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SITUATIONS 16 Writings from the AIDS Service Center NYC Creative Writing Workshop

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SITUATIONS 16 Situations is a literary magazine containing the writings of participants in the Creative Writing Workshop at ASCNYC.

Workshop Leader & Situations Editor: Gerry Gomez Pearlberg

The ASCNYC 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.

Publication Design: Talo Kawasaki

The ASCNYC Creative Writing Workshop is funded by 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 (CDC) and the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA). ASCNYC 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. ASCNYC annually helps more than 14,000 men and women affected by AIDS and other chronic illnesses to make lasting positive changes towards health, housing and self-sufficiency. Since 1990, ASCNYC has been designing and implementing innovative peer education, access to healthcare, and safepractice counseling services that foster self-respect, personal responsibility and connection to community. ASCNYC has four Community Centers in Union Square, Washington Heights, East Harlem, and the Lower East Side. All ASCNYC services are free, confidential, and offered in English, Spanish and French/Haitian Creole.

Author Photos: David Nager ASCNYC Poetry Leaders: Rufino Colón, Rosa Velez, and Robert E. Lee ASCNYC Program Liaison: Ramona Cummings ASCNYC Executive Director/CEO: Sharen I. Duke Special thanks to: Brooke Brailey and Randi Zwickler

Contents Introduction

Poem by L. Murphy

Poems by Rosa Velez

Poems by Azeem S. Khan

Poems by Raas Shantee

Poems by Pierre Lynch

Poem by “E” (a.k.a. EROBOS)

Poems by i.a.

Poems by Robert E. Lee

Poems by Jeremiah Suggs

Poems by Steve Lewis (a.k.a. Latin Gorilla)

Poems by John James Pearsall

Poems by John Pinkney

Poems by Gayle D.

Poems by Nia Vanere

Poems by Miguel

Poems by Luther Jarman

Poems by Sean Ginyard (a.k.a. Davey-Mansion)

Poems by Iris Elizabeth Sankey-Lewis

Poems by Linda Francis

Poems by T.T.

Poems by Dudley Koonce

Poems by Donald Terrell

Poems by D.H.

Poems by Rufino Colón

Poems by monté

Introduction “You think your pains and heartbreaks are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who have ever been alive.”

–James Baldwin

Nearly every Thursday for the past 14 years, the creative writing workshop at AIDS Service Center NYC has shared in the gratifying truth of James Baldwin’s observation about the timeless power of reading and writing to connect our seemingly isolated experiences with the lives of others, past and present. During our Thursday gatherings, we read and discuss a published poem, using our exploration as the fuel for the participants’ own creative writing. And, as each participant sets his or her own perspective to paper, a poetic message comes forth that has meaning for us all. As you read the work of the 25 poets represented in this issue of Situations, you’ll find a spectrum of creative styles and viewpoints. First, try flipping through the pages without reading a word just to see how different each poem looks on the page. Next, scan the poems’ titles to get a sense of the varied topics covered here, from kindness, passion, solitude, and personal reinvention to drums, bees, family, survival—and everything in between. Some of the titles will entice you to travel more deeply into the hidden world of these poems. (Who could resist a poem called “Don’t Be A Grasshopper!” or “A Merry Blackberry Morning”?) There, you’ll see how each piece of writing, like a fingerprint, is distinctive and unique. Yet I suspect you’ll also find that deep power of connection James Baldwin has so memorably described. As you explore these poems, I hope you’ll find valuable resonances with your own life story, struggles and victories—and that the words you find here inspire you. Gerry Gomez Pearlberg Workshop Leader

Situations 16

We honor the life and spirit of L. Murphy, a longstanding and beloved member of the ASCNYC creative writing workshop. L. passed away in 2013, but his fiercely honest poetry, sly sense of humor, and riveting performances at our many readings and IN MEMORIAM: events over the years will never be forgotten. We are honored to share with you one of L.’s last poems, published here for the first time.

L. Murphy (1964 -2013)

THE DEVIL’S WEB AND FIGHTING TO GET FREE Caught up, Trying to move! Letting go! What else to prove? Serving faith, spiritually. Knocking on Heaven’s Gate to be chosen, But scared of not being chosen. For the sins committed… Caught up in the Devil’s web, fighting to get free. Expressing myself selflessly— Not to mock My very existence, But to forgive the angry sinner Buried deep within me. Pulling, pushing, yelling to be heard, To myself be true. Release me from the chains Of the webs that bind my Soul tightly between Heaven and Hell, Whose forces collide together Already knowing where I’ll go and who to choose. For my thoughts are with the Only choice I have: To free myself from the Devil’s web. Fighting to get free is the only thing I know. Burn the web of destruction that’s inside of me So I can live, Breathe, Love for eternity.

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Poems by

Rosa Velez

IF If you can manage to wake up and smile, even when the darkness hits the shades of your eyelids, you are still on the other side of your sunset. If you believe in people when everyone else has closed the doors on you, you have managed to protect your soul from danger… such a delicate soul, un-retouched photo of broken sorrows. If you can still breathe the breath of life when all other breaths are gone, you have managed to survive in a world that stopped believing in love. If you can still love when all the love is gone, still feel when all feeling is gone— you, my friend… have truly learned how to live.

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Poems by

Rosa Velez THE SUN AT A DISTANCE The sun at a distance reminds me how grateful I am to still see the brightness of it all. The sun at a distance warms me, brightens me, so far— yet so close to my heart. The sun at a distance an amazing reminder still here, still strong, still aware of my senses… Sensuously rewarding. Visually…amazing. The sun at a distance.

THE SOLEMN LIVES OF WOMEN They

tend to try to please more than they have to. Busy as bees… trying to make everyone happy— Busy as bees trying to feed our kin. Trying to spread love all over the world. The solemn lives of women: nurturing, strong, mysterious, sensuous. But ahhhh— Don’t mess with her sting! See her beautiful wings?

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Poems by

Rosa Velez THE BEAT OF THEIR DRUMS You used to play your drum… the conga, actually. Stroke it gently…and it would make this amazing sound… trance-like beat, what a beat! I’d touch your drum didn’t understand that the soft, tender touch was all it needed to produce that amazing sound. It was as if this beat became your heartbeat and the both of you were in tune. You used to play your conga with your buddy, Louie— two men fascinated by the rhythms of your souls, the rhythms of your love for music.

