POETRY: "Upon Finding my 6th Grade Agenda" by George Abraham

Upon Finding my 6th Grade Agenda

By George Abraham

 

I remember it clear as crystal;
the unfamiliar halls beckoning for exploration;
the trite optimism of pre-teen youth;
the air of mystery over what the future will hold;
the reckless naivety of a brain lacking plasticity;
the natural awkwardness accompanied by this
transition.

For, that’s all life is, right?
A string of transitions
whether it’s day to night,
or Sunday to Monday,
or this week to that week,
or July to August,
or 2006 to 2007,
or 20th to 21st century,
or childhood to adult,
or adult to beyond.

But I live for now,
and if there’s one thing that’s certain,
it’s that everything is uncertain.
6 years have passed, and
I gaze at this tattered, worn book-
the very symbol of transition-
upon the brink of another transition
only to realize that my crystal-clear memory
occurred just yesterday,
for it is still crystal-clear to me.

It’s the truth I haven’t come to face:
that time flows in rogue waves-

subtlety. subtlety.
calm.
allured.

break.

Copyright 2012|George Abraham

POETRY: "Ido, pero nunca lo olvidaremos" By Cheryl A. Baldwin

         

I can remember every day                                                                                                                 when I use to sit alone at this new school,                                                                                   without knowing a word to say                                                                                                    afraid, to let this “New World” get to know the true me                                                                                             …Until you came along.                                               

It still hasn’t set in yet,                                                                                                                                                                   my mind still hasn’t come to the realization that you are gone but not forgotten.  I still walk the same paths of the past everyday anticipating that welcoming, “Hey Cheryl.”

And not a day goes by that I don’t regret hugging you that last day,                                                                         And not a day goes by that I don’t pray that God would turn back the hands of time and bring you back into our lives. You may be gone, but not forgotten.                                                                                                          

Gone but not forgotten                                                                                                                                                But these tears just are not  stoppin’                                                        
This pain has got my mind lockin’                                                                                 And every time I think of you my knees start droppin’                                                                                                                          cuz I can’t help but to pray the Lord to heal                                                                                                                                 our aching souls.                                                                                                                                                                                      Held these tears in so  long                                                                                                                                         But we gotta be Strong!                                                                                                                                                                                                                We gotta be strong…

We have to live the ways of life that you once lived,                                                                                                                            Bring forth that wisdom and courage that you spread upon us                                                                                                                                  and unite as one                                                                                                                                                                in your honor.

And “Family,” our hearts cry out to you                                                                                                                      Promising that we will do all we can to help.

You may have left this world my friend but you will forever stay in our hearts.

You were an Angel with us here on earth, and now you’re watching over us                                                                                                                                       -R.I.P. JaNay

POETRY: 'Crushed Ice' by Trinity

Burning coal used to ignite and keep my heart lit with an imperishable fire.

But as the seasons changed

so did the temperature and form of my flames.

Time allotted our love to grow older…

I mean grow old,

slow

and tired.

 

How is it that I can maintain a love so strong for someone who hates me...

I mean, who doesn’t care?

 

See, that’s where you’ve all been wrong.

The opposite of love is not hate,

 it’s apathy.

For at least with hate there is a sense of emotion;

a part of you resides with them in their hearts;

you’d make their hearts burn with some kind of fire for you.

But since he no longer cares

that means that my actions are neither here nor there,

I am just air

and space for his nostrils to breathe in

and then exhale,

and that burns more than anything.

 

My heart has smelted…

I mean my heart has hardened…

No, I mean, my heart has been melted to stone…  

My heart has melted to stone but it’s not hard…

I mean, it’s not hard enough to be marble or granite;

it’s too brittle…

too fragile to be that strong…

to be strong enough to let go.

Too brittle…

too fragile…

like ice.

Yes, like ice.

 

Even in my weaker state

I tried to love you,

but you trampled over me

and my attempts to spark a flame.

Sparking a flame with ice…

how desperate.

But nevertheless

I have been rejected

and am crushed.

 

I loved you with a fire red,

but now it’s turning blue

as the seasons change…

My heart’s inferno refreezes

over and over

every time you turn a cold shoulder…

which seems like every day.

Now every day

is just another cold day…

I mean, just another cold day in hell.

POETRY: 'A Reflection' by Kabriel Moorehead

A Reflection
By Kabriel Moorehead

After the party has ended and the confetti has dropped

A moment of reflection is necessary

To recognize where we are in this place in time

Who would have ever gazed into the stars one night

And dreamed a fantasy as lucid as this one?

