Situations 17

Situations 17 Writings from the ASCNYC Creative Writing Workshop SPRING 2015

Situations 17 Situations is a literary magazine containing the writings of participants in the Creative Writing Workshop at ASCNYC. 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 and other chronic illnesses.

The ASCNYC Creative Writing Workshop is funded by a grant from the Phil Zwickler Charitable and Memorial Trust. 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.

ASCNYC annually helps more than 14,000 men and women affected by HIV/AIDS and other chronic illnesses to make lasting positive changes towards health, housing, recovery and self-sufficiency. Since 1990, ASCNYC has been designing and implementing innovative peer education, access to healthcare, and harm reduction services that foster self-respect, personal responsibility and connection to community. ASCNYC has four Community Centers in Herald Square, Washington Heights, East Harlem, the Lower East Side, and the Bronx. All ASCNYC services are free, confidential, and offered in English, Spanish and French/Haitian Creole.

Copyright © 2015 ASCNYC, 64 West 35th Street, 3rd Floor, New York, NY 10001 All rights revert to the authors upon publication.

ASCNYC Poetry Leaders: Rufino Colón, Rosa Velez, Robert E. Lee, Azeem S. Khan, Dennis Martin, and monté Situations Editor: Gerry Gomez Pearlberg Publication Design: Talo Kawasaki

Author Photos: David Nager ASCNYC Program Liaison: Ramona Cummings ASCNYC Executive Director/CEO: Sharen I. Duke Special thanks to: Brooke Brailey and Gwenn Fairall

Contents Introduction..............................................................................................................4 Poems by monté......................................................................................................5 Poems by Dennis Martin.........................................................................................7 Poems by Harriet McNeill (a.k.a. Star Heed)..........................................................9 Poems by Robert E. Lee..........................................................................................11 Poems by Luther Jarman........................................................................................12 Poem by John Alexis Cooper..................................................................................14 Poems by Steve Lewis (a.k.a. Latin Gorilla)...........................................................15 Poem by “E” (a.k.a. EROBOS).................................................................................17 Poems by Jesus Serrano........................................................................................19 Poems by Azeem S. Khan......................................................................................21 Poems by Rosa Velez.............................................................................................23 Poems by Rufino Colón..........................................................................................25 Poems by Johann Lingl..........................................................................................26 Poems by Iris Elizabeth Sankey-Lewis..................................................................29

Introduction “I came to ASCNYC’s Creative Writing Workshop losing air, losing my voice, losing my soul buried in an emotional turbulent grave. I sat quietly and the class began. I felt like a weed in a rose garden, but by the end of the first session, I realized this was no garden, it was an orchestra…an orchestra of various stories. As the weeks went by, with every poem I read, every person I met, and every word I wrote, I felt like a shovel of dirt was removed from my grave. Finally, I saw a beam of light…and as I continued creative writing, the light got brighter, my soul got stronger, my voice got louder, and now I am radiant.”

—Azeem S. Khan, ASCNYC Poetry Leader

For 15 years, ASCNYC’s Creative Writing Workshop has been a place of creative radiance. Every Thursday, we use poetry as a tool to discover and express important parts of ourselves that are often hidden or overlooked.

It’s a pleasure to share these explorations with you.

As with all things, our workshop has changed over time. Ten years ago, ASCNYC received a grant from the Phil Zwickler Charitable and Memorial Trust to launch a Poetry Leadership Program in which longstanding, consistent workshop participants would be trained to lead some of the classes. This approach aligns with ASCNYC’s commitment to peer leadership, mentoring, and skills development.

The Poetry Leadership Program has flourished. With continued support from the Zwickler Foundation, we’ve trained numerous Poetry Leaders and have incrementally increased the responsibility these leaders take in running the group.

In 2014, following my move to the Northern Catskills, the ASCNYC Poetry Leaders assumed full responsibility for running the workshop every week, shifting the operation to a peer-run endeavor in partnership with ASCNYC’s dedicated staff.

Having had the honor of facilitating the ASCNYC Creative Writing Workshop since its inception, I can’t think of a better outcome. And I couldn’t be prouder of the phenomenal poets in this issue of Situations, our wonderful Poetry Leaders, and everyone at ASCNYC and beyond, who has contributed to making this workshop so special.

Thank you for your continued support!

