POETRY: 'The Truth' by Kabriel Moorehead

The Truth
By Kabriel Moorehead

Smoke in the air paints a hazy canvas
On which a journey will be told
Like a player rising from the dugout
Ready for the final at bat
And dreaming of,
No knowing, that he must swing for the fences
The lack of fear in his eyes proves that after years of preparation
He is finally ready
But As with all men his age there are battle wounds
That tell of days where pure determination
Persevered over the pains of bad luck and wrong decisions
And As this figure gracefully moves through the shrouding haze
The only thing clear to the naked eye is how much he has grown
How the unrefined talents of the child
Were meticulously molded into the resolute character of a man
A figure draped in clouds
Yet one so tangible, one that I know so well
One that I've become

Copyright 2011| Kabriel Moorehead

POETRY: 'An Origin' by Ivan Mote II

An Origin
By Ivan Mote II

My pen infiltrates the notebook, leaving the paper to bleed with an idea that acts on its own.
Hands start to quake from words and palms begin to sweat with anxiety.
The increase of a heart rate causes the nerves to go on edge.
A brainstorm forms into a tsunami, then the irreconcilable force grows by feeding off the soul.
Tranquil surroundings around me have converted to wave patterns; swishing and swaying to the rhythm of my subconscious.
Then the finale.
A sun sets transverses my eyes, blinding me to the corrupt world, conspicuously coloring in the mistakes of my past with burgundy crayola.
Vitals gradually return to normal, and I have now returned to reality…
I have just written a poem.

Copyright 2011| Ivan Mote II

POETRY: 'Sound and Expression' by The Expressionists

Sound and Expression

By The Expressionists

Kabriel Moorehead

What begins as a cacophony of noises

Ends as a symphony,

A product greater than the sum of its parts.

We attempt to judge

And refine the incomprehensible

Unsatisfied with the simple truth that surrounds us;

The beauty of the human voice

Is that it is not measured in volume or pitch

But in impact and substance

A voice makes no sound in space

But when crafted

And presented in the correct form

A single note can change everything

Because to create is to live, so live to create

To create is to live, so live to create

Robert Drake

This symphony is more than

just a verbal manifestation of our

current thoughts; Who would've

thought that Sound and Expression were

the ingredients for Voice.

We use this gift as a medium

to make contact, to touch beings

of an otherworldly make-up.

Let your words travel safely through those

unbreakable barriers,

let them reach the ears of that lost child

searching desperately for guidance

with an outstretched hand,

let those words be more than a

expression of cool locked inside

a small box.

Let it be the key,

that opens the box containing

your Voice; finally

freeing you from life’s

Instrumental...

Yasmine Richards

Lalophobia. Fear of speaking

Speaking is just not saying things that are irrelevant

It's a vent, It's the echoes of cries that makes the heart cringe

Speech is dominant, the tongue of words are lethal to people's perceptions,

Intercepted by the muffled vibrations that tremble upon the lips,

Instead of overflowing wet tears on flushed cheeks,

And opening a passage way of someone knowing every ,single,detail of your life,

Articulate with conviction to extend the limits of intuition

Reginald Drake

When we speak,

Our words form harmonized holograms that

convey picturesque images of camouflaged thoughts

that transcend the ordinary boundaries of time,

opening a gateway into the heart, mind, and soul in mere moments.

Pupils dilate when the sweet symphony of our voices hit eager ear canals,

And hearts reach out to grasp our concept,

peeling apart the indiscernible wall separating two worlds

that now remain fixated on the same message.

These verbalizations pierce like daggers into the souls of each individual,

creating a common understanding of a shared revelation,

and the ethereal oration of our subdued unconscious is revealed;

to be a public disclosure,

Of a collective heart...

George Abraham

Listen. Hearts beat,

Lips part, lungs respire,

Tongues dance on the rooftops of oral cavities

To utter a single, invisible form of resonating energy.

These waves travel at 340 meters per second in multidimensional space

Only to inoculate audio sense detectors

To disturb the subtle gaseous equilibrium of the hammer, stirrup, anvil

And finally activate transduction in the cochlea

All within a fraction of a second.

And as this goes on, our galaxy spirals

Into the great unknown as we live our daily lives

On the minute hand of the clock

When all there really is to contemplate is

the ability to contemplate.

Pauline Muturi

A voice,

is not just uttering sounds through the mouth

It’s the matter of articulating every expression

unifying statements with creativity.

A concurrence of stimulation within one self,

harmonizing parts,

combinations of spontaneous performances

always on one accord.

