POETRY: 'Love's Fairytale' by Ana (The Trinity) Hagins

Once upon a time

I heard that happily ever after

only existed in bed time stories

of princesses with wicked step mothers,

a handsome prince on a white stallion

coming to save them from the dragon guarded castle,

and a fairy god mother with all the answers to their problems.

Truth is,

I am not a princess.

I don’t have a wicked step mother who poisons my fruit,

I don’t intend on ever having a man climb up the side of my house by my hair,

nor do I know a fantastical creature

that can turn a plain country pumpkin into a golden carriage.

Crazy, huh?

But it’s real.

Though I may not be locked away somewhere far far away,

I am awaiting true love’s kiss.

You know, that kiss that awakes you 

from all those other nightmare relationships you’ve had.

Unfortunately,

I don’t have a short stature,

gray-haired woman with wings by my side

that’ll sing non-sensical tunes

to make me feel better

after having my step sisters rent the dress

the mice from the attic made me.

But I do have a God

that has more than twinkling dust for power,

who’ll bring me my prince charming

when He thinks I’m ready.

So until then,

I’ll lay in wait like sleeping beauty

because to wait on Him means to wait on him.

I’m no Cinderella,

but I do believe in happily ever after,

even after the clock strikes 12.

In due time,

God will lead the man of my dreams to me

for at that very moment

I will be the only fair maiden

in all the land

whose foot fits the glass slipper he found.

POETRY: 'Madame J' by Robert Drake

Wrinkled, No legs freak, Hideous,

These are some of the names the kids

Would call her as they threw little pebbles at

Her mildew stained windows

Because they knew that she couldn’t stop them

Stop them…STOP THEM

The kids didn’t know Madame J,

For if they did they would’ve known that she

Was an 85 year old veteran from the Vietnam War

Who lost her hearing just so they could hear,

Who lost both her legs just so they can stand,

For you see,

 Madame J was a superheroin.

The etches in her wrinkled skin

Weaved tales of hardship these kids will never see,

Bombs bursting in thin air

Literally, deep images

Of her children flashes in her bloodied skull

Because of the many times she has appeared on deaths

Doorstep…

Reminiscing of the dreamtimes,

Presently en route to the

Rise of the machine times,

Madame J had stories!

Embedded in those deep sunken eye sockets,

The color of her iris has lost its iridescence

But Madame J has not lost her fighting spirit!

Madame J had stories!

She lost both her legs but

She has not lost the will to stand!

Madame J had stories!

She has lost her hearing but

She has not lost the ability to perceive God’s voice!

Madame J, had stories!

She has lost her youth but

She has not lost the courage she once had serving as a Lieutenant

In the US army!

Madame J had History!

She would always be quoted saying:

“You might win some but you just lost one.”

Madame J was beautiful…

She had thin gray hair, with a part,

That parted open her mind,

Where you could see the beauty of

Life stitched on her forehead.

47 stitches on her forehead

47 stitches on her forehead

47 moments of bloodcurdling pain

Experience because they could not

Put her to sleep

With those meager anesthetics

Because the nightmares kept coming back

And she would dreamed that she died,

She died…  

Over the PA system you would hear,

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Madame J has died.

Madame J has died for you.

Madame J has died for us.”

This, is for those who gave

Their lives, for us,

For those who left their families

Broken shards of a whole.

Madame J, Thank you

For your Christ-like sacrifice

And to all the Madame J’s of the world

I salute you.

We won’t forget you

We won’t forget you

We won’t forget you…

CopyRight 2012 | Robert Drake

POETRY: 'Three Kings' by Kabriel Moorehead

Three Kings
By Kabriel Moorehead

Like Revolutionary War Generals
Fearlessly we marched into battle daily
Unsure of the outcome
But resolute in our intentions
Greatness is not a award that is given away to the best in show,
Rather it is a trophy of humility
Bestowed upon and taken away from a worthy few continuously
A silent temptress,
That goads the world into meeting its true potential
By winding up a shallow pass onto a steep hill
This is not to say however, that greatness is a characteristic of the meek or sure footed
To become truly great,
Even for a fleeting second
Requires a divine mixture of skill of luck
So marching into the battle field, shoulder to shoulder
We simultaneously hoped that Father Time would stand by us
And pledged to never lose our footing,
If he didn't

Copyright 2012| Kabriel Moorehead

POETRY: By The Light of The Moon By Cheryl A.Baldwin

As the little girl sits by the light of the moon

waiting and anticipating for something to consume,

in her room full of nothingness.

Waiting for her life to resume back to the way it was

As she often does.

Wishing upon false hope she cries, because she knows there is nothing she can do.

As the little girl sits by the light of the Moon

She wishes that she were at school.

Her only scapegoat away from her life of hell

….her only moments of peace.

In serenity with the only person she can look up to.

Looked up to like a big sister,

treated like a friend,

And loved like a Mother.

Giving the little girl only one reason to live,

one reason to survive,

one reason to keep hope alive.

Faith.

Putting her trust into God’s hands

..and Praying

Because through Crist anything is possible

As the little girl sits by the light of the Moon

She stops and stares into the sky.

Containing her internal grievances for only one moment,

Sighs...

And smiles.

-inspired by a true friend

Always stay true to who you are because you never know how much you mean to someone else <3

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.