POETRY: 'Shooting Stars' by Kabriel Moorehead

Shooting Stars
By Kabriel Moorehead

We were once witnesses
To the shooting stars streaking in the night sky.
Dreams set ablaze,
By hopeless individuals
Praying for one last gasp,
An opportunity at a peaceful existence.
Now we are the stars gleaming so brightly in the sky.
Enlightened luminaries,
Who fly by in hopes of inspiring others.
Attempting to light a fire beneath their dreams,
Not because wishes are hopeless like ash
No,
We must shine because every generation needs a spark.
A light at the end of the tunnel,
A slight glimmer of hope
To help guide the way. 

Copyright 2012| Kabriel Moorehead

POETRY: 'Sunflower (Birth of Trinity)' by Ana Hagins

Nothing has changed really,

except everything,

but then again I guess it’s all about perspective.

Would I be wrong to say that I am a rising star

when I shine like the sun?

It’s amazing how one can go from not having much to say

to not saying enough.

I have not been heard,

 let alone read,

for the only ones who know what I mean are pencil and paper,

my friends,

my allies.

For what I dare not say in person

cannot be hidden from my bleeding pen,

and here comes paper to make sense of it all.

I have died to self,

only to be reincarnated

into something better,

something greater.

Though reincarnation is not indicated in Christian beliefs,

I can testify that a new mind has been set within me.

I do not speak of myself out of arrogance,

but in confidence.

I do not esteem myself greatly,

but highly.

A new frame of mind causes for

realizations of my own ignorance and naiveté,

which I have mustered in

out fear that I would not be received.

But living out of fear means to live in sin.

It’s like having a vision,

but not like those false preachers and teachers

who claim to prophesy in the name of some ghost,

speaking in knotted tongues…

cvnhdfiuenefuwyfificauerimd…???

Your guess is just as good as mine.

But, nonetheless,

I am beyond the false pretenses and illusions;

that was the old me.

Though I am still in the process of growing,

blooming in knowledge and maturity,

the light of my glory shines before me.

Sunflower.

God has given me…

has given us...

a talent that many do not have.

Consider this:

how many people do you know can proclaim their thoughts?

Everyone can think of what to say

but not know how to say it.

Not everyone knows that words

can mix and match to create phrases

that are light on the ears

but simultaneously heavy on the heart.

Creativity is like blood flow,

an O type to be exact.

It is rare in any of its forms,

but it has the power touch and heal

any and everyone else

despite their differences in relation to us.  

But please do excuse my idiosyncrasies

for I am in the middle of a transformation.

I lay in the fetal position

waiting for the right time, a turning point.

Pre-Life crisis.

After my rebirth I will go beyond paper and pen,

I will speak what is true.

But until I take those first steps,

 just like any new babe I need a new name…

Trinity.

POETRY: Jim by Reggie Drake

It was if,
He knew me,
Before I knew myself,
They would say.
Standing erect on the pulpit preaching to a multitude of social degenerates behind ebony colored shades
That concealed a power hungry gaze
Intent on capturing the devotion of his followers,
Meticulously reconstructing morals and beliefs,
He served as their quick fix to the depressant known as oppression.
His mouth formed words held in high regard like Holy scriptures,
He was a compass of morality,
Those shades were a hypocrites masquerade of virtue as
His lips spun webs of intricate fascinations in the Hearts
Minds, and Souls of generations
Preying upon the vulnerabilities of the abused,
He stood,
He rose,
And he said .
"If you want be to be your friend, I will be your friend"
"If you want be to your hero, I will be your hero"
"If you want me to be your savior, I will be your savior"
"If you want me to be your God, I will be your God"...
And they believed.
They became blind fanatics under his divine sovereignty,
And he became the transcendent seraphim who's radiance seemed to was away the grime of yesteryear;
the pain, the suffering, the sorrow,
All of it lifted off their backs over that ill-fated journey to South America,
Leaving behind their loved ones
To create a death trap disguised as a utopia,
His voice reverberated in their eardrums every, waking moment because he feared the loss of that power.
And when it faded,
A simple solution was offered;
In the form of kool-aid mixed with poison,
But it wasn't the poison that killed those people,
It was his tongue, laced with a toxin that slowly contaminated the psyche of thousands,
Waging psychological warfare on innocents.
Their "god" was actually the devil in disguise wearing preachers garments and those ebony colored shades.
Those people used death as an exit to escape,
But not into salvation but unto damnation.
He watched the life dissipate out of the quivering bodies of his followers
Before he put a gun to his head and blew what little brains he had left out of his cranium.
The prophet known as Jim Jones plummeted to the ground with a thud that still ricochets with super sonic Speed inside the emotional makeup of survivors,
Who escaped the mental captivity of his oppression,
Breaking free from the shackles of coercion to blaze a trail to the jungles of freedom,
Away from the paroxysms of sorrow,
Away from the tears of blood running like waterfalls down dilapidated faces,
The horrifying images preserved like fossils in flashbulb memories that remember...
But won't forget.
Burying their loved ones in morgues.
No. They will never forget.
Ever.
Again.