When I play the conga, the beat is not the same. When I play the conga, I see his smile. When I play the conga, I see Louie in heaven playing the drums, and I’m not with him. Tears filled the sockets of my eyes. Time passed. Time stood still… you too were gone. He was gone. Tomorrow, on your birthday, I will play the sound of your beating drum in my mind in my heart and I will remember you and Louie playing the drums. Together. Again.

Louie would look for you take you away from me and I knew it was time for the boys. You would move to the rhythm of your drumbeat and the laughter created by both of you was a song on its own. Louie stopped strumming his drum…Conga. Two congas left in the house…his house. Two congas left in the house…your house. Louie stopped playing his drums. Now…you, lost…in the emptiness of the loss of your friend, no longer have the need to play this drum. I’d ask you, Play the conga for me, please. You’d look at me and say, It’s not the same anymore. Don’t want to stroke that drum.

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Poems by

Azeem S. Khan REMEMBERING TO FORGET A beautiful world difficult to see Tainted by the people before me. Seeds of judgment and intolerance planted, As the farmers nurture them and wait for their harvest. Hate—a family tradition. Dishonor, honored by murder and shaming. The children shall suffer and hate— And so the family tradition continues. I open my mind and ears to my elders, But close my heart to some of their learnt wisdom. I fall asleep knowing that I am an improved model of the ones before me, And dream that the ones to come shall be an improve model of me.

TORTURE A victorious name with a walk like iron. The presence of a conqueror, with the strength of a lion. The waves of your hair can calm me down when I’m angry. With your honey-brown skin I can sweeten my tea. Your startling eyes lure me in with a smile so bright that can light my way to sin…. With stolen glances I see your vibrancy. With passing words I know your compassion. From a safe distance I see us together. But I don’t think you know this—and that is torture.

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Poems by

Azeem S. Khan THE EXAMPLE I sit on the stigma of a Lotus flower, Questioning this life with my Creator. Why am I the Example? A position not chosen, but bestowed upon me. O my loving Creator, Why me? Why me? My endless nights of mental agony. Emotions riding a unicycle on a cobblestone street. The war for the Real Me. The violation of my body. The disintegration of my family. My Creator’s love leads me out of captivity. The Wisdom my Creator now shines in my heart, Serves as a lighthouse to guide other ships through the dark. The brighter my light shines, the more I see. Now I comprehend, Why me, why me.

STREETS As my foot connects with these streets, Its Past, Present and hopeful Future consumes me As I manifest into the person I wish to be. This beautiful tornado has swallowed me. Its Diversity excites and enraptures me. A Kaleidoscope of vibrant colors. An Orchestra of global voices. All with a tangible power. These streets paved with an abundance of stories… Some repetitious, others leave you in disbelief. These streets may be jaded and worn But their promises still remain the same.

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Poems by

Azeem S. Khan

ALWAYS! ALWAYS! ALWAYS! Dedicated to my brother, Wasim N. Khan Created by two hearts in love A tumultuous relationship Rooted in brotherly love Woven together by similar and different goals— But you have always nurtured my artistic soul. Transporting my dreams at 3 and 5 in the morning. Moving mountains late at night so we all can share my grandest night. Encouraging me to never stop. Understanding my need to reach the top. Pulling me back to earth when I need it, And teaching me the responsibilities of being an artist. You are everything that’s wrong and everything that’s right— And everything in between that brightens my artistic light. My artistic soul could not survive Without you ALWAYS! ALWAYS! ALWAYS! Standing in the shadow of my spotlight.

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Poems by

Raas Shantee

HAVE YOU…? To laugh! To dance! To love! Have you lived? Or have you just survived? Just trying to get by, making it from time to time. Is today a reincarnation of who you were yesterday? Am I a future plan in the making, soon to be a past memory just thrown away?

SPRING AGAIN Dark shadows of my yesterdays may or may not remain. My sheltered days have been stained but may soon come to fade. I remembered those cold and endless days. Perish the dangerous games I once played— a hellish winter’s masquerade. But in the end…the storms that left me entangled, the heavy price I paid. Time heals all wounds. Yes…so they say. Look everyone…the seasons have changed. Now here lies a flower that blooms. My winter turned to spring. Almost in disbelief…feeling so amazed. Almost like a passing phase. Who ever knew that my frozen soil could ever be fertilized again? Damn! I can’t believe it’s spring again. Seasons come and go so soon. Wow! Can’t believe it’s spring again! Can’t believe it’s spring again.

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Can I finally… Dare to live as I dare to die. And if I am doing neither then what is this? Just existing… Not living. Trying to get by… making it from time to time. The endless circles… of my beginning and end. I must, I must, I must be invented all over again.

Poems by

Raas Shantee

(AGONY) GOOD, BAD, AND THE UGLY Like bitter truth… Thrown against my mental walls. My eyes turn towards white lilies just not to face the reality of what I am or I am not to be. I run into the dark forest alone, where no one else has any meaning. Relating to just a tree… Tall and statuesque, despite the season. For I am still beautiful. For I am to be admired, not to be pitied. Rain cannot tear down my leaves. Just come what you came here for, and water my damn soil… please. Await for the sun to soon intervene. Flesh lies dirty, but my soul remains clean.

L.O.V.E.? If Love is not truly defined it becomes a four-letter word that’s just thrown around from time to time. Love is not to be taken out of context— mistaken for dependency or mistaken for sex. Anyone can use it just so freely. Even the one who would soon stab you in the back. They would abuse it so nice and easy. And that’s a fact. Coming forth with all sincerity. Look you straight in the eye. And just without a moment of clarity, you finally realize that their love was just a lie. If love is not truly defined, it could leave you deaf, dumb, and blind. Playing on your innocence or ignorance from time to time. Have your mind caught up in a bind, your heart misled to believing there is truly a happy ending. But oh, how deceiving! When a broken heart is never-mending, hopes and dreams are bending. You always give but are never receiving… But I thought you only get out what you put in. So why have I been left with nothing? Just a four-letter word that once had meaning. Situations 16

Poems by

Pierre Lynch

SPEAK LIFE I whisper to the winds that soothe me, “Thank you for your grace.” They smile as they pass through my spirit, sweeping up my cloth. The sun shows me his unprecedented love. I bow in awe, respecting its lovely power. The birds land near me and tweet at my feet. I sing with them. I can feel the smile we all share in our hearts. The stubborn Earth grounds me with perfect foundation. I elect to plant a flower as a token of my appreciation. How lovely the world is this day! I have a taste for the muskrat and the jackrabbit. Creator, forgive me my brutishness and bless the meal which I am about to receive. KWAAH! I am now a majestic eagle. I love you, muskrat and rabbit. But now, I must eat you!

