12
Situations
Writings from the AIDS Service Center NYC Creative Writing Workshop
Winter 2009
Winter 2009 Situations is a literary magazine containing the writings of participants in the Creative Writing Workshop at AIDS Service Center NYC.
12
Situations
The ASC Creative Writing Workshop promotes medication adherence, stress reduction, sustained recovery from substance abuse, and healthy behaviors by offering a forum for self-awareness, social engagement, empowerment, and self-expression among persons living with and affected by HIV/AIDS.
The ASC Creative Writing Workshop is funded by a grant from the Ryan White Treatment & Modernization Act, Part A, HIV Care Services, a project of Public Health Solutions; and a grant from the Phil Zwickler Charitable and Memorial Foundation. The printing of Situations was made possible by the generous support of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Housing Opportunities for People With AIDS, and the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. ASC extends its thanks to each of these funding sources for demonstrating the vision and commitment to support creative programming for people living with and affected by HIV/AIDS.
Founded in 1990, ASC is a multiservice community organization delivering state-of-the-art peer education and training, harm reduction, specialized women’s services, HIV counseling and testing, mental health services, case management, support groups, and many other innovative programs that help New York City’s most vulnerable individuals and families to survive and thrive in the face of HIV/AIDS. ASC’s motto, “Helping many, one by one,” embodies our mission of building community, connection and stability for the thousands of New Yorkers we serve. ASC services are available in English, Spanish, French, and Haitian Creole. All ASC services are free and confidential. Workshop Leader & Situations Editor/Photographer: Gerry Gomez Pearlberg Publication Design: Joseph Cavalieri ASC Program Liaison: Ramona Cummings ASC Poetry Leaders: Shurland H. Aird, Chardelle Imani Lassiter, Rufino Colón, Rosa Velez, and Carlos Lopez. Copyright © 2009 by AIDS Service Center NYC, 41 East 11th Street, New York City, N.Y. 10003. All rights revert to the authors upon publication.
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Introduction Poetry is my precious pearl, my true riches in a money-loving world. When I’m feeling down poetic words bring me around. When I feel like the sky is falling I call upon my highest calling: Poetry! Don’t have a child; don’t have a wife. Poetry is a way of making something of my life. —excerpt from “Poetry is a Way of Making Something of My Life” by Luther Jarman Luther Jarman’s powerful poem goes to the heart of what poetry can mean in difficult times. It’s a source of comfort, yes, but also a challenge to find our best selves and express our “higher callings.” Each Thursday, ASC’s Creative Writing Workshop explores all that poetry has to offer. Reading, discussing, and responding to poems in a group setting sets the stage for each participant to pick up the pen and create his or her own poetic “offering.” We are pleased to share these offerings with you. As the workshop approaches its ninth year, it’s exhilarating to see it evolve toward an increasingly participant-led program. In 2005, we trained five workshop participants to become ASC Poetry Leaders, running the workshop on their own at various points during the year. Each year since, a new cadre of workshop members has received training to become Poetry Leaders. This year’s leaders—Shurland H. Aird, Rufino Colón, Chardelle Imani Lassiter, Rosa Velez, and Carlos Lopez—have led the workshop for five consecutive months, expertly planning the group’s weekly activities, facilitating the gatherings, and handling many of the administrative tasks associated with this venture. We thank them for their enormous contributions to the workshop’s success. In truth, every participant in the ASC Creative Writing Workshop deserves credit for making the workshop an oasis of hope, healing, and inspiration. This publication represents the fruits of an extraordinary collaborative effort. Prepare to be amazed. Gerry Gomez Pearlberg Workshop Leader P.S. Visit www.ascnyc.org to learn more about the Creative Writing Workshop, read interviews with the ASC poets, and explore ASC’s comprehensive services for people affected by, living with, and at risk for HIV/AIDS.
Poems by
Luther Jarman
MOTHER Working in your garden, the magic of your green thumb, waiting for April showers to come. Growing roses and sweet peas, you praying on your knees for the world and me. I helped you plow up the soil. We shared in the toil of growing beautiful plants— working like ants. The house on the hill, the lilies in the field bring back memories of you.
THE IDEA OF ANCESTRY No pictures. I have no pictures of my family. Just mental pictures, and that’s bad. Pictures of dead people, and that’s sad. The only one I really think about is my grandmother. The woman who showed me love and support was always a good sport who encouraged me to use my talents and skills. Her name was Theodoshia Jarman or Miss Doshie Hill. I think about my grandmother all the time. She stays on my mind. To me, there’s no other. For you see, she wasn’t my real grandmother— my grandfather’s second wife, the best woman who ever came into my life. She made my life brighter, brought me my first typewriter. Not in the same bloodline— the best grandmother a man could ever find.
SITUATIONS 3
MENTAL FAMILY ALBUM I only have a mental family album—no pictures. Grandpa—a bootlegger down in Kentucky making corn licker and dandelion wine. Drunk most of the time. Grandpa would buy me anything I wanted— rabbits and ducks, little cars and trucks. Corn licker ate a hole in grandpa’s stomach and he died. Old praying Doshie: Lord, bless my grandson— he’s a Black boy in a white man’s world. My little baby, my black pearl. Make something out of him someday. Remember Gene, the Lord will make a way. Mary—little Black girl: I don’t want no doll. I want to be a movie star. With my looks, I’ll go very far. A man should be happy with a girl like me. You got some money, you’ll get what you see. Leroy—A weary traveler: I been lonely too long. I been lonely too long. I need me a love bone. Chuckie—Philosopher: You don’t miss your water till your well run dry. You don’t miss your baby till she say bye-bye!
MARTIN AND MY FATHER Live by the gun, you die by the gun. Martin shot dead in Tennessee, my father in the Ohio sun. Martin didn’t live by the gun, but my father sure did. He gave birth to the Black version of the Cincinnati Kid. Martin died for civil rights and equal opportunity— to make all people free. My father was a madman to me. Both born in Georgia with a silver tongue. Both died young. Live by the gun, die by the gun. Martin shot dead in Tennessee, my father in the Ohio sun.