Like the beating of ones heart in unison,

boisterous and audible.   

A distinctive vocal utterance, notable to all individuals.

A sound, a beat, a vibration

All speaking the language of verbalization.

A voice.

Desirae Lee

It’s time to break a leg

that statement is simply a synonym of commencement

to show the world

that there is nothing that can stop the sound

flowing through hieroglyphics called letters

making words to support a voice

collective thoughts becomes a masterpiece

dancing across a stage of airwaves

beautifully transforming into an invisible monstrosity

seen only through listening ears

they pound at the ticket booth entrance doors of eardrums

breaking through to the theater of the mind,

assembling the props to set a scene of mental focus

pull back the heavy curtains of unexpressed silence,

because it’s Showtime...

Knight

And here we are,

standing on the edge of reason

looking across the vastness of dreams

through a fog of self-doubt and criticism

declaring our right to write,

our right to speak,

embracing sound in each breath;

in each word a universe of complexity,

a life’s passion

carved out in verse;

We look out at the world,

the void of emptiness,

filled with a mantra

destined to exist forever,

to echo through the ages:

“to create is to live,

so live to create.”

our truth, in multiple syllables,

spread across a blank sky

enshrouds scores unwilling to speak;

we know to express is to live

and to live is to wonder

with certitude, with conviction,

with creativity...

never left to question what could be,

always celebrating what is...

being what we are with absolute promise

with hope and resoluteness as our beacons of light. 

Copyright 2011| The Expressionists

'Journal Entry #1' by Ana Hagins

I don’t know what to say. Normally I can think straight enough to put my words in poetic form, but at this point I have too much to say, and I’m lucky to even be able to put it in words. So where do I begin? I’ll start with a confession: I am in love. I hear people tell me that love hurts, and it’s so true. But, see, normally in those situations it’s a two-player game, but this time it’s just me. I care about him and he knows it. It doesn’t matter to him though, and that’s what hurts more than anything. He has a pattern…It’ll be me and him at the beginning of the summer; then around October – Novemberish he finds somebody else to be with, but he always comes back because he knows that I will be here with my heart and arms wide open. It’s all pointless because I’m trying to hold on to something that isn’t there. I try not to be driven by my emotions because I always end up in the same spot, torn apart, in a corner crying.

It makes everything scary. My biggest fear is getting my heart broken, being betrayed by the one person you give everything to because apparently it wasn’t enough to keep them satisfied. Maybe it’s a sign from God telling me that relationships can wait; there’s no rush, but I already know that.

I am scared of emotions. They make you vulnerable. They hurt. They expose you, leaving you naked and cold for the world to see how feeble you really are. I would love to be completely open about the way I feel without doubting their intentions. I have best friends, but not close friends because there is such a thing as betrayal, and who worse to let you down than the ones closest to you? That’s why my biggest fear has become a reality; I have let him in, and he has seen my passions. I opened myself up like a book and he read every word but has yet to understand the contents written on the pages. It’s almost as if I’m unwritten; so now I only have a front and back cover to show but nothing in the middle to share with anyone else.

I am an open sore. When I am in the process of scabbing over he comes and peels it away.

I know it’s hard for some people to believe that Ana Hagins would cry over a boy, but what can I say? I’m human. I’ve had my mentor and wise counsel tell me to let him go, and I try so hard, but there’s something about Bru…

I mean…there’s something about him that I can’t get over; it’s so frustrating because I don’t know what it is.

Dear God, please help me…

POETRY: 'The Ink-Stained Souls' by Jazelle Handoush

The Ink-Stained Souls
By Jazelle Handoush

Tongues are tied of tales to tell
And we stain ourselves with stories.
The ones with written remembrances
Who paint pictures of past
of present,
of tomorrows yet breathed.

Our fingertips are black and blue
And words scatter on skin
Of things unsaid, yet to be told,
of adventure, of love, of sin and glory.

We bleed black, yet savior yet drop
Bottled up for later use.
For what we tell is a part of us
For what we tell shall be
part of you.

Writers rewrite realities,
Then edit and revise the world.
We provide roundtrip vacations to preferred
And open blind eyes to light by words.

We are the cursed of the Ink-Stained Souls
For we see all, try to tell, but go ignored.
We bleed black and barter realms unknown
For an escape from the chaos of our "home."

But here's the secret so whispered well,
A secret generations of the cursed endear:
The novel of fabrications you leave unread
Will be bona fide to life by the end of the year.

Copyright 2011 | Jazelle Handoush