VIDEO: 'MLK Oratorical Breakfast' by The Expressionists

2012 MLK Oratorical Breakfast Poem
By The Expressionists

The Expressionists| Copyright 2012

The Real Her by Reginald Drake

When I saw her,

She walked with a walk that,

shunned cordiality and dissuaded hello's,

but ushered in condescension and feelings of,

"I'm too cool for you."

Never knowing the Real Her

I took to ill wishes and expressions of disapproval,

cross-examining with my mental microscope

every single infinitesimal flaw I could find

within my narrow minded vision.

The malicious gaze that I threw her away,

Snide glares and stares enough to curtail Medusa

simply ricocheted off her frame,

She stood unfazed,

Like the Messiah amidst persecution.

She never knew,

And I refused to see,

That I hated her for what I perceived her to be rather than

what she actually was,

Letting preconceived notions constrict and cloud my mind,

I saw only the shell,

And not the essence that resided within.

But I persisted,

With the antagonistic encounters that were consistently countered

With aloof indifference,

Our psychological tug of war continuously pulling in her favor

Until the day she passed away

I sat in those aisles as loved ones,

Piece by piece,

Began to paint the vivid picture that embodied her life.

"She was so kind and loving" they said.

All the while my mind spinning in a thousand different directions

thinking thoughts that subconsciously I had already known.

I knew her,

But I didn't know the Real Her that

was buried underneath the Her that I formulated within the deepest recesses of my psyche.

I felt out of place amidst well wishers who cried,

With open hearts,

because they had lost someone they loved,

While I cried because I lost someone I didn't know,

but still shunned,

A realization that stung and cut deep with deadly precision,

I envisioned, how differently things would have turned out

If I had looked into her heart

And saw past my mind's deception,

The artificial labels I placed with righteous indignation would be discarded

Like forgotten memories.

And I would finally be able to see her for what she was.

I would finally know the Real Her.

MLK Day by Reginald Drake

Bang. Bang.

Horrifying gunshots echo in suburban streets

terrifying household residents as they crash through the windows

of their infrastructure.

Their screams ring out.

Bleeding hearts cry out in anguish,

a motionless babe is cradled underneath loving arms,

Wet with grief-stricken tears,

and soaked with blood.

Her chest,

Perforated by a bullet that was shot by a man who has harbored centuries

of unmitigated hate within his very essence.

Heineken bottles litter alleyways,

strewn by the oppressed hoping to soak away pains and sorrows with the devil's elixir,

Faces stay stuck in prayer books searching for a way out within the Holy Word,

Silent nights, are interrupted, by Molotov's setting ablaze

households and destroying lives.

... We were inferior.

We were bullied, by the biggest bully on the block; society,

who failed to hear our cries for help.

Finally back against the wall,

We fought back

THEY fought back.

Revolutionaries who preached equality and freedom

so Tasha could play with Sarah,

so people of all races could share the ripe fruit of a nation.

a nation, that was being poisoned,

by Hate and Segregation.

And now here we are.

Firm in resolution and strength,

Living what then, was a dream,

Opening our minds to the realm of imagination,

A portal, that was previously inaccessible to US.

Malcolm X, Rosa Parks, and MLK

Pioneers of a movement that reconstructed the infrastructure of society.

We are now free,

To experience the unknown,

We are free,

To live, The Dream

POETRY: 'The Lesson' by Kabriel Moorehead

The Lesson
By Kabriel Moorehead

What will we tell our sons
If they are looked upon harshly in school
Will we console them with the thought that daddy was bullied too
But was too afraid to do anything
Will that be the calling card of our generation?
The one that looked a courageous moment in the face and cowered instead
Oh how our ancestors faces would wither in shame
To know how far we have come
Only to lose our luster
How tragic it would be to finally become a big cat in this man made jungle
Only to lose our ability to pounce upon a radiant opportunity
What will we tell our sons
Who have come home beaten and battered
Like grapes left out in the sun to dry
Their dreams of becoming kings deferred by a left hook
That erased any hope in their eyes for becoming the greatest
Should we inform them that mediocrity is a sin 