RESPONSIBILITY It is the responsibility of the poet to have a message of hope, saying, “You don’t need dope.” It is the responsibility of the poet to foretell the truth to a world on its way to hell. It is the responsibility of the poet to teach the golden rule, to be God’s tool. It is the responsibility of the poet to defend the poor and fatherless; do justice to the afflicted and needy. To speak against the materialistic and the greedy. It is the responsibility of the poet to have a poem in his heart and a pen in his hand. To spread poetry throughout the land.
POETRY IS A WAY OF MAKING SOMETHING OF MY LIFE Don’t have a child; don’t have a wife. Poetry is a way of making something of my life. Poetry keeps me from being lazy. Poetry keeps me from going crazy. Poetry keeps me from being a crook as I write love poems in my notebook. Poetry is my precious pearl, my true riches in a money-loving world. When I’m feeling down poetic words bring me around. When I feel like the sky is falling I call upon my highest calling: Poetry! Don’t have a child; don’t have a wife. Poetry is a way of making something of my life.
SITUATIONS 5
Poems by
Rosa Velez
THE DOCTOR SAID My son... The doctor said you would not live past two years of age— three months old, thin, frail, living with this dis-ease. You—struggling fighting gasping for air.
Kids don’t live too long with this dis-ease. “I refuse to accept what you have to say!!” Then a part of me, for a moment, believed……. “My God this is real I’m going to lose my son.”
Me—struggling fighting wishing I didn’t care.
I decided to distance myself so when the moment came I would not feel any pain.
Your face, arms, limbs were so thin— your skin see-through, like the wind.
If I don’t show him love If I don’t love him with all my heart,
Doctor, doctor, what’s wrong with my son? Well, you know what it’s like with this disease. Maybe you should consider thinking about alternative arrangements, just in case.... Just in case of what???
It won’t be that bad, when the moment comes. And then out of nowhere – I looked at you, frail, paper thin. You looked at me and you smiled, You reached out to me, Your face lit up and so did I. It was then I realized my selfishness... For your will to live had brought me back.
SECRETS... LIKE GHOSTS COME BACK TO HAUNT US Secrets like ghosts come back to haunt us Buried treasures of bones like stones cold—hard penetrate our beings.
INSPIRATION Inspiration— the opposite of procrastination— is constantly lingering in our minds. It’s like a worm that infiltrates, picks on our soul and eats at it, all the time. Do I lay back or react to what I know I can do or do I swim into my desires of bright yellows and blues??
This wall grows around us, suffocating us drowning us... as if suddenly we too feel buried ALIVE Do we divulge our deepest secrets— or do we let them flow within our veins? Roaming, searching, again— answers not known.
Secrets are like ghosts: transparent mysterious terrifying illuminating yet revealing revealing our inner thoughts fears guilts our own inner turmoil. Sometimes others’ secrets bring out our own skeletons. As if suddenly our conscience awakens searches deep within. Insane—yes, now preoccupied with words of taboo. Secrets are like ghosts. They come back to haunt us.
SITUATIONS 7
IMPRESSIONS Impressions are like prints— Footprints, soul-prints, photo prints— little marks of who we are as a whole. We all have flaws— cracks on a windowsill. We all have rainbows— things which make us happy. We all strive for more in life— leaps of faith courage remembrance Photos, memories of what was and what is. What impressions do you have in your heart? What impressions do others have of you? What impressions did your parents leave as part of their legacy? Impressions.
Poems by
Shannon Randall
Willpower, sunflower, candy that sours is a part of life. That strive, that glide, that walk, the way you talk is also a part of life. Being weak is someone else’s treat. Being strong causes someone else to hold on. You pick and choose whether you win or lose. Complications Dedications Domination Separations Admiration Imitation Aggravation is all a part—you’re smart, be your own guard. It’s in your blood to try and move ahead and sit high above. Don’t talk about it. Be about it. It’s worth it. Matter of fact, you’re worth it.
MIRROR (POEM 1) Mirror, Mirror on the wall— As I see my reflection there I stand tall There I stand tall But on the inside I feel very small. I play it off with a smile But really I’m walking the green mile. I explode with energy. On the inside the Devil’s beating me. But I kill that with positivity. I snap out of it. I regain my strength. Mirror, Mirror on the wall— I’m the one standing headstrong.
MIRROR (POEM 2) I have a mirror. Through one eye, I see smooth, bright, clean, and clear. Through the other, I see chipped, dark, dirty—a blur. When I blink, it’s a mixture of both: One minute I’m happy The next minute I’m distorted. Next time I look in the mirror it’s a blank. Now I’m confused.
SITUATIONS 9
Poem by
Stephen Walker
HEAVY The weight of the world Can be very heavy The strain of reality Can be really heady To make it through You must be ready To master the world You have to hold it steady
Poem by
Bernard Wells
JUNK Impregnated with junk steals his wealth Guerilla warfare with himself He fights his life with a world of strife Infections, injections—there’s no protection It’s fair no one cares he’s headed nowhere This pain he breathes is self-inflicted The hurt he birthed is so explicit He’ll survive this fight but will he miss it No pain no gain to free this hell His kids will listen—what a story he’ll tell
SITUATIONS 11
Poems by
Carlos Lopez
ALIVE
D.N.A. Hip Hop is, has been, and always will be the teenage, rebellious, adrenaline-fueled fused voice, child of Lady Poetry! Fathered by anger! Frustration! Lack of acceptance! No patience.... Left on the corner curb of a hostile neighborhood, gravitating to what’s not good! Speaking of what’s unjust... Exposing the lusts of man’s heart that tears it apart. Hip Hop was born in NYC parks. Hip Hop is not here to perform! Hip Hop is here to reform— radically reword what you hear on the norm! Hip Hop has undeniably poetry’s arms, hands, legs, and heart. But a whole different walk! A whole different talk! And undeniably the exact same spark that lives in Lady Poetry’s heart. Don’t get it twisted. (Make no mistake about it.)
