POETRY: 'Space Race' By Kabriel Moorehead

Space Race
by Kabriel Moorehead

Somewhere in between gazing at stars
And having our feet squarely rooted to the earth
We became trapped in a galaxy of our own creation
Where love and war had become synonymous
With anguish and redemption
Where as we fell through time
Chasing memories of a ill cherished past
And running away from a uncertain future
We became haunted by our dreams
As every idea turned into a elm street sequence
Where we were surrounded by mirrors and still couldn't see
What we had become
How what had haunted us for so long had become us
And taken us to limits we had never imagined
And yet none of this mattered
Because sometimes the truth isn't good enough
What you see with your own two eyes isn't clear enough
And what you hear isn't loud enough
There are times when justice isn't just enough
And faith must show you the way home
Copyright 2011 | Kabriel Moorehead

POETRY: 'Broken Wings' by Robert Drake

I found a piece of you the
Other Day.
I think it was your pride
or maybe your confidence.
These priceless items fell out
your pocket of hidden shame
while you were running from your
PROBLEMS...
Problems that made you the person you are,
Problems, that if solved, can finally give you the
FREEDOM to move on and be the person you were
meant to be.
All you have to do is spread your
beauteous wings and swallow your pride and
REDISCOVER your confidence.
Denied by the flesh
but loved and accepted by HIM,
you still feel an emptiness in your heart.
This alienation you encumber yourself with is
UNNECESSARY pain that deter
you from achieving your own
Nirvana.
Do not flee, beautiful,
CONFRONT the pain and end
your shame.
Then, only then will you
Find the strength within
Yourself to move on
from the quicksand pit by
which you have fallen in
and walk the pathway to
TRUE HAPPINESS.
....I seek the day I stumble over
Your SHAME
but I know that once again you
will fly your broken wings.

Copyright 2011 | Robert Drake

POETRY: 'Black Man's Shoes' by Robert Drake

Dilapidated and Whithered
Callous and discreet
Is a man's spirit,
After it has been beaten down by the
Devil's Wood.
His backside aches with pangs
of reminiscent failure,
and exposure to whips
rationalized with torture.
His feet bleeds with every wary step,
and night creeps upon him like
Satan's offspring prying their jaws open
to devour their next
soul...Souls...
All around him are white men
dressed in black suits.
He ponders why colors can exist in
harmony but human beings cannot..
He regrets his thoughts,
for they are only non-vocalized
expression and he can never take back
the Words He Never Said...
He dreams of Lasers,
guiding, pointing,
Showing him the way.
Yet,
Silent and peculiar.
He doesn't want to experience death
twice...Twice...
His heart ruptures frantically,
as every disturbance
reawakens the memory of a
black man's ordeals.
He searches within himself,
for the solution to rid himself
of his pain-rekindling memories.
"For every problem there is a Solution"
Death?
A swift liberation,
a grasp of deaths chilly chilled
hand?
Time progresses constantly
as the black man reaches the midway
of his life's journey...
A young visage, devoid of any animosity,
inquisitively asks,
"Is life hard?"
Every word is precious,
and knowing this to be true,
speaks from his heart...
"YES, life is pragmatic in his
endeavor to break down the soul into
shards of intangible matter..."
He takes off his shoes and gestures
the young man to wear them.
"But...it will mold you into the man you were meant to be"
Prejudice has no presence
in this sacred union
between white and black.
The marked genesis of white comprehension,
of a black man's struggles.
All he had to do was walk in a
Black Man's Shoes...

Copyright 2011| Robert Drake

POETRY: 'The Graveyard' by George Abraham

The Graveyard
by George Abraham


I- my ghosts

I can hear
a single dead black leaf
succumbing to subtle
wind resistance in midair;
falling from a tree,
wrinkled from years and despair,
a sole witness to
souls undead resting in peace.
branches expand in every direction
to aid the shader of souls,
the protector of the nonliving
from their enemy sun.
my ghosts are always
Here-
Haunting me until
the day I join them.
I glance down at
the three Stones in front of me-
their Resting places.
one read “beloved grandma”;
the other, “beloved uncle”;
the third remains unmarked
for the time being.

