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

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