I want to wake up and have a horse to ride also an elephant or maybe a great giraffe. Something tells me it has to be better, sweeter than any Mercedes two-seater. I’m gonna wake up tomorrow and ride, ride, ride on something alive, alive, alive, alive.
DATA DATA DOWNLOAD DATA iPod/I won’t. Resist to be cloned and run from the muthafuckin’ G.P.S. zone. The streets I’ve called home/ Roamed with cats/Roamed with dogs without a bone or cellular phone. I see the dawn of a new age/ Rage off the page/ I’m against the machine/ See it no other way... On any given day, implants will be implemented under ya skin tissue/Tracking you like a missile Telling you they miss you/I’m so cursed/ So cursed/with a conscience, when I start talking... Like the White House is Red?! Which one are you watching? Big Brother on ya block, better clock him watching!/I hear the newz is speaking rap is violent/But where the fuck’s Osama?! He’s still plotting!/Watching us make graves for soldiers rotting/on the biggest flat plasma laughing atcha/ But we hold the remote, the antidote, the voice of the change and the voice of the hope. Or should I not believe, have hope I’m getting thru to you?/It’s all relative/ the way I been sayin it/the way I been laying it and setting it/if the truth hurts you can always edit it/as for me and myself I can always rewrite it/ but guaranteed radical/ my writing process/and the range of my topics is a whole different mess/ Blue bubble philosophy/Anarchy at its best. Projecting projectiles loaded with emotion machines making man got me making a commotion.
THE QUESTION Don’t worry, your chestnut mahogany, six-drawer, pedal-powered, turn-of-the-century Singer Sewing Machine is well. Still very capable of stitching a world of fabric. Thanks to you, Abuelita, your careful maintenance of it has made it so. As able as it was when you were here to clothe and frame the body. I’m sure Mom and Aunt Clara will keep it in our family. I do have one regret to tell you of. A question. The question of when, where, and from who you purchased your Singer. I refuse to ask Mom, Aunt Clara, or any other family member. I’m just going to have to wait till I see you again.
SITUATIONS 13
THINK OF IT If I put you in a room And fill it with sharks Would you be able to come out with all your parts? Think of it. Would you succeed even if you had to bleed? Greed’s a disease contracted by needs! Please, understand I’m just metaphorically speaking. But I can play plumber and poof! your mind’s leaking. Hate is a cinch if your mind doesn’t expand or stretch an inch! Think of it. A little thought, a little action is more than a lifetime of thinking. Think of it.
Poem by
John Pinkney
MOTHER EARTH Mother Earth feeds the soul from above and below. That pure face of nurture that gave life and body. Food of the gods. The graces so sweet— redness of the apple that falls from the tree—gave love, the way the world should be.
SITUATIONS 15
Poem by
Larry G.
ODE TO COFFEE There is no clock or crow No bell or voice to spring me up In this world from sleep But to have the aroma from fresh-ground coffee in spring water to fill our house with abundance is a blessing in my world.
KNIGHT ARMOR Having armor like cold steel standing up against the element of man, defending the spot I choose to stand with images that are not all that clear to me— someone who is willing to embrace the world. I am the knight with the key to set the truth free.
Poems by
Rufino Colón
FEAR! FEAR! Back to you— You enslaved me with drugs. Back to you— You made me feel dumb when I was a child. Back to you— You made me feel not good enough as an adult. Back to you— Even today, you creep into my mind and create doubt. Back to you— But you don’t own me anymore. So again, back to you— Goodbye. I hope you don’t find anyone to spook anymore. Bye-bye!
NIGHT! Night, lovely night, when I can say what I dare not say during the day Night, lovely night, when I can look into your eyes and see the stars Night, lovely night, with your beautiful dark Spanish eyes Night, lovely night, so lovely that even the sun takes time off to let you shine Night, lovely night, they say you drape mystery, but truth be told, that’s when all is revealed
THE GREAT THINKERS OF THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY You know, the ones who think that if you don’t give out condoms, young people won’t have sex. You know, the ones who think that if you don’t give out clean-needle kits, people won’t shoot drugs. You know, the ones who think that if you don’t think a certain way, you’re an enemy of the state. You know, the ones who think that if you don’t praise their God, you are going to hell. You know, the ones who think that if you don’t love who they think you should love, you’re a sinner. You know, the ones who think that if you don’t love war for the sake of your country, you’re unpatriotic. You know, the ones who think that HIV/AIDS was God’s punishment for our sins.
SITUATIONS 17
ODE TO EVELYN Mom and Dad loved you like their own. I didn’t know then what I know now: you were an investment for their son. Without knowing it, they were grooming you to be my guardian angel. God has His own plan and I thank Him every day for keeping you in my life. When I was at my lowest, as painful as it was for you, you never turned away. I saw the pain in your eyes that day in Bushwick, and the only way I can make it up to you is to make sure it doesn’t happen again. And the only way to do that is not to revisit that hell again. Being the best person I can be today is the best way I can say, I’m sorry. Thank you, my beloved sister.
LA PELA This is the place where the sea sings to you, the tropical breezes caress your body like a sleepy lover, people go to bed hungry, children are under-educated— It stands in the shadow of El Morro, the most recognized structure in Puerto Rico— Where thugs come to die, Where hope dies every night and is reborn every morning. Where dreams are fabricated— some are realized and some are washed away by the sea. Where I almost stopped dreaming. I thank God that it was not in His plans.
LOVE! Love will buckle the strong man’s knees and render a wise man to foolishness, face washed with tears. Love makes countries go to war (Helen of Troy). Love will raise you to new heights or bring you crashing down like a fighter jet shot out of the sky. Love will make you reach back to pull what can’t be relived to the present. Sometimes past loves are not meant to be forgotten. Love has created great people who have died for their people. We call them heroes, but I say these are people whose love has overcome their fears. But the greatest love, besides God’s love, is a mother’s love for her child. Love changes everything but itself.