II- Grandma

alluring shore dweller;
beauty attracted attention
through short life;
waves Schlep as shell
moves in, out;
always pushed around,
yet always loved back;
diminutive Child picks
up the shell and stares
with Seeming innocence and awe;
inner beauty is recognized:
a family that loves,
friends who adore;
but she Drops the shell
Momentarily;
sickness infiltrates your veins
but only temporarily
the first time;
the child takes the Shell in hand
and Crushes it;
only dust remains
along with the engraved seashell
on a grave that reads
“beloved grandmother.”
yet, if she were
to look down
from above,
she would Weep.
Weep at
disgracefulness.
Weep at
selfishness.
Weep at
humanity’s actions
leaving them lamenting
in a rainswept graveyard.

III- Uncle

beloved,
his grave read.
the tears,
pain,
suffering
his leaving caused.
yet imagining that
Noble portrayal
of a Beloved uncle
cannot be;
its but his
Pseudonym.
he was dead
to us
long before…
and his Offspring,
those plagued by
inhumane greed;
those whose wallets are
stacked with dollar bills,
his grave was price to pay.
its sad, their
instability; their
lack of responsibility.
relying on
the Death of a
man they called
Beloved
to put food on the table…
and in all the English
language, never has such
a word been berated in value,
tramped in demeanor,
than Beloved…

IV- The Final Grave

fine stone chisled
with perfection;
lying there on the ground
unmarked
undug
unbelonging
of a restless soul
for the time being.
a fatalistic grave;
mark’d for one as if
the stars commanded it.
and this tree with dead black leaves
is barely living proof
of its portent;
the grave shall house
what is deteriorating and has
been deteriorating since human existence.
the grave shall house
that which we all have refused
to acknowledge and respect as our home.
that grave, once filled,
will bring about all our own.
and I cringe at the thought
of that day drawing near.
as I kneel and perform
the sign of the cross
above the three graves,
a final respect before I leave,
I look into the sky
and see the clouds spiraling
and hear the wind’s ghosts whispering.
that which results from
grandma’s tears.
that which results from
uncle’s fury.

the Tempest is here…

Copyright 2011 | George Abraham

POETRY: 'Schizo' by Robert Drake and George Abraham

Schizo
by Robert Drake and George Abraham


G:
I am a thief
Robbing people of
That which they need the most;
Stealing the unique consistency of
Self.

R:
My mother wont even talk to me
anymore...
I remember well, that day,
that fateful day that changed
my reality forever…
waiting in the guidance counselors
office with my mom to be seen about my
incident in class.
i felt uneasy, because I knew
what they were speaking so urgently
about...
Stress induced testing, the
Infamous AP exam, during this exam,
I began to perceive voices,
devilish, bone-chilling voices that plagued
my very thoughts.
They were whispering, provoking me, mocking me,
buzzing around my head like gnats
yellow-fog creeping upon the window-sill
tapping, my attention follows,
my emotions swell, the sensation
became to unbearable

G:
I am a voice;
A nonexistent manifestation
Of everything unwanted
Telling you you’re worthless!
Telling you you cannot be!
Telling you you’re nothing but an insane freak plagued by…

R:
so I SCREAM
and try to escape, but the voices
persist, whispering… screaming…

G:
They’re out to kill you.
All of them.
This testing area is merely a clever mechanism
Designed to suffocate you with toxic gasses.
You must escape from them!
Kill them!!!
Or yourself!
Whichever is more convenient
Because you’re dead anyways.

R:
We're finally summoned to the office,
and i notice a peculiar man with the nametag
M.D standing adjacent to the Counselor.

G:
these people, the counselor,
Mr. M.D,
Even your own mother
Want to murder you!
You’re too much of a liability!
She can bear it much longer!
You’re going to die!
You’re mother hates you!
You’re a cause to her humiliation!

R:
The M.D speaks to my mother privately
while i sit, silently tormented, silently
corrupted.
I felt my sanity slowly fade away
as i overhear one word
Schizophrenia.

G:
"YOU NEED TO DEFEND YOURSELF
AND TO DEFENT YOURSELF, YOU
MUST KILL YOURSELF
BEFORE THEY DO."

R:

As my eyes begin to fill with tears of pain and despair,
I spot a pair of scissors.
At the same time, the M.D and my mother
were finishing their conversation.
I grasp the scissors in my hand, trembling,
shaking violently, the voices in my head
shout:

G:
"DO IT!
ESCAPE FROM THEM!.ITS THE ONLY WAY!"

R:
Just then my mother walks through the door
with the M.D
and drops to her knees
as she suffers the worst pain
a mother can ever experience.