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Poems by

Pierre Lynch

I QUIT! I’m writing you a letter of resignation. I’ve been faithful to you for some time now. I left my love, my hope, my dreams for you. All I received in return: lies. Don’t get me wrong—it was fun! But how long can fun last when my heart aches? I stood by you in fear of knowing nothing else. I stood by you believing the lies. I stood by you perpetuating the lies. I made you my truth— Instead of respecting what already was the truth. I am the eldest child, a son. I am the eldest grandchild. I am the eldest nephew, the eldest cousin. I am the leading representative of my generation. You, of course, you need only the best by your side. And I was there. But no more. I’ve won my soul back. I’m fighting for life again. I want more than your crash. I want more than your paranoia and accelerated heartbeat. I want more than hiding from mirrors because when I peek into my own soul, I see my heart crying— remembering what I put myself through. So—in short—I quit. (Again.) ICONIC PENMANSHIP

I am God. He sits at my heart and Tells me I am Him. I am part of Him. The world yells at our fusion. I forget myself. Forgetting Him in my sorrows, I am sorrowful. Though the world ignores this— I am still torn by human emotions. I am human. A representative of godly majesty. I am majestic. God’s grace moves me and I Humbly follow its course. So—yes—I am God. Though sometimes, I still cry for me.

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Poem by

“E” (a.k.a. EROBOS) “MARC CARSON” 5-21-13; 17:26 hrs I usually don’t do this...and when I say “this,” I mean; flavor-of-the-month; bandwagon-hoppin’; agitation-victim-response-writing...the average brain has a media conditioned, short attention span (you can call it ‘attention deficit disorder’ if you like). It is because of this anti-phenomenon; if the average brain hears the same thing more than twice, it starts to lose track of whatever value the repeated thing has...but, when Marc Carson, a young man from Harlem USA, was shot in the face, execution style, for being himself, it shifted something fundamental at the core of my being...because, in reality, if Marc can be executed in the street for being ‘gay,’ then anyone can be executed in the street for any reason... being ‘gay,’ these days, is like being relegated to some, Special-Class-Of-Citizen (or ‘SCOC,’ ‘SOC’ for short)...like the basketball player who thought the world ought to know that he’s a same gender lovin’ type of guy...he was suddenly thrusted into the Super-Sexual Minority {or ‘SSM’ for short} and they treated that man like he grew two heads and six arms!...I mean they did everything but give him the NBA Championship!...the obvious trouble with this is that, if he ever—heaven forbid it—gets, say, a DWI, possession of marijuana, assault charge, disorderly conduct, gun possession, you know; all the stupid shit NBA players are subject to getting into...then betwixt the scandalous headline and the first paragraph, it will be emblazoned: ‘Openly Gay NBA basketball player,’ forever gear shifted from ‘regular’ to ‘special’ and do remember that ‘special’ means ‘different.’ I went to the rally for Mr. Carson—again; something I don’t usually do for the reasons aforestated—and one of the speakers said she believed that the uptick in violence against the LGBT Community was a result of becoming more visible, getting more rights, entitlements, unknown or unheard of before...special or different I wonder to myself...Elliot Morales, just one year older than Marc, had accomplished 10 years in a system that specializes in creating Monsters...He, is the end product and hoped for result, of an upstate prison system that converts the City’s flesh and blood, into diplomas, careers, fishing gear, high carbine hunting weapons, vacations... Elliot’s extravagant hatred, is the vitamin and mineral, bankable commerce, the payoff, the bread, butter, meat, and potatoes, that those bucolic, rustic, cowardly, ultra-violent, reactionary racists, those misanthropic, xenophobic, anglophile ‘crackers,’ neo-confederate losers, whose only useful contribution to the present; is living in the past;...genuinely bewildered about the modern world; they were blessed by Cuomo Senior, with a plethora of prisons that are the only source of real income that has brought a mockery version civilization to the Howling Wilderness of upstate of New York...Elliot Morales, is

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Poem by

“E” (a.k.a. EROBOS)

one of many patsies that are released onto the world without warning, to create chaos, through directdelivery destruction, and death...He is what’s in the pipeline from a system that says “feed ‘em and fuck ‘em.” He is the results of a mental health system whose priority is to bill the City and/or State insurance program for dispensing psychiatric drugs that contribute to homicidal/suicidal tendencies; the media steers clear of this, as drug companies are their main source of funding!...At the beginning of the rally for Mr. Carson, there was a moment of silence...and in that moment, I asked my self: “as a product of the same system that produces grotesqueries like ‘Elliot Morales,’ what am I doing here???...” What is my role and function with regard to these people???....” And, as an aside; why do people always perform the moment of silence for anyway???....” The answers to these questions came immediately in the stillness, where no lip moved and no voice spoke: “These people are the different parts and versions of yourself...” they are fully grown and realized in the moment just like you...” they are special and they are different, just like you...” A part of you was executed in the street!...” A part of them was killed, nonchalantly, and they felt it...” There is no noise in the Spirit World...” only silence...” and in this Silence, we can feel our brother, our sister, our trans, our friend...Marc Carson...Rest In Peace..... 5/27/13; 20:51 hrs

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Poems by

i.a.

when mankind struggles 2 overcome the forces of violence it engages everyone 2 translate life’s fabrics of fragile relationships that arise from childhood choices affecting our adult lives. where u watch your morals & standards disappear & u hate what has become of us u bury it & don’t look back but u peek into a desert of shard mirrors & realize it was just a mere thought the shelves are bare of ethnic heritage & family blood that once reminded us of brotherhood, blueprints of ourselves the way we saw the world as black & white praying beads, reciting verses living in silence, lost in dreams, realizing that if u don’t stand up for yourself, u won’t stand up 2 anything we are thin-boned frames of unmarked stones in abandoned cemeteries rusty & decayed, grief-stricken, coming 2 terms that we are foreign sounds of now & then our way of life has already ended now things are settled with brass knuckles & insults & removing people from where they once belonged straining their fears under their broken silence they have become rooftop spectators amidst a blistering sun in the tournament of their lives.