A HEART DENIED A heart denied love is nothing but an organ that pumps red venom throughout the body A venom that looks at a child’s innocence with suspicion A venom that hears only noise when a bird sings A venom who plays Scrooge at Christmas, without trying A venom that sees a cold nuisance when viewing untrammeled snow A venom that sees differences, races, religions, and genders in people as something to hate
SITUATIONS 19
Poems by
Fred Street
NEST To cultivate a garden— seeds—roots—buried and comforted by the warmth of soil.
AROUSAL Around midnight at the conclusion of a party on Jupiter. The stars went crying into the night. Rain appeared like a silver sea rising to golden mountains’ edge. —Speak— A tear dropped weight of a teardrop. Exploding into tens of thousands of unforgettable moments. Into the night the stars went crying.
Soil—roots—rain—seed. Extension of life to spring forth. Why we as human beings are captured by romancing with one another— Genes attract one or the other. This attraction mingles moment to moment. Hands—articulated explosions of hormones. Love came aboard— just a glance your way— A trip to a tropical climate choice of your delight. A kiss from the sun— Nature—its power to stir the heart conform—greatness. Again, the name of this poem is Nest—
PROMISE The true bud of a promise is the flower of fulfillment. Transformation. To dispel a denial, to accept your situation with fortitude. This is the grounds for hope.
VA, 3 a.m. Silence attacks like a storm in the night— Silence...is a deadly instrument— Having no knowledge of thought. Emotionally, physically, endless turmoil. Rise from your seated position right now— speak to your Brothers & Sisters
ASC NYC is grounds for hope for those who tested positive for HIV/AIDS. The acceptance/ admission—to be tested for the virus— ASC NYC offers many opportunities to upgrade your inner self. You’re a flower of fulfillment.
About Silence— Speak! Our values, views, opinions are paramount in the world in which we live.
SITUATIONS 21
Poems by
Shurland H. Aird
LIFE L is for Living to the fullest of your potential, your talents, and your dreams I is for Ideal Life, which is very hard for the majority of us to find F is for Forgiveness—which we have to have for ourselves E is for Enjoyment, because you only get one life, unless you are Shirley MacClaine
MIRROR, MIRROR Mirror, mirror On the wall In the pool On the sidewalk In the person In front of me. I see things I would rather not see. I see things I have not seen for years. I see things for my eyes only. Mirror, mirror You show so much Of the person I want to be, Of the person I could be, Of the person I should be. One man’s mirror Is another man’s reality. And another man’s reality Is some man’s fantasy.
FREE MY BACK A rat, a monkey, or a gorilla— The burden is the same It wears you down It tears you up You can’t sleep You’re not happy when you’re awake No one cares If you live or die No one cares If you get high No one cares when you cry
A HARD LIFE I leave my home late at night— my 24 kids all sleeping my wife, her belly full of more. I have to find food I have to find water to feed the many mouths that depend on me. I slowly creep out of the little crack in the wall. I make my way across the dusty floor. All of a sudden I am blinded by a bright light, and as my big eyes get adjusted, I hear a thump as a big leather shoe barely misses my back. Why do humans hate me so? All I want to do is provide for my family, yet everyday I take my life in my hands as any good father would.
A rat, a monkey, or a gorilla— You can’t shake it off You can’t wash it away You can’t pray it away What you have to do Is face it everyday Turn it around and look it in the eyes Say to it, “Get off my fucking back!” I don’t want to wait For you to drop off I am pulling you off I am going to stomp on you I’m going to wreak havoc on you I’m going to kill you Again and again and again I want my back back I want my life back I need my soul back So again I say, A rat, a monkey, a gorilla, whatever— Get off my fucking back!
Please think of my kids— Susie, Jenny, Tommy, Earl, Theresa, Benny— and so on and so on.
SITUATIONS 23
LIFE IS A BIG HOLE (9/11/08) I see my family as they walk slowly, as if in a daze, down the ramp into a hole, a hole left where those majestic buildings once stood. They were symbols of American strength. They were the source of American wealth and its control of world currencies. They were the holders of American influence over the rest of the mediocre world. I see my family, my friends—and my heart (if it still functioned) would skip a beat. Do not cry for me, for I am no longer there. Miss me. Remember me. But do not cry for me. Cry for the people with HIV. Cry for the crimes of mankind. Cry for the children of Darfur. Cry for the people of the Gulf Coast. Cry for those dependent on Medicare and Welfare. Cry for the people who are losing their life savings. Cry for the people who have lost their homes. Cry for the people who are living in shelters. Cry for the children who are beaten by their parents and other adults. Cry for the women who are raped every day. Cry for the children who are too poor to go to school. Cry for America as a country infested by greed, corruption, favoritism, the Old Boys’ Club, the KKK, and ignorance and intolerance. Don’t cry for me, for I am not here.
Poems by
Beng L. Kam
I AM A HUMAN BEING I am not a perfect human being I am trying to help and give to others Always smile and be nurturing Taking action for myself and taking full responsibility in my life Creating peace and happiness for the families and for the communities
JEWEL Jewel was a caring and loving person She was always a smiling and giving person Even when she is no longer living Her spirit and soul are always in my heart.
KARMA Karma is thoughts, words and deeds. Karma can be either good or bad. Good actions will give rise to good effects. Bad actions will give rise to unhappy negative effects. Once committed, an action does not vanish. So be careful when you create actions or habits. What comes around goes around. This is what becomes the core personality.
SITUATIONS 25
Poems by
Sabrina Thomas (a.k.a. Beanie)
GOD’ S POWER God has given me the sense of life’s gift. Which is the sense to hear, to know that my God is near, to know His voice. He has helped me make a lot of wonderful choices. God has given me the sense to feel, to know He’s real. And I have the sense to deal with what’s real, I know. God has given me the sense to see, to know He’s truly a greater part of me. I have the sense to be blessed and free and yes, He’s a part of me, this God has let me see. God has given me the sense to touch, to know that God has given me so very much. And with God’s power, He’s worthy of my mind, heart, body, and soul. He has blessed me with a strong mind and will. And for that, God’s power is forever real. And having the power to see, feel, hear, and touch. Yes, my God has truly given me so very much.