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Situations 17

Gerry Gomez Pearlberg Workshop Leader

MY CREATION I spent years Creating this Schooling and honing Primping and preening Kowtowing at times Or fluffing my plumage For all to see I’ve steered this hull Through some stormy times And stayed afloat Navigating, negotiating Not to crash on a crag Just smooth sailing Flaunting what I created To its proper place In the universe

TO SEARCH

Poems by

monté

ALLOW ME TO PAINT YOU A PORTRAIT OF A CHARACTER I’VE KNOWN FOR YEARS A man Grand in stature Although actually quite Small at times With one huge heart A hand in everything he can Some of his loves Animals Babies Clouds and colors in places

least expected

I think it is one of the reasons we are to search is to seek is to yearn is to learn is to keep on keeping on

The roar of an idea The song of the sparrow Laughter (and I mean a laugh that you can’t put a rein on)

the striving to and surviving on the soaking in and ringing out

He wishes He wants He lives in me

Reasons we are to be to gain to give to lose to care to want too much to choose to search to be to not to love to dream

The line of a dancer A dream of unity

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Poems by

monté I AM PROUD TO BE ALIVE THIS LONG I am proud to be alive this long with all the possibilities I’ve had to pull out 61 years No regrets If anything I am proud that despite devastating circumstances 1) A mother who mentally and spiritually abused me all of my young life 2) A father, who was never there Proud of the fact that with no Real male figure mentoring My upbringing I still learned What it is to be a man Despite a brother Who sexually molested me At the age of 7 I hated that learning experience I hated that he (my half-brother) almost 10 years my senior saw my sexuality saw my sensuality at age 7 and tried to take advantage of it I am proud to say that despite a father who was never there dying when I was 19 That half-brother (my molester) died when I was 20 My mother, the abuser was murdered when I was 21 And still I rise Keeping my head above water Proud to have gone through All the experiences Being diagnosed in 1987 Being told I had 2 good years to live Wrong—it’s been 27 years now Proud to say I think I’ll stick around for a cure.

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Situations 17

Poems by

Dennis Martin THINGS CHANGE I always dreamed of this day A day when my life would be as normal as the people you see on TV A day when all the rain stops, and the sun come out and shines Shines the light of a new beginning on my life My new life How did this come about, you ask?

It seems as if overnight, in dog years My new job makes me feel My new home makes me know My new friends show me how My old feelings disappear like a pair of old shoes They will not be worn again I will never put them back on again I never liked the way they fit anyway So happy now Yet and still waiting for reality to hit me again like a fist trying to knock me out But this time, unlike the first, I am better equipped to deal To deal with this new storm To deal with the way Things change

FALLING BODIES Sometimes I feel my body Falling Into a deep dark place A place I know all too well A place I said I don’t want to return to, but Yet and still I am ready To go there on Friday night My life Drinking, drugging, sexing with other Falling bodies My mind drifts As I get lifted Into this place I don’t like it any more But now I know And it is a big difference Once you know better Please don’t let my body Fall Not again I don’t want to be a part of the Falling bodies

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Poems by

Dennis Martin

WHY DO I GET HIGH?

I FEEL Things are good, but can always be better I feel I need to be loved I want a family of my own But it looks like I am going to just be all alone I feel As if it’s only me sometimes Only me that has to fight Only me that has to pay Pay the price of a broken-down life Because of the choices I made When I was younger Now I am old and still paying Direct deposit seems like Always an empty account A negative balance With a positive viral load

Is it because you sold drugs all my life?

If you were a math teacher, would I be one?

My mom went to college.

Maybe that’s why I am in college.

But you taught me how to sell drugs.

All my life I wanted to be a star.

Is that why you are my father with panty-hoes and lipstick on?

Why do you do this to my mother?

She loves.

I am like her.

But the others are not.

Why? Why did you do it?

Why do I get high?

And then want to cry?

This is why I don’t know math or how to play baseball or basketball, let alone spell it.

Parent—you have to pay rent to be one, right?

Or are you just renting me for a little less than free?

No one is perfect; I now see.

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Situations 17

MOMENTS When I was young I wanted it to last forever It was necessary Necessary for me to stay In my own world Moments in time lost forever But why Why do I feel this moment won’t last?