G:
I go by many names
Of those plagued and unplagued.
Contorter
Deceiver
Distorter.
a lobotomy;
A jagged silver metal
Jutting through the weak veins
Of the head;
Shattering that ¾ inch thick calcification
Protecting the self;
Then, finally, I penetrate
And remove the self from its body…
But only I and those plagued
By my kaleidoscopic lenses that enthrall thine ears
Know me and how I work, for I am a
Demon.
Sheltered in the pits of hell
Waiting for a poor innocent soul to lash out upon
With claws
To breach through branches of transmission.
And my fiery tale
Is kept aflame
By the souls of those consumed
By me.
Those on earth know me,
And my many forms,
As schizo.

Copyright 2011 | Robert Drake and George Abraham

POETRY: 'Her Voice' by Larry Knight

Her Voice.
by Larry Knight

Her voice whispers the songs
of my mother.

Their notes, like soft razors
cut deep, draw blood, persuade
me to find my truth in her arms;

I am a dull blade moving against
my reason; she is a quarter note
of protest, delivering me and us
from the chains of our devise.

The tenor of revolution in verse
yields undefined complexity;
her notes, a rose plucked
from a mountainside is
a soft, fluttering passion
lost in the solemnity

She is the wind, I am a branch
on a tree bending with every note
shaped by the delicacy of wind.

Love is shared divinity;
we react, in motion,
finding quiet seconds;
reacting in harmony
against want,
against reason,
against logic,
against shared divinity
and passion and complexity.

We find hope in eternal springs;
she, enraptured by my commitment,
imbues me with revolution;
we dance eternally;
I, lost in her verse, fall;
she, like a sun rose, illuminates.

Copyright 2010 | Larry Knight

Eulogy

A light rain washes the ground I tread upon.

The sky seems to cry in agony as it bleeds gray and procreates a moody haze above the horizon.

Women and men alike mourn as preacher's silently send off the dead.

Our dreaded eulogy.

But sermonizers only introduct the ethereal oration that is bellowed from the eternal Shangri-la.

The Great Architect sends his saintly soldiers to blast their trumpets and toot their horns to commemorate his martyrs.

When the soul leaves this shell of a body that trains and nurtures it for his grace,

the legions harvest the souls and announce their departure.

A departure that is interpreted as a forlorn farewell rather than the joyful celebration it was meant to be.

This heavenly eulogy serves as a foil to our earthly eulogy.

Time spent mourning and weeping is spent in celebration;

immortalizing mortal souls with songs of praise

Never confuse light rain as tears of pain for there is only joy when a lost soul becomes whole once more;

therefore, send a faithful farewell that introduces a new timelessness,

rather than one that essentially ushers in a new end

POETRY:Invictus by Reggie Drake

I close my eyes.

Shut my mouth.

And lock my mind.

To keep them from breaking in.

I hear them.

I hear the sirens screeching and screaming their terrible song.

Songs pitched in lovely tunes hide deadly decibels that mesmerize and captivate.

They lure me in.

I fall for their trap.

Too weak-minded to break the bind they hold on me and I lose control...

I am lost.

With the mind gone my body ceases to function, like a car without an engine, I am nothing.

I am at their mercy; our eternal struggle has left me powerless.

Broken.

But that was before.

Before I found the light concealed within the darkness and uncovered my inner essence.

Before I realized that I am my own architect and I shape and configurate my own fate.

I am a slave to none.

How dare they attempt to break my back with the iron rod of captivity, those mind-seducing words shatter and fall at the feet of my unwavering will.

I have too long been afraid, afraid of myself for I never knew who I was.

I have been clay in their hands, constantly molded, fixed, and transformed to fit their desired image.

I have lived a lie, but now I am free.

No longer a captive, a slave, a servant.

My very soul now steers the ship.

Stranded at sea I will never be, as i silently utter these sacred words from memory: Liberum ad Extremus... Free at Last

PHOTOGRAPHY: 'The Expressionists at the Celebration of Voice 2011'

Several members of The Expressionists after the Celebration of Voice 2011 event.

Photo by Larry Knight | Copyright 2011

The Box

SO HERE WE GO AGAIN,

BROKEN GLASS ON THE FLOOR

REPRESENTING LIFES STRUGGLE

AS I LOCK THE DOORS BEHIND

ME, UNABLE TO LET YOU IN.