CHILDREN Children—when they’re born we feel so worn, yet parts of us are torn, yet the beauty of your child being born. Children—when they’re going through the toddler stage, it’s crazy, but that’s another page. Children—when they’re going through the part of life when they ask the same question twice— it makes us want to understand the worth of our creation to the earth. And then it’s the teen-age stage Once there, it’s a new level of life. And it’s no asking questions twice. And then they become adults, making decisions, having the ambition to conquer missions. Not washing their dishes. Yet, as a mom, we ask God and ask for wishes. Yet hugs and kisses. Yet the love of a mom never misses the beauty of a child. And then they have their own children. And on and on, the beauty of a child being BORN.
SITUATIONS 27
Poems by
L. Murphy
I’ M SCARED AS HELL I’m scared as hell! Scared as hell! I mean, when I walk out this building, when it’s time to leave, if I turn left, will I see my past that’s continually haunting me? Or if I turn right and choose to go to a meeting.... What to do? I’m scared as hell! Scared as hell! When I choose to go to a meeting will I meet the right people that are willing to help me through my pain and suffering or will I be conned into thinking my old way of stinking thinking? Where to turn? I’m scared as hell! Scared as hell! If I don’t think the old ways of stinking thinking and follow the Twelve Steps, step by step by step.... Will my life change if I get right? Live right? Do right? Walk right? Think right? Will I win this battle of not using? I’m glad to be scared as hell, but by faith, love, and strength in myself I won’t pick up— and that’s worth being scared for.
THE SPIRIT OF IT ALL When we say the word “spirit,” do we mean the spirit of it all or the spirit of having a good drink now and then? No... I mean the spirit within yourself. Being at peace, having the will power to do things and go places and live life on life’s terms. See, my spirit is great because I know myself very well and am willing to do whatever it takes to get what I want—and how I want it, OK? The spirit of it all is just knowing when to say “enough is enough”— for me, that is. The spirit of it all is just moving getting, and striving forward in life to reach the goals that need to be met. For me, that is. The spirit of it all is just loving, and caring about yourself, and after that, then you can give it away without asking for anything in return.
MY JOURNEY Knowing what I want to do. Knowing what I have to do. Tells me that my life has a purpose and that is my journey... Being clean is an easy mission. Staying clean is a transition. I mean havin’ to start all over again by taking baby steps... One foot in front of the other and that again is my journey... Thinking of what to do next can be very hard, you see, but if you’ve gotten this far and come to this place, you’ve already made it. ’Cause I did, ’cause this is yet another journey. My journey....
SITUATIONS 29
LAST NITE OF THE YEAR Last nite of the year— I prayed—victoriously scared— that my present would become the past. My heart ran triple its normal pace. Wondering if I should take a Seroquel or two just to calm down a spell. Last nite of the year— I prayed—victoriously scared— imagined that a mob of drug dealers was chasing me with sticks and bottles to claim money that I no longer owed them. My debt was paid in full. Last nite of the year— I prayed—victoriously scared— I felt I was a prisoner in my own house where I had to ask myself, “Can I go outside into the world with my brain being the warden— would it be OK?” I shed a tear. Last nite of the year— I shed that tear, the final one for that year, took a deep breath, prayed no more victoriously scared, but victoriously still. Now I know God finally heard my prayer. I finally woke up to reality. Victory!! is the war that I have won.
Poems by
Adam Williams
RECOVER… Trying to learn how to recover— I can’t front—drugs was my “lover.” I’ll fight, shoot, and even kill for “my lover,” Damn right, I will… My first “lover” was named – Old Gold. I was in love at 13 years old. She made me feel strong and gave me hope, She let me make out with her friends— one’s name was Coke. We would go to clubs, even house parties, where I met this girl by the name of Bacardi. And Old Gold was still there, but sort of a tease, So I chilled with this joint let’s call her Weed. She made me laugh at stuff that wasn’t funny— not like Coke—I’d still wake up with money. But the money I lost, I’ll get back by pimpin’ this hooker by the name of Crack— she made me mad cheddar so now I can treat all the others better.
She wanted me, And I wanted her too… But the others said “Mess with her & we’re all through.” So I’ll sneak around with her, a little taste. She couldn’t wait ‘til I went to first base. She wasn’t funny, but she got my hype, I never felt it ‘til I hit “the pipe.” I said, “Forget the others, she’s the prize.” I wish I would have known THEY WERE ALL LIES! She took me places I thought I’d never go. She flipped the switch and made ME her “hoe.” I’d go out all times of night looking for her while chasing the pipe. Get her! Use her! And fly out the door, ‘cause the pipe was empty – I needed more. SAD, I wasted the life my Higher Power gave me— rather feed the pipe than my own baby.
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3 MONTHS CLEAN Nothing gonna take me out this time because recovery is always on my mind. I did this, I did that, I said I did it all. And if I want some pooty I just make a call. I don’t do it cause that can be my downfall. One day back I’ll be saying in front of all ya’ll I feel bad I mean mad because I lost it all. It didn’t matter what season—I always fall. Tell the truth we are youths in an adult game. Because of anonymity I can’t attach a name. I’m not scared if I’m dared I just moved away. I’m like an oak tree in a pail of hay. Some people say keep coming, well I say just stay and with the 12 and 12—that the only way. Not just say the 12 and 12, but live it. Just like in Step One when we had to admit it. Tell the truth to the youth: there’s something greater that can restore sanity now or later. Recover—that’s what I’m about, I’ll be damned if I let a chick take me out.
