Introduction 2 Poems by Luther Jarman 3 Poems by Rosa Velez

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.

Me—struggling fighting wishing I didn’t care.

Your face, arms, limbs were so thin— your skin see-through, like the wind.

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??? 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. ”

I decided to distance myself so when the moment came I would not feel any pain.

If I don’t show him love If I don’t love him with all my heart,

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.

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??

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.

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.

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.

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.

Poems by

Shannon Randall

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.

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

Poems by

Carlos Lopez

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.)

ALIVE

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.

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.