LIFES STRUGGLE ISN'T SO HARD

NOW THAT I'VE ENCLOSED

MYSELF IN A SMALL BOX

OF MY OWN IMAGINATION.

FINDING SHELTER IN A CORNER,

IM HUDDLED UP IN A FETAL POSITION

WITH ONLY THE SOUNDS

OF MY OWN BREATHING AND

THE "TAP TAP" OF YOUR

KNUCKLES AGAINST THE MARBLE WHITE DOOR.

BUT YOU CANNOT COME IN

BECAUSE YOU DON'T KNOW LIFE'S STRUGGLE,

IT HOLDS YOU DOWN LIKE PAPER WEIGHT

AND BREAKS YOUR SOUL DOWN INTO MATTER

AS A MATTER OF FACT CUZ MATTER IS A FACT

OF MINDS CREATE MATTER, SO WHAT IS SPIRIT?

LISTENING TO AMEYTHEST ROCK STAR

AS I GAZE INTO THE STARS

FROM MY ONE WINDOW BOX

RAPIDLY WRITING MY THOUGHTS

BEFORE THEY BECOME A BLOT

IN MY MIND AS IT RACES

1000 LAPS A SECOND

AND MAN THOSE LAPS ARE LONG.

NOT LONG AS IN LENGTH BUT LONG AS IN TIME,

BECAUSE IT TAKES A LONG TIME

TO COME UP WITH POETRY WITHOUT RHYME

THAT SPITS MEANING INTO EVERY EAR THATS OPEN,

EVERY MOUTH THATS SOUND, TO EVERY

MIND THATS HOPING, TO EVERY WORD THATS

SPOKEN, WORD.

WEEKS TURN TO YEARS,

YEARS TO DECADES,

I FINALLY LET YOU IN

LEARNING OF LIFES STRUGGLES

AND ME, FINDING YOU A WORN OUT

MAN HUNCHED OVER, GRAY HAIR,

BAGS ENCIRCLING YOUR EYES

AND YOUR FEET ARE CRACKED WITH

THE TOIL EQUAL TO THAT OF OUR

ANCESTRIAL WORK.

HE SAYS TO ME,

"LIFES STRUGGLE ISN'T SO HARD

NOW THAT I'VE ENCLOSED MYSELF IN A SMALL BOX

OF MY OWN IMAGINATION."

HE SMILES AS HIS EYES CLOSE AND HUDDLES INTO

A FETAL POSITION AND TAKES THE FORM OF A BABY,

LETTING GO OF LIFES STRUGGLES,

HE FINDS A NEW START WITH THE KNOWLEDGE

HE'S EARNED,

WITH THE PHRASE HE LIVED WITH,

"LIFES STRUGGLE ISN'T SO HARD NOW THAT I'VE ENCLOSED

MYSELF IN A SMALL BOX OF MY OWN IMAGINATION."

WE MUST LET GO.

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Poster design by Larry Knight | 2011

Help The Expressionists celebrate creativity on April 14, 2011. Download and print this poster and help us advertise the event. Or share the image on your Facebook or Twitter page.

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Celebration of Voice Poem

Where would I be if I listened. You can never be a leader because you follow us. Your locked inside this little box, never think outside of it. We control your every thought, we tell u what to do, what to say, how to act. Your only gonna know what we tell you because we hold the controller to your brain and we button mash schemes and ideas through our system of education, that masquerades as a correctional facility where "misguided" children are fixed and forced to conform to their pre-ordained... Ill show them. Ill show them that intuition ignites intelligence and regurgitated facts out of textbooks fall between the cracks when we are face with real situations, real life; real talk. I dare to say that this complex, incomprehensibly complicated system; is retarded; but that would be politically incorrect to say now wouldn't it. Look. See how the head honcho's handicap your mind and ziplock your mouth to avoid self-entitled freedom of expression; freedom of thought. Formulated exams are manufactured with one solution; one way to sole, one answer. As if in life we follow the yellow brick road until we hit a stumbling block where we have to use sine over cosine or implement a fallacy or anything else they try to force feed into our reluctant mouths... Ill show them. I won't be locked in their claustrophobic box. If stuffy suits wanna be distant teachers and provide curriculums; rubix cubes on paper that offer seemingly simple instructions that mask complex motives to structure future generations. if they wanna teach, then teach us life beyond the walls off this institution. It makes no sense that potential pioneers are bombarded with pressures and plights that pulls the wool over their eyes and turns effervescent faces into emaciated ones. Contributors to society are sent to graveyards because of ill-advised decisions that have nothing to do with "system" education. Textbooks don't tell you how to live outside of an occupation and function fully in this power struggle we call life... Take that Ivy Leaguers. Ill show you that I can find a way around your pitfalls and parameters and find my niche. A place where I can be what I wanna be, and not what my career placement test tells me I can be.