WHAT’ S LOVE What do you feel—is it Love or Infatuation? ’Cause when it comes to love, I have no education. The first can be the last, the last can be the first, the new can be better, and the old can be the worst. How do you control emotional feelings when your heart’s all with it but your brain’s not willing? Then your heart takes over and lets your emotions fly, then your heart gets hurt and asks your brain, “Why?!” It’s not your heart, your brain, or nothing else: You can’t love no one until you love yourself.
DON’ T JUDGE Those you judge just don’t count Today you’re judging me, tomorrow drinking 40 oz. Now you walk around here with your ass on your back Say you drink beer but you don’t smoke crack Walk around the streets you’re a wannabe thug NA taught me alcohol was a drug Crackheads might come in your house And steal your TV, but alcohol fucks up your whole body Me, I’m not saying one drug is better than the other Beer was my lover Crack was my mother Dope was my cuz’ And weed was my dad When I want to get away from them I go to rehab When I go to rehab they want me to come home— they will be calling me without using the phone
Poems by
Steve Lewis (a.k.a. Latin Gorilla) Because of you I write... Your dreams inspired me to push... Allowing you to hear me— if not my cries, you read between these lines. It’s everyone who’s walked these same streets. We know the bumps and cracks in our streets. They say they understand. My head hurts from the bump. And the never-ending stories... How many bridges must I buy? Walk in my shoes down this path. There seems to be no light. So push your pens and make the world scream... I will not go out without a fight. Thanks, Mom.
SILENCE I sit in Silence just to hear the streets talk. Same shit, different day. The corner-dwellers grind hard just for footwear and body gear they can’t even spell. What the hell? Can’t they understand it’s hard to make a dollar out of 15¢? A penny saved is a penny earned for tomorrow’s plate of rice and beans— dreams, hopes, and prayers down the drain. A child is born, no state of mind, blind to the ways of mankind. Screams for God. But no answer physical is there. But drain from the game, only just one more, that was three weeks ago! Sold her soul just to take a trip on the Enterprise. Pillow stays wet from the endless teardrops, Pops left where he stood, tears cascade out both eyes, knees bleed from the rug burns. Still no answer. Can I at least get an angel in my corner?!
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Poems by
Lawrence Taylor
PHOENIX RISE OUT OF ASHES I rise out of the ashes once again. Unlike before, I rise strong, vibrant, and rich. My best dream and my glow are radiant to see. Oh god, the heat is burning like the summer sun! The chains you place on me are melting and I’ll soon be free. So watch out, it’s my time to die—my dance once, twice, and three times. Remember, the day’s end is near and playing time is over till tomorrow, when it’s time to have fun again!!
THURSDAY WRITING A new Thursday visit to see a very beautiful face. It’s another Thursday, with no disappointment I see all my peeps and they’re on coins like big faces. My penmanship is doctored for my understanding There is no reason not to dream it just seems the alteration of signs. For I just dream-seek, and hope for another day for another Thursday for my coins in the league of writers to scribe there my ideas on paper.
I’ M WAITING FOR DAY TO FALL I’m waiting for day to fall so I can receive her call. I’m not at home or near a phone. Looking at the sun drop and that distant smilin’ night ahead, that shines so bright. This includes background lights in the twilight. When I reached home, she was there wearing my smokin’ jacket. It had a nice contrast with her skin, along with her hazel eyes and silver hair. She was smoking my favorite cigar, a routine for that day of the week. Now the night is gone—time to wake with the alarm ring.
Poems by
Miguel Class
MUDDY WATER I didn’t realize you were wounded ’til I saw blood. My vision was blurred like water mixed with mud. I kept swimming without true clarity. I thought I could find my way because I was impatient and anxious. Then I stopped and the water started to settle, the dirt sank to the bottom—now I could see only because I was patient I’m given clarity. I will no longer haste, but be slow and steady. There is a race, but now I’m ready.
I WALKED OUT THAT DARK ALLEY I walked out that dark alley— boy, I’m relieved, yet I look back to old things that he had conquered. That’s what I believed. He is everything in one and says the war is won. Battle in mind...that has just begun. I walked out that dark alley and see a street appealing to the eyes, revealing all the lies, illuminated by light. There is comfort in truth. There is no shame in my pain. See my chains there darkened to me. God has a key when I choose him over me. I walked out that dark alley no longer slave to self. I’m free with his plan. I’m free indeed.
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ALONE missing a part that makes me whole somewhere in a dumpster his face i know burned in my mind time after time slowly malnourishing as he fades only wishing someone was there his life no one saved in the dark where he laid as the rats ate away he cried out in pain the mother’s assumptions drove her insane assuming his fate her life became lame no one to blame but the reflection that stays the same...
MOMENTS I REGRET moments i regret: the sun as it sets i was there and i’d seen yet i focused on gloomy things wisdom passed me by didn’t care or ask why ignorance shielded the mind wisdom wasn’t defined just a word in my mind moments i regret: being content in my ways didn’t give teachers a chance just a sheep run astray
BELIEVE I can’t believe you’re gone you made people happy including my mom i burst into tears seeing what i feared it happened, i cried then i opened my eyes and rejoiced the skies by faith he’s alive we won’t forget the father, the friend, the brother, the man who rests in God’s hands.