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Poems by

i.a.

forgetting again the difference between memory & imagination the indifference lingers in the air drifting, starring as heavens move & stars will me 2 believe in what cannot be seen pulling me with tremendous gravity 2 a space & x of 0 stories & 0 plots of un-seeable bareness, of cold existence a fear of hiding forcing breathing 2 be a chore realizing that one moment is not granted & has no endless supply there are absolutely no emotions behind curtains of questions only fragments & abstracts with sudden whispers & falling quiet 2 an opening of a trap the dead dark-night of the mind

united joined hands pause 2 detain reality. do not remain do not stand stay if the truth is not complete. a spring of experiences cast a mountainside of architectural grace. seeing it a limited given moment a fathom of things a reality of ideas.

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Poems by

Robert E. Lee

ALWAYS STANDING UP Is a very definite action of all poetry. Because if a person willingly puts their thoughts down on paper, it’s always a true point of personal pride to do so, regardless of whatever it is you took time to put down. Because whenever you’ve been able to concentrate long enough, to actually write down your thoughts—or even feelings— you always obtain that spunk, chutzpah, pride in your accomplishment.

ROCKS Some are small and some are so big they’re called mountains. But if it’s big and you must get to the other side, you have to be a climber or a hiker. Because you know one way or another you must get to the other side. But the size of it doesn’t really matter because it’s only a stepping stone. Sure, life is abundantly full of rocks—but don’t let any of them be too big for you. Now that you’ve finally got past that one, sooner or later, you’re going to come across another stone that has to be stepped on.

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Poems by

Robert E. Lee BEES ARE A HONEY FACTORY THAT ALWAYS PROVIDES It’s not always tasty, because sometimes it can leave a bitter taste in your mouth. But it can help you prosper to the fullest. Because just like all bees, we have a sweet side and a sour side. In actuality, they’re just another adorable species. And we’ve been given the opportunity to appreciate what they supply to and for us continuously— because they are infinite, just like us.

THE VOICES OF NATURE Are always speaking, but they don’t talk vocally. They are pristinely recognized by all of their minimal or even large accomplishments. Say for instance, you begin to wonder during the winter how much longer do you have to wait for the start of springtime. Eventually, your question becomes answered when you see the leaves blowing… just like people, they’re always recognized by their accomplishments.

ALWAYS A WORK IN PROGRESS It starts when you are able to take your first breath. And as a person gets older and gains some knowledge, you always look at it as making something bigger or better. But every now and then you have some type of setback. And within a certain amount of time, you’ll understand that life is not good all the time. Because life is always a work in progress.

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Poems by

Jeremiah Suggs DO YOU KNOW ME? An old man laying down on the sidewalk, everyone looking at him— some gave to him, and some just talked about him. He stood and he said: Do you know me? I have sacrificed my life for this country and what do I get in return… you judging me. Do you know me? I am the same man that faced death every night and day believing that our country has a better way. Do you know me? I’m the same one that watched others die by my side just protecting this land we claim to be free. Do you know yourself? Then just maybe you will know me.

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? When my first words are “I’m hungry” Change in my life— Can you hear me call for help? Can you feel my pain on what is going on? Instead of turning the other way… Can you hear me ask for love instead of hate? Can you open your mind to what I am saying? Can you understand what’s in my heart— Can you hear me now? I am tired of wars. I am tired of closed doors. People are calling for help. Some may open up to listen. Why do others choose not to?

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Poems by

Jeremiah Suggs

SHE’S GONE Sunrise in the morning to show light, give warmth. Her morning light sent me off— Her smile, it shielded me—light, The sun, I’m not Number 3 or Number 2— I’m Number 1. Our life was like nature. We stood together through the storm. Then, at night, we shared our most intense moments of touch and feeling—a force beyond anything. It was a paradise for me because there was no real danger. HA! Guess what? He knocks at my door just to take her away. I could not stop it, even with all the love in my soul… This war was out of control: My enemy’s name was Death. My life went dark. No longer can I hear those words— Just her last words: “I love you.” But now she’s gone.

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Poems by

Steve Lewis (a.k.a. Latin Gorilla) A NEW DAY The day begins, your voice alters my ways and actions. Coppertone, heavenly sent intoxicating, your Caribbean features overwhelm the animal within. I can no longer contain myself… The dark and cold, lonely night keeps my soul weeping And my dreams, nightmares are so vivid. The anticipation for the sun’s rays to break the night. So I can yet again bathe in the warmth of your love… How many seconds that will turn to minutes with hours prolonging that become weeks that come to become a new month, your eyes dig deep within my soul! If only you knew better, yet understood the nights I’ve caressed your soul…when kissing you from head to toe… IT’S SNOWING To be honest I can’t wait for the sun to rise again At 30 MPH God blew white so that the day can begin… ashes…Into my face. No harm done, to be honest it felt more like a face-off in time to bring forth the child that would play until fingers, toes, and nose numb… For every hour that passes one or two inches accumulate of white ashes that complete the puzzle that built this white sheet that covers every obstacle within its path… As the footprints leave behind the story that’s rarely remembered, the more we walk the more compelling it becomes. Sometimes I gaze out the window and wonder whatever happened to that kid that played in these white ashes… at 30 MPH… Forever praising you P.S. It’s not too cold. Who’s ready to play in the snow? 24

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Poems by

Steve Lewis (a.k.a. Latin Gorilla) WHO CARES The hunting of lost souls crying, begging to be remembered… Why should they? I was good. If you say so. We need you… Your turn… Like a bullet needs a head to run through… Who cares? You should have! Karma bites! Did you forget? Leave me alone, just as you did… Who cares? You made your bed… Good night… Acts… Up before, the cries of the rooster, You inhale and give thanks for the blessing… The struggle makes you stronger…and hopefully, they’ll see… Human nature, the responsibility you tackle, Make the reality to life become understandable. Why… I push…what you said…and added something They said…and remembered something I did That made her say…look and listen And you’ll feel the warmth of His kindness.