Lost in my mind Moments are scary Scary to me because Things can change in a blink of an eye In any moment, things can change Your life can change in a moment Moments are dangerous Dangerous moments The best moments The worst moments It’s so funny that life Can be over at any given Moment

Poems by

Harriet McNeill (a.k.a. Star Heed)

CROSSED SURROUNDINGS OF LIVING A PRECIOUS LIFE Living a Life that screams, It’s over Loving a Life of “Drugs and Danger” Feelings of a Life With No Crossed Surroundings Calling out to a Higher Power GOD, Where Are You Now? Living a Life that screams, Pain Loving a Life of “people and things” Feelings of a Life With No Crossed Surroundings Calling out to a Higher Power GOD, Help Me Now! Living a Life that screams, You Can Do It Loving a Life of “Life facts are true” Feelings of a Life With No Crossed Surroundings Calling out to a Higher Power GOD, Thank You I got it now Peace & Serenity in Recovery

Situations 17

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Poems by

Harriet McNeill (a.k.a. Star Heed) LOVING ARMS, CARING HEARTS Loving arms, caring hearts Life is about people Being covered in hugs of thoughts Loving arms, caring hearts Life is about people Being covered in smiles of bright lights Loving arms, caring hearts Life is about people Being covered in love That has no heights We are all the people Being covered by love, hugs, and thoughts Where bright lights have no flights— Flights meaning no limits in love In the love we have for ourselves (Meaning your love is limitless)

PRESS, PRESSED TIME My life being pressed with time I move slow to be with my mind After seeing my surroundings I looked at my watch I began to start crying My life being pressed with time I move slower, going out my mind After seeing my surroundings I looked at my watch I began to start stomping My life being pressed with time I move fast to be with my mind After seeing my surroundings I looked at my watch I began to start jumping and shouting My life being pressed with time I move faster, going out my mind After seeing my surroundings I looked at my watch I began to start to believe That this life of mines IS PEACEFUL NOW!

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Situations 17

Poems by

Robert E. Lee A MIXED DEVELOPMENT Always starts up as only a seed in the mind. That eventually turns into a physical action that doesn’t always gain the proper fruition. And when it doesn’t, it doesn’t really mean that particular seed was or is totally wrong. Because in all actuality just like they say, “Time waits for no one” … It also means you still have a seed and you can always control its own development.

ATTENTION SEEKERS Are all very competitive because every single time a person is able to obtain some type of satisfaction in something, there’s always going to be a form of jealousy or resentment from others. You never can please all the people every single time. So why not appreciate the competition instead of always battling it? Sometimes, just let certain things slide by without a response or reaction on your part. And when you’re able to do something as minimal as that, you actually deserve the proper and correct attention you seek.

ALWAYS AN EXTENDED GROWTH Remember the old saying, “You’re never too old to learn something new”? Which, in all actuality, is a total reflection of a past that helps lead into the future. Say, for instance, ever since childhood you’ve been doing practically the same physical thing daily, knowing that sooner or later, things will eventually get better than before. Mostly mentally at first, it will transpond into a physical growth of maturation that will always continue to extend.

SILENCE SPEAKS VOLUMES Means that even though you don’t hear people talk, you still always receive the cusp of what was said.

Because throughout your very own intelligence, you’ll be able to determine right from wrong. Every child gains the proper knowledge to eventually become a decent adult… and when they do, that very same type of silence will definitely let them continue to gain the proper knowledge. That also leads to the proper finances to receive much more… to not only become smarter, but even richer.

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Poems by

Luther Jarman BEAUTIFUL THING! A thing beautiful or a beautiful thing Touch the heart of a queen and king I like to hear a church bell ring Or Sam Cooke when he sing That’s a beautiful thing!

SOMETHING IN THE SILENCE The stillness in the night Knowing everything is alright The peace in your soul The quiet reaching of your goals Still waters run deep And He gives his Beloved sleep Science of the mind Religion, literature, and philosophy of humankind Stars and bars and ugly cars Silence will tell you who you are

MY GRAND DAD My Grand Dad was mad.

He loved his licker and homemade beer.

I wish he still was here.

Corn licker and dandelion wine…

Do that make you sick in the mind?

I have an excuse for being a drunk.

Would I have an excuse for being a monk?

My Grand Dad was mad.

He loved his licker and homemade beer.

I wish he still was here.

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Situations 17

Poems by

Luther Jarman

BRONXWOOD AVENUE The skunk and stray cat.