POETRY: 'Speak.' by The Expressionists

Speak. (2010-2011)
by The Expressionists (2010-2011)

KNIGHT

The human voice yearns to be heard-
like a glorious gathering of angels
assembled on high to speak
to the mortals below, the beauty in voices
resonates in cosmic spaces
unrestricted by law, free to protest as lips part,
and mouths open to unleash carefully designed syntax,
pieced together, working in tandem,
delivering with pointed clarity-the idea,
the thought, the message realized long before its utterance;
born in the universe, listened to by the sun, moon, and stars
then shared with the masses here on earth-
the voice is power unrestrained, ready to launch
a syllabic assault on auditory senses unfamiliar with truth…

JAZELLE

And yet some cries go unheard,
imperfections so well seen.
And alas, these written words mean nothing
until we dot the i's and cross the t's
and you see this hidden masterpiece.
This message, so indirectly spared,
yet opened eyes and ears ache to understand,
to piece together this broken beauty,
the ambiguity of each line, each phrase;
perhaps what our eyes gaze towards or
ears ignore. No matter, for the soul seeks
this understanding of the message we convey
As the human voice yearns to be heard once more…

DANIELLE D.

Formed from birth, our voice was first heard
As life threw trials and challenges our way, our voice grew.
By speaking the thoughts we held so deep
Our voice gained strength and power.
With all the different dialects we use to speak,
Our distinct voices were formed.
After years of speaking what first came to mind,
There is nothing that can silence…

ROBERT

A unique synthesis of Amplitude
and Frequency,
Congruencies of pitch, range and power,
A power, that howls,
Drawing in the masses from
Massachusetts to Italy.
Strength in the diaphragm, draws diagrams
into the hearts and minds of the
finely tuned ear.
Sprouting, Springing, Sprung,
from the symbol of Yin and Yang in the form
of Consonance and Assonance.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the Uniqueness of
the Voice,
for it yearns to be heard...

KABRIEL

One word can change the world
Create a new future where thoughts
Aren’t cross examined, rather they are analyzed
For their impact on a society
Where speech becomes a virtue
And silence becomes a punishment that’s incomprehensible
Because for humanities sake
the human voice MUST be heard…

ANA

They are tortured by fear,
as the knowledge of those
who believe in the
status of majority rule
pours into the minds of
the innocent. They
object to their theories
knowing that they can't be right.
Intimidation has their voices
chained to the walls of silence,
so they become hoarse temporarily.
Yet understanding that in order
to bring the world out of darkness
they must be the light.
But they remain captives voluntarily,
listening to the cunning words of
intelligent fools, knowing that
these chains could be broken
if only they would
speak…

REG

Speak.
Vocalize the voice buried beneath the layers of doubt and uncertainty.
Break that trend.
A trend of faint-hearted fearfulness that impedes the personification
of one's own expression from reaching the auditory aperture.
Speak.
Show the world the wonderful words that can be spun and manipulated,
words that unveil a curtain of hidden thoughts and feelings
long overdue for a grand finale on the biggest stage.
Rise to the occasion.
Speak, and be heard; speak, and be free…

DALLAS

speak and say freely
because in America you are protected;
oh how they trapped themselves
by giving our voices an amendment of firsts
through the strength of our vocal cords
we can relay emotions, prophecy, and power;
this noise is more than just a rhythmic styling,
this noise is the yell of a radical
ready to change the world's mindset…

ALEXIS

As the tongues of the seemingly inconspicuous cause
eyes to rise in amazement not yet encountered
Canals are enlightened at the mesmerizing outlooks of every single one
Because as sounds bounce to and fro from confining walls,
We see them crumble, with the sound of a single voice
Single call
Single cry, to the sky, for an ounce of hope to awaken us with quickness
To hurry us from our meticulous fortresses, where we call home
A comfort zone, a familiar whisper
we hear that make us second guess our needs,
Our dreams
Our aspirations, in such a world where they are snatched back in a second,
to the point where we doubt our motives,
our potential;
We sing, and we scream, and we do these things,
against the darkest of odds…

CHERYL

WE speak
Because our words are powerful
WE speak
to convey our messages to the world
WE speak
for us and for those who cannot speak for themselves
WE speak
to get the internal us
onto our outer facade
so speak what is true to you…

GEORGE

speak
of the world's injustices;
speak
for the sake of being heard;
speak
to comment on this ever changing society
to inspire
actions amongst the globe
to captivate
man, and stop the world
for just that moment
when the voice is recognized…

DANIELLE G.