JANE Just another natural emotion moving the Universe, my life, my life… Close your eyes, eyes shut wide open, place your feet in my shoes, feel the pebble that brings grains of salt that bang on my windows, my ticker pumps ice cubes love lost, love gone. Okay, love don’t live here no more… Sold the bridge to She. ’Cause she misunderstood the understanding to understand he whispers sweet dreams while you sleep while standing and Barbie now lives in the back of the closet, under dirty Pampers, she so smart because she don’t drink. So what could have been life now lives in the curves in the wall. In a dim staircase, jus’ another natural emotion moving the Universe.

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Poems by

John James Pearsall GIFTS TO YOU Over the years, I’ve given you diamonds and gold. I’ve given you cars and coats. I’ve given you shoes and clothes. I’ve given you all your heart’s content. I’ve given you my heart and soul. Yet you are not satisfied. You look at me and say “Thank you, but I cannot enjoy any gift until I open the gift given to me so long ago by God: The gift of an open heart.”

JUST LISTENING Lying here listening to the things going on around me… eyes closed, breathing controlled, ears open. I can hear the hum that my building makes 24 hours a day, that I don’t notice when moving about. I can hear the rodents that scare the wits out of me. Beside me I can hear her heartbeat slowing down to a normal beat, her breathing becoming more shallow, and then steady! Last but not least, I hear her almost silent prayer asking God to let our lovemaking germinate the new life we’ve been trying for.

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Poems by

John James Pearsall

THE MAN I CALL DAD The man I call dad, I know of him. The man I call dad, I have faint memories of him. The man I call dad told me a man takes care of his own. I wake-up one day and the man I call dad is gone. The man I call dad, I dislike. The man I call dad has a new family. The man I call dad called and said, “I love you.” Finally. I look back at my life and remember things about a man I call dad— though it’s not much. I remember how he taught me to stay strong. And to always be proud of who I am. The man I call dad, I no longer dislike. When I really think about it, I am the man I call dad.

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Poems by

John Pinkney AGAIN Here I am again in my backyard, listening to the wind blow her love tone. Singing the song of love. It has me in the grip of happiness. It has released me from the sadness of the days before, so that I will not self-destruct. The mist surrounds me and lets me know that I’m love. There is no darkness or emptiness in my heart, only the light that touches my lips and fills my heart with love, joy, and happiness. There are no shadows of loss, of pain in the days that may come… Just the water of the mist of love on my lips, that I may feel the hands of God’s light of love— that touches my face. Again.

A LOVE SONG As I look back on the days that I was lonely, there was a time when I wouldn’t admit that I needed someone in my life. But my dishonesty made me miserable, sad, and filled my days with frustration. My days and nights were getting harder and harder. I could not stand myself. My strength was evaporating like water on a sunny day. Until I finally admitted to myself that I must stop hiding in a place without the light of love in my life. “It was just my guilt,” so I said. There must be a better way. Then you came into my life, my heart and soul, and made me aware that there’s a lot of love out there for me “to see and feel.” I must confess, now that I believe and forgive myself, “I can love again.” For you have put a song in my heart that touches my soul. Now your arms are my hiding place, surrounding me with a loving song of victory. 28

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Poems by

Gayle D. EVOLUTION The headaches and dizziness are an adventure. Adrenaline pumping. Always an adventure. It can be painful with a full circle. The tides are high and the waves too rough. Sometimes overhead can be suffocating, overwhelming. The breath of the beach and the smell of the sea seem so peaceful, though. The ocean and sky are such a true blue. But the pollution in the air… Evolve in the water, and the fish, they squirm for safety. The birds flock together in all weather and escape the madness of being tortured. Feeding them in abundance can make them sick. Resisting them will make them extinct. The harmonious gathering, flock of friends sticks together. Above ground, high to the sky, to below, low earth. There is trouble in Paradise.

NEW YORK New York is like a playground for grown-ups and children. Times Square and the times really changed since I was younger. It is like a mini-Disney World. Sponge Bob asking for change is a crime. And Cookie Monster almost hitting a kid because his mom did not pay him…a dime—that is a crime. Everyone laughing and smiling is a good sight to see. This is the place to be. The holidays and the big Christmas tree. The crowd, being loud, stirs up a scare. But people have no fear. Where there are bargains and discounts, energy still mounts. The air, the flare, tourists stay. Nobody is going away. The bright lights and the glamour, Beyoncé’s song, New York. One train ride from the other boroughs can bring some joy and relieve sorrows. The MTA may lead you astray, but NY is here to stay. Situations 16

Poems by

Nia Vanere CITY OF LIGHTS Behemoth the City of Lights in the belly of the beast Steps I know not where they come or where they go like a lost child Now hearing strange voices that succeed in the City of Lights— Twilight beckons the night sometimes cold Until a new day is born Strange beverages we drink—Some receive pink papers some for hours to come

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Your golden streets are gone— A city of its own— Memories I’ll always carry with me a secret grief ashes everywhere I see a part of the City of Lights I now write Still I survive In the midst of the City of Lights Noise from the holes below rumble under my feet—wind rushes my face as people come and go, paving the sidewalks— some talk, some papers read, some destiny I know not— Destinations I’m not in control. Crowds are entertained smiling and go on their way. I go to my cave to retire from another

So they can play on days of relaxation Some wander

day in the City of never-dimming lights— And awake

in and out of places to buy treasures from the great City of Lights

to tread upon its never ending, twisting streets

Harlem, my soul I give to you

Seeing people longing Some in spirit seek peace

Poems by

Nia Vanere

ACCEPTANCE Don’t call me a “nigger.” I don’t always pull the trigger. Don’t call or say, “Mira, Mira” or “Spic.” I don’t always cook in a kitchen. “Jew, who the hell are you? Born with a silver spoon. To hell with you.” All the colors of the world… Are we in our own space god creates? I am a person. I am a woman. I am a man. Freedom, I stand. From all over the world, I stand to love thy neighbor as thyself. God did command— Yet each other with harmful words we stab and jab. There is no such thing as a “pure race” anymore— my heart and spirit is and can be an open door. Mine is. What about yours? The world is on a collision course. Each other’s color we should ignore. Accept if not love, for we are his creation. Stop the babble. Acceptance. Let’s stop the deception. Let there be acceptance.