The raccoon and the rat.

A church woman wearing a big hat.

Where am I at?

This poem may not sound good, But I’m on Bronxwood.

ONE DAY One day I woke up and I was 60 years old.

My dreams haven’t come true and I haven’t reached my goal.

One day I woke up and I was broke My life was a big joke One day I was a dog looking for a bone A homeless man looking for a home How long has this been going on?

Going on!

How long has this been going on?

Going on!

Don’t forget where you come from You Bum!

LIFE! Life is a big noise!

That disturbs me and the boys Life is full of devils and fools Who don’t give a fuck about the rules And they say, “You are born to lose.”

I want a life that’s unique Happy and complete Sound and sweet A funky beat with dancing feet Life!

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Poem by

John Alexis Cooper HOOD STORIES Hood stories springs eternal Hope for times of no despair Hood stories search for continuous ways to find a lifestyle to breathe and sleep in good air Hood stories have the continuum to turn out new forms of marketing skill Hood stories will be that striving force of making something out of nothing great marketing skills Hood stories of children of one-parent homes Hood stories worldwide where there’s no father’s hug due to the fact that he has passed, and for his death, justice for this, it’s not known Hood stories I love to hear from the past, present, and future—I always adore

Hood stories is how I live in life for the money in the corporate world, out in the sea and on the shore Hood stories—the rich and powerful try to learn these ways for profit in their life Hood stories of my ghettos.

We will not give them our ways, to them it’s strife, To us street life Hood stories, hope springs eternal success stories from the ghetto to mansions Hood stories from the cradle to the grave.

They cannot do, they’re jealous due to the fact of what we are, we are an expansion.

Thank you my Lords and Saviors, you all ARE my attention!

Hood Stories

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Situations 17

Poems by

Steve Lewis (a.k.a. Latin Gorilla) MAYBE Maybe if I took a thirteen-letter word and placed it in a poem, you would understand the understanding of my dreams, nightmares!

The hollering and crying of lost souls who never read the manuscript to the rules of this game.

“I know what I’m doing,” so she thought.

Thirteen reasons why!

13. Being raised in a somewhat of a something she call home.

12. A fatherless child, a mother who made the wrong choices.

11. Having her innocence taken, because Moms didn’t pay attention…and was rocked to sleep, “Hush little baby don’t you cry.”

10. Every other day a new uncle, party till she fell asleep. “Mom, he touches me.” Shut your mouth, he puts food on the table…Stop thinking of yourself. Think of your brothers and sisters. I don’t have a job!

9. Education, home school, on the other side of her door. The classroom just to keep the checks on the first and third week of the month.

8. Found a way to get away. I like going to school. I got friends.

7. Hay girl, what good!? Same shit. Oh no she didn’t…She trying to play you…What did she do? You’re going to let her get away with it?! “Peer pressure.” Take a stand and make your name—Ring Bells!

6. Little girl growing lady bumps. Damn girl, you can’t hide that. I think he likes you. Sure, you’re right. I know what he would like. Shut your mouth…LOL. 5. Wolf in sheep’s clothing. Hey you, what your name? Why? So I don’t have to give you one. Whatever, I’ll call you baby girl.

4. Confused. Girl, he’s nice, pay attention, keep your legs crossed. It’s game. Think of your mother’s life or better yet, think of that girl who hangs on the corner every night.

3. Hook, line, sinker…Let’s go to the movies, give me a chance? I’m not like those other girls. I know you’re not. Popcorn or peanuts?

2. Girl, I really think he likes me. Don’t be another trophy on his mantel. He’s not like that. Sure he ain’t.

He’s good to me. I thought so too. Mom, I ain’t like you. Sure you ain’t.

1. Hay, girl. You’re coming? Will you be there? Waiting for you…See you later.

Thirteen Let’s dance. Okay. Damn, it’s hot in here. Let’s walk. You want something to drink? Why not? You smoke? I don’t do drugs. It’s weed. That’s still a drug! Let’s go back inside. Why you acting like that?

I thought you wore big-girl drawers. I do! So what’s the problem? Weed doesn’t kill, and you already drank. Ain’t alcohol a drug? It ain’t like that. Ain’t a drug a drug? “You’re right,” she thinks, but doesn’t listen to the morals speaking to her. Don’t do it. Here—just one drag. You want me to find your courage? You got jokes. Give me that, my baby girl.