Once in a lifetime experiences have become a daily occurrence

As our destinies now rest in our own palms

The world has become dough that we mold in our own favor

Obstacles have become nothing more than dirt under our feet,

Imperfections that soil our standing without impeding our march

But in a time where hardship is minimized

How can character be built?

When struggle is the true teacher of strength

How can a precipitous fall from the top of the mountain

Down to the ground where the confetti rests be averted?

Only by a accepting a simple truth,

Complacency is the root of all falls

The route to greatness has no destination,

It is a continuous journey that we all must continue to strive towards

So as the confetti drops,

And we stop for a moment to reflect upon on past accomplishments

The most important idea to remember

Is that the best is yet to come 

Copyright 2012| Kabriel Moorehead

POETRY: 'The Talented Tonight' by Jazelle Handoush

The Talented Tonight
By Jazelle Handoush

The talented are out tonight
Do you see them?
They shine as stars across the well-worded community, so bright.
They're a wonder and a worry, sky-diving and streaking light against otherwise ignorant eyes.
Like moths to a nearly-familiar flame, she calls and they (without consideration) come to answer this mysterious muse, each adding to the mixed amalgamated spectrum of inspiration and dedication.

How could such soul spilled upon page go dismissed?
While their inscriptions of inspiration vary by tone and message meant, there is a constant in their attempt; they make to master poetry.

"This, is made of us," for in each pondering a piece of them erupts.

And even eons away, we hear their musings, through virtual screens and scratching mics alike.
One line at a time they illustrate our ignorance of a world we unknowingly share, of moments and memories alike.

Do you know what its like to miraculously be saved by words scribed from a knowing mind? A mind of this moment in time?

It's a disease with symptoms of world-renowned awareness, a sin upon seeing what is otherwise without:

The power only a soul can possess.

Soon this infection spreads upon skins, teasing fingertips into creating a cosmic masterpiece.
These poets, they call, unite us, and so they streak upon a celestial sphere.

Do you see them? They shine as stars.
The talented tonight.

Copyright 2012 | Jazelle Handoush

POETRY: "Broken Desks" by ThePoeticEarth (Robert Drake)

(This is the link to the recorded version of this poem. Listen and read along. http://snd.sc/PfPHRc)

Allow me to introduce Sam,
Who cries feverently on his
Birthday in the back of Ms. Wilson's
Third grade classroom , enduring the
Insipid laughter that sound clashed
Against his earlobes , Ms. Wilson says little
Sam cries for reasons the others
Do not understand , as she removes him, effectively ridding her class of his "disturbance" but the depth of Sam's "disturbance" was far deeper than anyone could imagine , death was in Sam's tears,
Loneliness plagued his heart,
Judgement and ridicule occupied his
Thoughts , and cancer
Slowly consumed his lungs.
For his entire life, Sam has existed in a sea of tobacco, violently wheezing until his throat was sore, until his abdomen ached, until his only relief came in dreams where neither sight nor sound existed. And then there was Wendy, who's birthday was three months after Sam's who sat in the second to last desk in Sams row observing the cruelty of her classmates who were slowly and ruthlessly killing a little boy, she cried, for Sam, who had it better than she did,
at home bones break and glass shatter, bones shatter and glass breaks, for Wendy, Sam had it good, lung cancer would be her way out as her dad grabbed her by her waist and shoves his beer-tainted tongue down her throat while aggressively ripping off her hello kitty panties having his way with his little girl she cried, not for Sam, but this time for herself and for her dead mother who could not protect her from the events taking place in the bed she once slept in, she would wonder how could daddy betray her innocence as she kicked bite and screamed, daddy slaps her cheek, her screams muffled out by daddy's orgasm and bones go crack crack around the same time Sam goes cough cough his repiratory system is failing and Wendy's body and soul are ailing, he would bleed pain
Just as she'd bleed pain
He would cry death
Just as she'd cry death
He would look to the heavens and ask why?
Just as she would look into her daddies eyes and ask why?
And no answer would come.
As her daddy dressed himself
And prepared to cover his sins
In darkness
Sams lungs came to a stop,
Taken away in his sleep
Amist his dreams,
And Wendy, third eye open
Blood seeping down her cheeks
Taken away by her daddies
Devils, babies gasps are breathless...
It is Monday morning, in Ms. Wilson's
Third grade classroom. Two desks are tossed out accompanied with the words "out of sight out of mind" "and before we begin" says Ms. Wilson "Let's wish Wendy a happy birthday and for Sam to get well. now turn your books to chapter one."

CopyRight 2012 | Robert Drake

POETRY: 'Resistance of Change' by Desirae Lee

Copyright 2012| Desirae Lee