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Poems by

Miguel JUMP I stand here atop the highest building in my dark city. Wind seeping cold into my skin, eyes running, rivers fed by thoughts of discontent. I hear them. Voices of mischief. Spoken by the will of misguided go-getters: take, steal, destroy, leave waste and desolation in your wake. Burn all bridges, leave no room for retreat, give no apologies, pay no penance, condemn all empathy. Only time 4 the fight, the hustle, to shake trees and play in traffic— but I’m weary, hurt, and wounded. My arms are heavy. My thighs burn. My feet are bleeding, hands scarred with the penalty of mistake, back strained from my load. But here I stand, full of myself, engulfed by my resolve— raging, pushing against defeat. Ready to climb the next building, complete the next challenge. But a quandary persists in my mind: How do I get back down without going back? Jump. 32

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Poems by

Miguel SUCH PUSSIES I went to the Museum of Natural History and I wandered down the halls taking in visual depictions of those that came before: The caveman, barefooted, half-clothed with his stone tool and wooden spear, tracking and hunting mammoths 20 times his size, crossing the Ice Bridge to the Americas, facing forward with tribe in tow… Next, the frontier man—horse and wagon, axe in hand, building log cabin with bare hands and strong back… And before that, heavily armored knight wading into battle, swinging massive sword, engaged in hand-to-hand combat with barely any standing room… Then on to the early builders of this great city— mile-high men, no harness in sight, hardhats and swinging picks, tunnel-builders with dynamite…no worries, just glad to fight… Or even more present times, the early ’90s and ’80s, the era of crack and crime— less snow days off, more get up and go. So what if it’s mad hot? Bundle up if you’re too cold. Climb slow if it’s too high. Lift with your legs if it’s too heavy. Let them send you home if you’re sick. Finally, I look around at us now—mankind— so advanced, so smart… medicine for everything, even the common cold. Each week, a new super-food—or food not to eat. Fluffier pillow and thicker sheet. Everyone so mushy! And I think to myself, “When did we become such pussies?”

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Poems by

Luther Jarman RE-INVENT YOURSELF! Life is short! But it’s long enough for you to fuck it up. But I believe you can un-fuck it up. You got to re-invent yourself. When you don’t have nothing left when life changes you must maintain courage in your soul to reach your goal. You can re-invent yourself and be a winner. Eat up problems like you eat dinner. Do what you have to do. Your Higher Power will see you through. It’s too late to cry— you are going to make it by and by. You got to re-invent yourself when you don’t have nothing left. Learn to love yourself. Life is short! But it’s long enough for you to fuck it up. But I believe you can un-fuck it up.

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DON’T BE A GRASSHOPPER! Don’t be a grasshopper jumping around all day. Be a showstopper making your own way. All a grasshopper does is eat and sleep! An ugly green long-legged creep! Be a P. Popper! Popping out poems like Orville Redenbacher popping popcorn. A grasshopper is a glutton of grass— a lazy-ass! Don’t call me a grasshopper. Call me a showstopper— and a P. Popper.

Poems by

Luther Jarman 2014: ANOTHER YEAR TO WRITE POETRY There’s a great masterpiece within me— great, great poetry! I don’t let writer’s block stop me because I got great poetry. Write, write—don’t let nothing get you down. The right words can still be found. Let the blues run like a scared rabbit. Get rid of them bad habits. Great poetry is heaven sent. All you have to do is put it in print. 2014, another year to write poetry. There’s great masterpiece within me for the world to see. Great, great poetry! Let it be! Let it be! Let it be!

SO MANY GIFTS Each one has his/her special gift from the Creator. Use it now or later. Physical and spiritual gifts… You can cook chicken or write words that bless and uplift. Vision is a gift most of our leaders don’t have today. With creative imagination you can make a way. You can have a gift for raising goats and hogs. You can have a gift for training dogs. You can have a gift for making hats and gloves. But the greatest gift of all is showing love.

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Poems by

Luther Jarman

LIFE! Life is grinding stone that grinds all day long. Life can grind you down to the ground or polish you like blue suede shoes. You face this grinding stone everyday, but you are created in a wonderful way. You can choose to be a diamond or glass— choose to be a diamond! Because glass don’t last. Life is a grinding stone that grinds all day long.

YOU AIN’T TIME TO BE BORED When you’re getting your life together you ain’t time to be bored. When you’re going through stormy weather you ain’t time to be bored. The good seeds you are sowing are never, ever boring. When you got your eyes on the prize, tears in your eye, and you ask, “Why?” You ain’t time to be bored.

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Poems by

Sean Ginyard (a.k.a. Davey-Mansion) SPIRIT I’m Philly, Boston, and Jersey. Now I’m New York, the equation of nonconventional thought. From all walks of life I’ve often walked. I’m educated talk combined with street-life dreams I never sell. I was up South when most cats were locked up North. I knew in ’92. I can see farther. I’m the jeweled goblet in the cup of the Godfather, I’m a modern book of philosophy. I’m a newer age author. I’m the lost soul in the gutter, the kid who gets nervous around a fly dame and stutters. I’m that smooth guy who owns the world in my brain even when my pocket suffers. I’m the most and less, the worst and best. I’m an entity with the ability 2 stretch. I’m Trayvon’s hoodie. I’m a break-dancer’s pop-luck boogie. I’m a machine gun with no bullets. I’m a spliff with no green pull it. I’m spirit. My own—me, no other duplicate, society can stereotype me. It’s reality being subjected to some stupid shit. My spirit absorbs planetary data. I’m a man who matters. I’m broken glass that was once shattered. I’m Obama’s speech. I’m the Mafia’s code of loyalty. I’m nearby and still hard to reach. I’m brown and walk coolly. I’m rock-and-roll and Hendrix groovy. I’m an indie movie that has many plot twists. I’m serious business. I’m an organized future plan. I’m spirit realized FLY