Situations 17

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Poems by

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

I REMEMBER Thinking, was it a day such as this one when my forefathers were taken from the motherland?

Like cookies out of a cookie jar, place.

ARE YOU LONELY TONIGHT? I sit on the edge of my bed Gazing into the illuminating light That the moon shines upon these Cold and bitter, lonely nights.

Memories of you, deep within the moon’s soul…

Your heavenly scent intoxicating every time I inhale The midnight’s mist.

My eyes close, remembering the memory of the first time I gazed upon your nakedness During our first conversation, your gentle touch.

When you said, Hope to see you again, and asked for my number…

I cursed the son of Venus for cursing me with his arrows dipped in Love Potion #9.

I cursed that naked winged fairy for putting you in the beat of my heart.

So I ask my soul to ask the almighty, the all-seeing: Are you lonely tonight?

P.S. Te extraño.

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Situations 17

Poems by

“E” (a.k.a. EROBOS)

“HUSBANDS” With the most friendly and congenial greeting I could summon on a Monday morning, I said ‘good morning’ to the woman who sat to the left, inside the community based organization, this woman, whose baby granddaughter’s wheel carriage was bent under the weight of an old corpulent sax player who had lost his balance at a community outreach the day before, taking my time, energy, strength, to straighten out the severely bent wheel; this same woman, whom I complimented when I tasted her vibrant, arroz y abicheulas; she had smiled liked the sun breaking through the clouds, a kiss on the cheek encouraged her socialization, we had a beautiful community event, with perfect weather to boot...This same woman, in response to my most friendly and congenial greeting that I could summon on a Monday morning; recoiled at my touch, like I was a giant spider with the face of a rat and the body of a snake, she bared her fangs at me, like I was a rapist, like I was a composite of all the men that used and abused and disrespected her, like I was the man that broke her heart when she knew what love was, way past the point of healing...At the community event, she told me that there is no ‘Mr.’ to her ‘Ms.,’ and she isn’t ‘Mrs.’ anybody...in fact, she doesn’t miss them at all...she told me that both her husbands are dead...and those are just the two she talks about....I did not know that I had that much power over a woman to the point of making her react so honestly...to make her revolt in disgust, like I kidnapped her in her own home; like she woke up to use the bathroom at 3 in the morning and there I was, reaching for her like Swamp Thing with scabies and bedbugs on the tips of my fingers...Maybe, some quality I may or may not possess, reminds her of her dead husbands, reaching out from the grave, searching through the past, saying to her: “I’m not dead....We’re not dead....To have and to hold, till death do us part!...Why are you still there, playin’ the victim, black widow bitch!...You think you survived us....but we’re the lucky ones....You were our partner in sickness, disease, and addiction....We are waiting for you regardless....” With the most friendly and congenial greeting that I could summon on a Monday morning; it was not me that touched her hand...it was her husband.

8-21-11

22:43hrs

Situations 17

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Poems by

“E” (a.k.a. EROBOS) “CRYING,” AFTER JIMMY SANTIAGO BACA I cry for the things I’ve never had; I cry for the fact that I always need; I cry for the children I do not have; I cry for the mother of my children that I have never met; I cry for the family that I do not have; I cry for the family that I left behind; I cry for the things that I don’t know; I cry because of the things that I do; I cry for the Earth’s pain; I cry because I don’t know what to do about it; I cry because I am in pain; I cry because the pain motivates me; I cry because I am selfish; I cry because I’m not selfish enough...I cry in the loneliness of a prison cell; dank from decades of past souls who have become overwhelmed by the acceptance of things that they could have changed; the unwillingness to change the things that they can; and late arriving wisdom of not knowing the difference. A facade has no tears to shed. Men, machine-like, not paid to kill or be killed like the Marines, but sent to die by way of physical, mental, and emotional attrition...whether it’s our old selves, personas picked up from others or created out of the convenience of making an impression; strangers that we became; will eventually die one layer at a time on the shells of years that will peel away like an onion. The insanity of street life will be stripped down and replaced with clarity that’s better served elsewhere; Some of us will never show our tears to the world...cold granite walls, steel bars, iron metal gates, absorb tears like a sponge; I walk with a penitentiary in my chest; the prison gun turrets are hinges that open into my spine; the walls and fences are my ribcage; my stomach is the mess-hall, my brain is the law library; my heart is the strength of the weight shack; my legs are the yard; my arms are cans of jack mac; my mouth is commissary; my dreams are at liberty and are free to go wherever they want, but for some reason they always seem to come back on the count; my wishes are mail; my bitterness is odd number visits, my net bag is family reunion; I sweat state boots; my stress is conditional release date; my skin is Corcraft greens; my headaches are alternative to violence and CASAT; my ears are “red dot”; my tongue is buffing pad, my hair is parole board, patience, tolerance, cow shit smell, potatoes, cabbage, cornfields, uniforms, batons, name tags, and DIN numbers...and my eyes...they cry....