Worshiped only by the weakest individuals in the world
Or does that diction hold no value
Because it would make us hypocrites
Our own actions have been mediocre
Our attempts to quell the intense need that people seem to have to belittle each other
Have been woefully managed
So when my son comes home with tears in eyes
Caused by some school yard villain
I will tell him not to fret, and that everything will be alright
I will then tell the stories of my ancestors
Who marched, boycotted, and sat in everywhere they could
In order to make sure their voice was heard
And together our children will wonder why we didn't do the same

Copyright 2012| Kabriel Moorehead

POETRY: 'His Suffering' by Robert Drake

I grip the pen
cautiously, warily,
not wanting to make a
single
error.
This has to be perfect,
the type of perfect that,
Well, nothings ‘perfect’ but
in this mind’s eye she is.
That’s why this has to be
the most perfect poem
EVER!
I sweat with anxiety as my
chest fills up with cement,
my fingers trembling
ferociously, my pupils
dilating back and forth,
back and forth like a game
of ping pong.

I realize that I am
suffocating; but how can i
be suffocating when my
lungs respire as healthy as a newborn babes’? My
room is speckless and the
two windows on the
opposing walls are open.
I am suffocating mentally.
The pressure has become
to great, the walls appear
as if they are condensing,
and outside the sky is your favorite color,
GREEN.
Nothing is reality anymore,
I am trapped inside my ill ill mind,
my pen no longer harbors flavor, the paper
transforms into liquid and
the only door leading to
my expected freedom has vanished.
I am reduced to a broken egg
and with no other option, I regress
into a fetal position, cowering in
the green-ish corner,
dragging my shattered psyche with me.

And as this poem writes itself, cataloging
the events of my insanity,
I realize that I am
suffering for the
sake of my
art.


*Brother Poem to 'Her Captivity'

Copy Right 2012 | Robert Drake

POETRY: 'Our Last Hope' by Robert Drake

There were 4,400
Funerals last year.
4,400 graves holding
Tightly to young bodies.
4,400 of my peers...
The poison known as
Bullycide has been spreading
Its venom ever so diligently,
Constantly, perpetually
Like contagion.
You,
Are supposed to be our
Security blanket, protecting us
From falling into the jaws
Of untimely demise.
And We,
Are the fools, who
Cry out even though
We know that our
Words will fall upon deaf ears.
314 soldiers died in Iraq
4,636 of our Youth died
In America.
I can hear the pleading
Cries of our ancestors,
Who once knew what?
It was like to
Live in
Constant fear.
I can feel the hopes
Of the soon-to-be,
Who pray,
For the chance to grow,
For the chance to
Make a difference,
To aspire to be that
Hero, that will be all the
Difference in the lives
Of 4,636
YOUTH.
And be that person,
By which their cries
Will reach a place
Where they will know,
Beyond a shadow of a doubt
That they are not
Alone.

CopyRight 2012| Robert Drake

POETRY: 'An Abiding Mind' by Jazelle Handoush

An Abiding Mind
By Jazelle Handoush

If you stay silent
You can hear the echo
Of the absent sound.

A quiet so booming,
Frustrating,
Assuming.

Because anythings an
Occurrence
In the austere silence
Of the blank canvas:

An abiding mind.

Where individualism seems idiotic
To those without capacity
For cognitive control.

Copyright 2012 | Jazelle Handoush

POETRY: Her Captivity by Robert Drake

A Golden Girl
who hides in the lomb of
her dreams
cries vehemently.
Tears soak her chest,
the pain tugs at her heart.
Why? Is what she
mumbled through lips
pursed with indignation.
Her pillow absorbs the
crystalline drops pouring
from her golden cheeks.
She doesn’t understand the
cruelty of people.
The black is turning grey,
her dreams are becoming her
worst nightmares,
and the sky no longer holds
its iridescence.
The door is shut,
the caged bird no longer sings;
however, the Golden Girl remains
Golden.
Her beauty,
shining through her issues,
her sadness,
influencing her art.
The Golden Girl ceases
to cry.
She rises from her
pillow as color
returns to her world of
insecurity and self-loathing.
She has All The Shine.
Therefore it really doesn’t
matter what They
think...
She’s Golden.

Copyright|2012 Robert Drake