain high

All we have is a sidewalk

And a hill on which to sigh

So when the cracks destroy that sidewalk

And the hill’s been trampled on

I will know our love has ended

And I will be gone…