3/31/14

19:45hrs “SEMI-CIRCLE” I’m sitting on an A-Train stuffed to the gills with bodies of every color, size, shape, and type. Standing, not a foot and a ½ directly in front of my sitting and quite relaxed form, is a middle aged, pudgy white woman. She locks her fatigued gaze upon my bland stare, with wide cow eyes, pleading with me nonverbally, hoping against hope, that I would let her and her two full Trader Joe’s bags, and her bulging white leather purse that looks like an Olympic size spam and wonderbread sandwich, sit down. I look upon her Catholic school skin tone stockings, and the mass of spidery multicolored veins on both of her pale, fleshy, drumstick calves, pulsating, throbbing, and antsy with bothered, unnatural life, that remind me of watching the Road&Rail report. Her cute, yet non-sensible shoes, betray her weight to gravity and her insteps look like Chinese dumplings on a sacred mission to destroy aforestated shoes! Her eyes have fixated upon me with pitiable, grim determination, unblinking, for so long, that she’s about to tear over. The first thoughts that rush into my mind are those that remind me of the fact that this plump, pink specimen of humanity, usually, would regard me as The Invisible Man, she would acknowledge my presence on the street, or in the park, or in a store, with suspicion, distrust and disdain. She, as routine practice, would come to regard me as her potential rapist, mugger, pickpocket, or all of the above, she would, on any given day, acknowledge me with scowl, frown, or leery eyed with fear or wide with angst and foreboding...my act of defiance, my denial of Anglo-American entitlement, is not anywhere near the full circle that it ought to be...but I do know this: I am not getting up...I am never getting up....

8-14-14

11:27hrs 18

Situations 17

Poems by

Jesus Serrano PAIN AND SUFFERING: MY LIFE STORY When I came from Puerto Rico to the United States, my plane landed in New York and in Brooklyn I stayed. Three months passed me by and I had to keep to the street, not knowing where I was or where I was going to live. Doing the time on the street, I found an empty place where I got in and laid my head. The days were passing by and I had no place to stay, not being able to find a job because I did not know the place. Across the street from the empty building I was in was a Dominican bar. I started to go there because I did not have a place to hang. I began to look for a job.

In desperation, I began to steal because I could not get a job and had no food to eat while looking. I got arrested and ended up in The Rock. The Island of Rock where I spent some time. At that time, I did not know the language. I was abused, because the officer was hitting me and I didn’t know what to do. I was only 18. I spent 18 months there. And I suffered all that time after my plane landed in New York.

THE BEAUTY OF MY LIFE Living in Puerto Rico was a beautiful thing. But going to school was shameful because I felt less than. I’m saying this because I did not have anything—I was very poor and others said things about that. I went through school and graduated. But I carried the shame—the shame of having nothing— the thing that was hurting me. The shame of my family hurt. Everything I remember when I look back at my life at an early age: I was a Boy Scout and I began to learn that I can be like others, no matter if I feel ashamed. Shame gave me the reason to try to be someone people respect. I entered the police auxiliary to look a little better and not feel so much shame. When I was in high school, I was learning more than the people who were making me feel shame. I thank God for giving me freedom.

And now I understand that no matter what anybody says, I don’t have to feel ashamed.

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Poems by

Jesus Serrano

JAIL TIMES I remember the first time I got locked up in Rikers Island, one of the jails in New York. I was only here six months when I got locked up because of the things I did. I remember the abuse I experienced because I did not know Ingles. Everything that happened made me understand that the criminal thing I did was not meant to be. While I was in the dormitory, there was a racism fight between Blacks and Puerto Ricans—and I was caught in between. I still did not know the language and I decided to learn. I began to ask questions about the words I did not understand.