Our words are indestructible,
our voices have power yet to learn.
Then we began to dream,
our dreams turn to thoughts,
our thoughts to words.
We learn to use our voice,
and the power behind it.
We learn to speak,
because the voice yearns to be heard!

YASMIN

Everyone is their own person,
So, when you speak, dress, or simply walk,
You’re embracing your style,
It's what separates you from the rest,
It’s the tone of your voice or unique music that should be heard,
Don't put a limit on what you can do,
Release your inner self and show us what you got,
With every step there is something you have to overcome,
THIS is YOUR stage!

Copyright 2011 | The Expressionists

POETRY: 'The Dream' By Kabriel Moorehead

The Dream
by Kabriel Moorehead

What if all you ever wanted
Was redemption from a past
Where memories never faded
That should have died long ago;
Of fountains of youth never cherished
And treasures never found,
Because the mass of a lead footed past
Is handed down to the kids of a new age
Who have no fear of transversing seas
In search of a truth their parents have never known
Of that that point where we stop pursuing happyness
And finally reach it.
Of that moment when a generation leapfrogs its ancestors to the top of a mountain
Past un-kept promises
Into a land where tomorrow isn’t just another day
It’s another chance to redeem millions
To show that every struggle had a purpose
Every footstep, every plead to a world beyond our own,
Meant something
To show that no beleaguered voice went unheard
Or drifted off into the night alone
What if all you ever wanted was a light at the end of the tunnel
No matter how dim
Or for the stars to illuminate the way home
Towards a declaration of common independence
A chance to break the chain,
That put a strangle hold on the flow of progress.

Copyright 2011 | Kabriel Moorehead

POETRY: 'Sword's Mark' by Jazelle Handoush

Sword's Mark

by Jazelle Handoush

I wish to make a mark

Like the etching of initials and hearts on tree bark.

A memory you can't erase, as fingers trace over the

Reminder of my presence.

I wish to make a mark so permanent

Even whiteout can't do its damage;

I won't be covered up and replaced with corrections.

I wish to make a mark

So altering to those unexpecting and surrounding

Like dominoes lined up to fall

Only seconds after my own defeat.

I wish to make a mark

Visible to all like each star in the night sky.

Not like the moon, ever changing and fading.

I wish to make a mark

Like an echo in a never ending cave

To begin as a whisper and gain power

With every inch, until my voice booms

Across infinity and beyond.

I wish to make a mark

Like a tattoo's needle, forever etched upon

Skin as a painful reminder.

This sword, holds an ink which

Will never fade. Even as my memory does,

My words

Live on.

So that my wish to leave a mark,

Comes true with every stab and jab,

With every scratch and signature.

I wish to make a mark.

One you can't erase.

Copyright 2010 | Jazelle Handoush

POETRY: 'An Elegy' by Larry Knight

An Elegy
by Larry Knight

I’ll miss your innocence;
the way you danced
by moonlight,
without a song,
down St. Charles Avenue,
carelessly
whispering into the night,
tracing your fingertips
on the trunks of trees
as you moved pass them,
your arms outstretched,
like wings,
balancing you,
giving you flight;

I’ll dream of your baptism,
when you were immersed
within transient waves of jazz;
the way you floated
down the River Walk
on its notes,
effortlessly;
how you, and the waves
of the Mississippi,
moved synchronously
in that spring air;

I’ll miss the glow
of your white satin dress
at midnight,
the curve of your figure
and your smile in a seamless tandem,
your eyes reflecting
the moon;
how your Southern gentility
charmed new souls
with just a glance,
they fell in love with you,
as did I.

Copyright 2005 | Larry Knight

VIDEO: Fall Fest Performance (November 2010)

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BULLETIN: The Beginning...

This is it. The beginning. Our first official blog. Enjoy.