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Poems by

Sean Ginyard (a.k.a. Davey-Mansion) TWO-THOUSAND CLEAN I woke up 2 strong shots and ignored my alarm clock. My young gut twisted in massively critical knots. I heard the door rattle from the hardest knock. It was My Potential. She said, “Sean, I can’t understand what you go through. Still, I know you. Get dressed. We have some work to do.” I reacted numbly. Body smelled funky. I refused to budge. My Potential walked towards me and gave me a firm nudge. At life I held a longstanding grudge. I sat up and stared at the pristine floor. My Potential walked out the room slowly and slammed the door. It was 1995 and I didn’t feel very alive. I lost all intelligence and the will 2 strive. I reached for what no one but myself could ever correct: heard another knock. It was My Self-Respect. I would try to reason with the part of myself often neglected. My Self-Respect glared at me. I put on an Al Green record, closed my eyes and lit some green. My Self-Respect started to cry regretful tears at the whole scene. I was drifting in outer space with a burden that left me, eventually. I went back to sleep and woke up in New York. 2003. The Beginning of two-thousand clean. “I will never get high again” is more than a self-affirmed declaration. It’s a true statement. Recovery’s an exercise in truth and patience. This will be a 2 be continued… Two-thousand clean is a movie that will play at many theatres, the play I’ll orchestrate at a later venue. Two-thousand clean will speak 2 the whole world, not just all of you. I have to leave out the brutal elements that it represents. It’s a film about the struggle I’ve lived and the ending is real intense. Ever since I was a child, I’d see the world and all its inhabitants as a drama I took serious. I’ve paid a precise price that knifed my whole life. I’ve bled all over many notebooks and shivered and shook at what I’ve put on paper. Like walking outside in winter with no shirt on. My imagination is strong. Two-thousand clean is a true story that I’m no longer afraid to tell. It’s about a man who found his niche in life after walking through a violent hell lots of folks know so well.

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The Beginning. Two-thousand clean.

Poems by

Iris Elizabeth Sankey-Lewis PASSION A star pulsating in all of us, Passion is amorous with diamond dust. It swells to compassion as time rolls, Passion resides within the seat of our soul. It is pleasure, pure and undefiled, Passion’s baby-fresh scent makes us smile. Frozen hearts wake up, they even weep, Passion is the reason we enjoy scrumptious sleep. From lure of complacency we can be free, Passion equals fresh surge of energy. Just listen! It leads us to follow our heart, Passion is God’s flashlight that glows in the dark. It doesn’t nurture angst or hate, take heed, Pure passion won’t dent its scale with greed. Passion’s like persons firmly passing batons, It’s as good as pupils stretching talents beyond. Now and then when I’m down, it’s poetry writing, Pure passion in fact, is far removed from sin. Don’t drop the gift while there’s life in it, Climbers with passion have reached summit. Passion tells no lies, it takes no hostages, Then again, it held me with this message.

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Poems by

Iris Elizabeth Sankey-Lewis

8 HAIKU In early morn my pen poised like stillness of trees awaiting breeze

A MERRY BLACKBERRY MORNING Clusters of blackberries dangled fresh An early morning treat I won’t forget— First, my purple bicycle, warm breeze and me, We were soon at once in ecstasy… With clear skies, lush trees, and the Hudson. A quiet morn, with joggers and bikers along Smooth winding path; it was the path I took— And I, half-full with my ride, looked Beyond a low-railed fence at two…feasting! Dark, juicy, cellular-shaped berries, small like cherries! I dismounted my bike! Then there were three Beneath one tree… A merry blackberry morn, I breakfast by the Hudson, Overlooking New Jersey.

Alone at dining room table past the midday hour I had the company of an ant

In temp of one hundred a black bird basked in my shadow

Light brown bedbug Seen on green mat in Crowded yoga class

Driving home by night I fled the signal of a white hand hitchhiking SIMPLY, GOOD MORNING Another rainy morning with you, I marvel at intricate joy Like a forgotten toy. I awoke to your touch, soft with care. Love patiently waits, just as you and I partake, Time has been good to us, Your smooth and tender touch yet Lingers long in twilight years, After all we have climbed far To courteous caves; Is it we’ve prayed and stayed the course? And have reached the clearing, Good morning!

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With evening sun, jet black butterfly courted my Pansies and I was pleased

How sad my philodendron buds naked before Winter’s frost

Earth held in traction By glistening silver moon Full like a balloon

Poems by

Linda Francis KINDNESS For me, there is no other way. Kindness takes hardly any effort at all. It is spontaneous, automatic, and all that I need— necessary for my self-esteem. I find that kindness is a natural act that comes so easily for me: I don’t have to think about it, study it, or memorize it. I don’t have to pass a test to validate me. I also know the feeling of loss, or something dissipating and realize that it is only a temporary situation. Kindness makes me smile and feel euphoric. It puts me on an automatic high. Sometimes, kindness leaves me feeling overwhelmed and sometimes so surprised, but grateful to realize that all people are not bad.

I WANT TO BE LIKE YOU If only I could be a tree… I could lead such a carefree life. I would have the ability to change the color of my skin several times a year. I wouldn’t have to worry if I lost an arm, because it would grow back automatically. If I was a tree, I would remain vibrant and beautiful for many years, without Botox or plastic surgery.

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Poems by

T.T. WIND Wind could be calm. Wind could be sharp as a knife. Wind could be a nice summer breeze. Wind could make the ocean roar. Wind could fly a kite— so beautiful in the sky. Wind could take you places so far away. In the end, the wind is just the wind.

WATER Water is calm. Water is beautiful to look at when it is golden-blue. Water makes me dream about trips I would like to take. Water makes me think about how good life is. Water is my tranquility.

DRAINPIPE There is a drainpipe near my house. There is a drainpipe near your house. The drainpipes have running water. The drainpipe made me hurt my leg. The cactus has thorns and water like the drainpipe. A cactus will help your thirst. 42

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Poems by

Dudley Koonce MIRROR Mirror, mirror on the wall—why can’t I just have a ball? I’ll drink and bash and live real fast until I fall from the clash of the wall. Mirror, mirror—tell me please, how do I find the other me? Life molds us in very different ways and shapes— like clay models, we can change. Alcohol is just the end result of all the other things in your life that have not been addressed. When the mirror from within reflects a bitter past and the shine is dull with a hint of doom and gloom… on the side of the mirror there shines a slight glimmer of an unpolished jewel waiting to be polished and prepped to a gleam that will guide your ever step. A better life awaits you, but you have to go after it and get it. Forget what you know, let someone else lead the show, help you grow and glow with a feeling of freshness inside, like white snow. (I write in your language because it is what you understand and it is who I am.)