Poems by
THOUGHTS ON THE 5PM J TRAIN
Diane Dawson
Heading home, not too excited Sleeping: Not a big deal anymore, no one to keep me warm on a cold winter’s night Eating: I need to keep my strength up, its no big deal My body: Wearing baggy clothes, so no man can see Showers: (Overrated.) No one can get close enough to really smell me anyway Feeling invisible, sometimes it’s cool, can be around 100 people, and i’m all alone with my evil thoughts Am I still a poet? I don’t know Music, the key to my sanity: It fills the empty holes all over my body
ME, MYSELF AND I Me, selfish me, greedy me, give it to me, don’t care about nobody but me, give me money, who do I trust? Me! Me has no doubts, no regrets, no remorse, no mercy. Who stabbed you in the back? Me! Don’t fuck with me. Myself, I don’t want to be by myself, no confidence in myself, ashamed of myself, no self-esteem, no hope, I talk to myself, I eat by myself & I sleep by myself, I got myself infected. I am woman, I am strong, I am smart, I pay taxes, I walk with my head held high, I am a poet & you know it, I can push your buttons, I can kick your ass, I know what I want & I want it now. Me, Myself and I These are the 3 elements that hold my being together—they cannot exist alone because there is a constant battle within, as they try to dominate each other. I am good, however, I am evil and everything in between. I am street, however, I am educated I am love, however, I am hate I am Diane
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THE SKIN THAT I’ M IN The skin that I’m in, brown & scarred, sometimes ashy The skin that I’m in does not lie; if you look, really look, it tells my story Once upon a time it was paper thin, like the skin of a tomato, delicate, born with a birthmark the color of a butterscotch Lifesaver. My first scrape of the knee, I thought I would die, but then this wonderful scab formed & when picked off, it left a mark, my first mark of battle. Tasting my blood for the first time—exhilarating, fearless, feeling immortality. My skin surprised me, every bruise, every cut, every scratch (self-inflicted or not) always healed—amazing. With every new mark on my delicate, brown skin, I formed layers like an unpeeled onion. Those layers formed a thick skin (so I thought). As I aged the scars got more severe & the skin was like Sir Lancelot’s armor & shield. It was like Superman’s chest, bullets ricocheting everywhere. Little did I know, all that protection did not apply to my brain, my mentality, & my emotions—they were left wide open for attack from the enemy (ME). The skin I’m in, has endured so much pain for 2 lifetimes, yet it is still protecting me, still so soft to the touch.
TODAY I CRIED Today, I cried...I voted for a black man and I cried. I cried for my father and my grandfather and all grandfathers before him. I cried for my uncles, my one brother, and my three nephews. I cried for the black men I have loved and those that have loved me. I cried for the millions of little black boys (not forgetting the girls) over the centuries that did not, in their wildest dreams, imagine that they could run for the Office of President. I cried for their despair. I cried for all the men and boys incarcerated (justly, as well as unjustly) that lost hope in themselves and have taken the wrong path in life. I know that this was “just the primary.” But whatever the end result may be, today I voted in the United States of America for a black man, and I cried. If I should die before the presidential election it will be OK. Because today I voted. I voted for a black man and I cried.
ASK ME HOW MY BLOOD FEELS? Ask me how my blood feels when I hear certain shit. Hearing the wind is God whispering in my ear, advising me which way go. Hearing the rain hit the hot pavement, are raindrops dancing in the club, stomping out the dirt and blood we leave behind. Hearing my own laughter is like music to my ears, music on a cerebral level—can you feel me? Hearing hatred coming out of another’s mouth is fear that it will travel to a child’s ear. Ask me how my blood feels when I see certain shit. Seeing a heart-shaped cloud covering the sun. Seeing children playing in the playground. Seeing an East River sunrise and a Hudson River sunset. Seeing my smiling face in the mirror. Seeing my hard-earned paycheck, knowing that I did earn this. All of these things makes my heart want to burst, overwhelmed with joy. If you ask my blood how it feels? The answer would be fine, just fine.
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Poems by
Anthony Rubino
THE FALLEN’ S MAGIC BOX Now let us begin, there is a little black box. A little magical black box made of tin! Filled with ones and zeros, zeros and ones. Tellings of what’s been done, tellings of everything under the sun, it may even tell us how we can have some fun. For sure it tells us of where and when one’s life has begun! This little magical box made of tin may show the pretty little dimple in one’s chin. It tells where one has been, where one has been eatin’ and sleepin’— it may even contain one’s sin! Presto, hit the key and one shall see. Presto, hit the key and set the truth free! See the powers that be—magic that’s so, so tragic! In and out, out and in, a child has been in this little magical box made of tin. Discovered where the healer/pretender’s secrets are kept within, mirrored images of her and him, where they’d been eatin’ and sleepin’! Discovered all their combined sin! Zero to zero, one by one, it told of what the healer/pretender had never done! Zero by zero, one by one, it told of how, where, and when the healer/pretender’s life had begun! Pins and needles, needles and pins, against a child of light they had committed many sins! Needles and pins, pins and needles, soon—very soon—the answering begins! This child of light all along had kept what was true and right. Now the children are gathering for a heroic fight. For they know what others don’t and they’ll do what others won’t! The dark angel serenity, firewalls, and security was she able to breach. The children together again, hand in hand dancing in the sand on a pebble-laden beach and as always, as before, swords and fire sticks are within arm’s reach. Again dragons come forth! Again dragons must teach!
AGAIN TIME AGAIN! Time and time again, one foul creature has been traded for another. First a dragon, then jackals, and now a serpent! Slithering its way towards you and then sneaking up from behind as it coils itself around one, squeezing the very life-giving breath we need so much. Attempting to swallow you whole and without mercy. For this is the serpent’s way. To strike again and again, injecting its poison to stun, confuse, and deplete one’s will. So it may feed on our very essence! But if I can stand up to the evil ones who call themselves men, then I will never be swallowed by darkness again!
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Poem by
Chris Cameron
ANGEL WITHOUT WINGS Features shocking and rarely seen the epitome of a human being: hair aquatic, tamed by the flames of the labyrinth, body shaped like a unique vase, skin fairly touched by the kind rays of the sun, soul as deep as a black hole in space, her essence irresistible to man, honeysuckle taste. My angel is real and true as the clouds white and the sky blue— Ashley, my Nevaeh, my angel without wings— I’m missing u.
Poems by
Chardelle Imani Lassiter
SIGNIFICANT OTHERS Blurs Of Light, Shadow, Substance, Sound, Fury. Streaking through Time Wreaking Fire, Rain, Storms, Earthquakes, Dawns, Midnights, Morns, Hellos, Goodbyes, Memories.
CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? Dreams are Spirits Calling Leaving Messages
OH! HELL NO! Words and Deeds Aimed like sticks and stones Used to break my Spirit My Heart, my bones Some found their mark Sought to lay me low…BUT The Warrior I am shouted! OH! HELL NO! When I get kicked down I get back up When another blow comes…Well, I’ve learned to duck If a dam is built To block my ebb and flow I’ll roll, crawl, walk, run, fly, and Float to where I aim to go. Ain’t no “playa” gonna dim my glow ’Cause the Warrior I am OH! HELL NO!
laughs!
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GIFT Life is a Gift An awesome test Be grateful for life Be Your Best Do what you must Keep dry through Life’s rain Stay Grateful through trial, challenge, and pain Use loss as a pathway to knowledge and gain Balance action between soul, heart, and brain Fill up on faith When Spirit feels drained Protect Sacred Soul from fear, scar, and stain When you “fail” Learn the lessons Start over again Life is a Gift An awesome test Thank your Creator Be Your Best
AUDACITY our your my Ancestors Come from The Land of the Sun Invaded by Terrorists Raped with Bible and Gun Aggression Transgression
Oppression
Audacity Spanning centuries of Days and Nights Orchestrated Terror…Still Our Plight…Still, for Right and Justice We Fight To find our Way, to find our Way OUT Of the jungles of multinational plantations: The Big House The Poor House The Nut House The Jail House Into The White House Audacity
TO BE WITH YOU To Be With You I’d stuff myself into a dixie cup and, using one cracked straw as an oar, row myself into the middle of the deepest ocean, if That’s where You are. To Be With You I’d knit me a pair of wings made from the indestructible fabric of my love, and fly straight through lightning, while thunder clapped her hands over her ears. To Be With You I’d walk backwards and barefoot across the scorching sands of the Sahara Desert at High Noon in the Summertime. To Be With You I’d run alongside the railroad tracks because the train is too damn slow. To Be With You I’d crash through the Gates of Hades and smack the Hell out of the Devil for standing in my way. To Be With You I’d climb Heaven’s Highest Gate, and Thank God that I found You. That’s just Some of what I’d do To Be With You.
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Poems by
Iris Elizabeth Sankey-Lewis
ABOUT US Lost that voice? There’s choices and sanctuary And rights and spaces and tests We must confess... Who’d like a test? Testing reasoning and ability to say no? The nerve of men, wanting more stuff. There was a time we wanted more stuff. And then, in time, simplicity Like good vision Good sex, good food, good ole us. Vanquish fear and let’s forgive ourselves: Forgive the good, the bad, and the haughty, Forgive everything about us.
MORNING AFTER I ain’t gonna fall no mo I ain’t gonna fall no mo I get dizzy looking down Woke up and a new me I found I ain’t gonna fall no mo. I ain’t gonna smoke no mo I ain’t gonna smoke no mo I get heber-jibbers when I do Now I see crystal clear and fresh as dew I ain’t gonna smoke no mo. I ain’t gonna moan no mo I ain’t gonna moan no mo Found me passion good as writing And a whole lot of love overflowing I ain’t gonna moan no mo Ow-ooo-oo-o! Please don’t take my pen and pad away! Please don’t take my friends away! Just let me score through pleasant doors And I ain’t gonna moan no mo
A GHAZAL There is temporary unrest in my mind. The morning invites calm and the minutes fade fast. Only a fool follows a heart wavering and wondering. The bulk of energies we share should allot us good. Take away my pen, my paper, my free movement and iris is only A woman, encroaching over air, thinking. My bed is like double twin and my dreams stay undisturbed. The fan brings comfort, but not far—a dead log.
PINK
It doesn’t take very long to recognize true passion, but unaware, You can go on mistaken. Breathe anew with its meaning.
Pink is imprinted in goldmines. Pink is royal pink in all its glory. Pink is on the rise to my surprise. Pink is a feeling of warmth turning to red, clean love. Pink is the loud or quiet mask we wear. Pink is the color of our tears. Pink is crown of our head, palm of hands, and soul of feet at birth. Pink is healthy innards. Pink is our world, from whence we came. Pink is not with prejudice.
PASSION AND POETS The poet speaks. And passion is born Like forever lover Needing no charm— There is no better way to say, I love you Than to act for the beloved unasked; The poet speaks Of everything humanly given, Of everything under the sun, Of everything by Creator at creation; The poet isn’t confined, Yet tied at conception Like true love’s umbilical Unsevered— A lifelong love affair With passion for words, Like saws anointed And provocatively real, The poet lacks no passion.
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20 HAIKU My neighbor’s lawn of yellow dandelions shimmying in the wind. Lone man in black raincoat His boat silently gliding Out from white fog. Floating alone in sidewalk puddle— Soft rose petal. Thunder, wind weeping willows and pine trees swaying—still, no rain. On a quiet Sunday the sound of militia planes overhead. Yesterday’s clean cars sprinkled yellow from pine pollen. Lone bird I hear in quiet of winter morning as if stranded. Always salivating past bakery of Creole bread and bun. Smell of rice and beans with coconut milk at border— I’m home. The gulf breeze speaks of earlier times when I was green. A talking parakeet— And I’m at a loss for words.
Ah, the smell of yellow pound cake and lemony sherbet each summer! On front lawn, blue jays baptizing themselves in birdbath on rainy day. Fresh reminder I hear as winter birds say, “Not all of us migrate.” Dogwood pink flowers cherry blossom pink Pink pansies pink carnation. Microscopic bug bearing wordless message in form of simple nip. Young boy with tarantula fears flying cockroach Like a turtle on its back Large black beetle’s Legs, struggling. Even the best-kept lawns— immaculate, green, and lush— turn rebellious brown. This thing of writing— when all else fails, haiku-ing comes to the rescue.
ASC’s Creative Writing Workshop provides a forum for creative expression, healing, and hope for people affected by HIV/AIDS. For more information, visit ASC’s website, www.ascnyc.org, or call 212-645-0875.
helping many, one by one AIDS Service Center NYC 41 East 11th St., New York, NY 10003 (212)645-0875
fax 645-0705
www.ascnyc.org
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