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Poems by

Dudley Koonce

SOLITUDE The night, gloom, silence, darkness, and isolation can produce many things within man— many things that can be expressed really help one to find oneself. It’s a freedom that can never be imprisoned. Remember the nine months—that’s where it all began. Can you imagine being born and able to talk, and saying, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last!”

THE BLIND Is there really such a thing as a blind person or one who has lost their sight? By night or day, if we lose something it gives strength to another part of our body. They say a baby is living in darkness for nine months. And then there is light—and light is the best part. Light is life and darkness is death. Light, to me, is knowledge, understanding, and wisdom. But what is important: We are all blind in one way or another… Is there such a thing as the blind leading the blind and if so, Who is leading who?

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Poems by

Donald Terrell WINNER IN YOU In comes a time when in your tender life you say to yourself, Enough is enough. You’ve been through all the bullshit that your sweet, wonderful little heart can take. And then your mind starts to roll back into spaces where no one has ever dared to go. Your body begins to fall so very deeply in love with another—which is not real in the reality of your lovely mind. That great wisdom God has given you will always be the power to lead yourself in different worlds, space, lands that have never been entered before. The many foundations of the human being— where no one has ever seen with their eyes. Each time you look upon God’s lovely eyes you shall always know within that beautiful heart of yours that God is love and you are loved as well. You are, for the moment, famous— with better health and ten million souls of old. You’ll do that very sweet dance of love which is as pure as the fruit of passion.

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Poems by

Donald Terrell

KNOW ONE’S SELF/ROMANTIC OBSESSION Your life is one of many in too many ways. The first is your mind, which controls the full body. But when that goes, the rest will follow. The second is your lovely heart, which is important. When the entire soul is like a fire escape of balconies and your eyes are the complete window to an endless world of lost beings, confident deep within yourself. Your true concerns of respect for your heart rise in motions that speak out into those who refuse to completely understand. The right matters of oneself: It’s like an unavailable website that just won’t come up.

THE SWEET FRUIT OF PASSION My love for you increases with my complete body mass. The progressive occurrence shall bring the two of us together, leading a healthy lifestyle, as the active development of my love will continue to rise above all. And it may reach the stars. As this is seen in my mind, it shall also be seen within my heart.

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Poems by

D.H. LADY You never cared about me. You never loved me. You were there to use me. You lied to me. You told me you were going out with your friends. You didn’t come back until I came looking for you. Lady, white as snow. Please don’t be angry at me. Please take me home. I’ll make you feel better. I promise you. MY FUCKED-UP FATHER I didn’t like him. I didn’t love him. He was a cook on a ship. He was cheap with me. But quick to spend his money on other women, as well as my mother. I was very angry at him. He was a womanizer. He took advantage of my mother, as well as other women. He was a rolling stone. A fucked-up one at that. I couldn’t stand him. He had the nerve to always ask me: am I living up to my expectations?

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Poems by

Rufino Colón MAN-CHILD The child running wild, screaming at the top of his lungs, “I am a man!” while the parents of the world look on in amusement and appeasement. “Yes, you are, my son. Yes, you are.” As man-child I have nothing to say, but I am going to say it anyway. I am not a poet, but invite you to my verses of happiness and sadness, victories and defeat, so that you may know you’re not alone. Man-child, man or child, today I’m alright being me. I may not be a great lover, but I’ve learned to love me greatly. Man-child. Man-child. DENIED! If you ask me not to grieve you… Denied! If you ask me not to think of you… Denied! If you ask me to blame you… Denied! If you ask me to forget you… Denied! If you ask me to stop loving you… Denied! Denied! Denied!!! When I asked to see you one more time… Destiny denied! I’m asking to find your grave. So far, denied! If you ask me to give up looking for you… Hell no! Until we meet again, my Beloved Lynne. 48

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Poems by

Rufino Colón

RUN, BOSTON, RUN Run, Boston, Run on Patriots Day. Run, Boston, Run, to celebrate who you are. Run, Boston, Run, for those lost limbs. Run, Boston, Run, for the child who asks for peace so that we may stop hurting each other… for the young lady that will never bless us with her beautiful smile… for the student who will never get to enjoy the fruits of her labor. Run, Boston, Run, for the senior who was knocked down and got back up just as fast—that’s who you are, that’s the American way: bombs, 9/11 can knock us down, but can’t keep us down. Run, Boston, Run as your hero turns toward danger through the campus of MIT to protect us—isn’t he as much a hero as those who died in Iraq and Afghanistan? Run, Boston, Run—let the world witness the courage of our first responders running in the direction of the explosion, knocking down barriers— thinking not of their own safety, but of who they can help. Run, Boston, Run—like all Americans, we run for sport, but NEVER run for lack of courage. Run, Boston, Run as you approach the finish line— the explosion of hatred tried to defeat you. NEVER! RUN, BOSTON, RUN!

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Poems by

monté LAST OF THE MOHICANS Being one of the last ones left— Leftover from a time… A time when people were dropping Left and right A time when we took to the streets Crying out for an explanation— What is this, and why? Where did this come from? Many a friend of mine Was infected or at least affected Until I found myself standing alone Many times on the very edge of the precipice myself Being one of the ones left Ain’t easy.

YOU KNOW ME I’m that little boy wanting everyone’s attention “Do you love me?” You know me I’m that teenager riding the train looking cool trying never to show the fear You know me Time has been kind to me I’m that man feeding the birds. Some say something’s wrong with that picture— He’s so young —if they only knew—

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Poems by

monté

Ice on my ass as I land, then slide on my backside for the length of two whole cars SOMETIMES

What a way to start your day The only seat left on the bus is the one opposite the driver The one where everyone entering has a good chance of stepping on your feet

Sometimes the words “thank you” are just not enough Oftentimes they fail falling short feeling substandard Sometimes I wish I could say more stating the enormity of the real sentiment

The subway platform, which is elevated, has not been shoveled so I walk with a stomp in my step— get a seat after two stops only to wake up two stops after mine

Oftentimes I just say, “thank you.”

I’m having trouble dealing… Dealing with so much my head is spinning… spinning so much

If u can take the test and look at the results as a positive, no matter what and still dream still want still seek still strive If you can make your living a testimony of what it means “to love one another” If you can keep your head above water until at least it subsides If love, true love, can still scare you You are hope. Situations 16

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