Soon, I began working for a dollar a day. I got paid and I saved all the money to go back to where I came from. Juana Diaz is the city in Puerto Rico where I was born and where I went back, only to get into trouble because of the bad habits I had learned. Today, I keep on learning that when I make mistakes I have to correct them so I don’t get locked up again.

Jail, Jail, Jails…

Where most of my life I spend

THE STREETS OF NEW YORK I remember the times that I spent by myself, lonely and heartbroken, in the streets of New York.

Things happened to me—nothing was the same in the streets of Brooklyn where I ended up.

Morning, nights, and noon is what I remember—that I had to steal and ask for change to be able to eat. That is what I learned on the street. Not only bad things have happened to me, but every time I think about it, I refresh my memories to keep me in touch with what I learned on the streets. I was 19 years old when pain and suffering began. And I get a lot of stress when I think about the things that could have brought my death. Today, no matter what, I don’t do those things. Because there is only one life and I want to live today. My life has not been so beautiful, but now I understand that everything happens for a reason and I don’t need any more pain. Everything happened to me when I was in jail…years I spent…and I confronted the pain when I begin to cry and learn of a new way.

This is part of my life story, of the things I have learned. My life has been a miracle because I should have been dead, but I learned a lot on the streets of New York.

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Poems by

Azeem S. Khan VACUUM I can do your carpet and bare floors, blinds and draperies too.

But you only use me on your carpet.

Is that all you think I can do?

I’m a new model of vacuum, you see…

Hot or cold, steamy or dry, on my back or standing upright, a manual push or just program me to run.

I come with a manual—just take some time and read.

There’s even a telephone number if you want to know more about me.

Maintenance is a breeze, a simple cover—nothing fancy.

But please be gentle when my filter gets dusty.

I can guarantee you a lifetime of happiness because of all that I can do.

But back to the carpet I go— because you never got to know me and all that I can offer you.

AMONG THE LIVING I used to live, but now I am just alive.

Alive in this beautiful casket, watching all the people living around me.

I pray someday I will be able to walk among the living.

But for now I have to lie in this beautiful casket I live in.

I yearn to live again.

And in the darkness of my sorrow, I can see the bright lights.

And in the echoes of my screams, I can hear the applause.

And in my nightmares, I can dream of the happiness to come.

Hands to the sky weeping in my casket tears rising so I climb higher and higher looking down in fear for my life and the ones lost, praying for someone to open a door and let the tears out and let me in.

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Poems by

Azeem S. Khan

MOONLIGHT

LIMITLESS

Living in the moonlight of love, turbulent thoughts possess my mind.

My emotions in excruciating pain.

My heart weeps, as my soul decays.

Dedicated to my parents, Majid Khan & Nafisa Kalamadeen-Khan

The Grim Reaper summons me.

Maybe he will love me, so I begin my journey.

One last step forward to eternity, or one step back to take control of my destiny?

Suddenly an encroaching voice consumes me speaking of hope with a vision of my destiny.

I fall to my knees in tears questioning its promises questioning why it saved me.

Arose the sun as the moonlight hides maybe to return for another night.

I grace the floor with conflicting thoughts of what will be but the message of the voice now lives in me.

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The greatest man I will ever know, My Father.

The greatest woman I will ever know, My Mother.

The greatest parents, My parents.

Thank you.

For the love, For the religion, For the sacrifices, For the values, For the morals, For the education, For the scolding, For the bedtime stories, For the birthday parties, For the drive-in movies, For the Sunday picnics, For the Easter Mondays, For the summer vacations, For the Christmas mornings, For the New Year’s Eve, For the crayons and chalk, For the memories, But most importantly For NEVER limiting me.

My infinite gratitude, Mommy and Daddy.

Poems by

Rosa Velez THE MORNING SUN What is a vision of beauty?

Have you seen the morning sun whose shades of yellow just brighten up one’s day?

Yellow-orange, yellow-red, Yellow-ochre, yellow-gold, All these colors van Gogh foretold.

Colors of beauty, colors of warmth, colors that tantalize one’s sight with food for thought.

How sad, the blind man who craves the vision only his mind and his heart can feel.

Yet he can really see far beyond the man who was born with sight.

This is true beauty…

This is true sight…

Have you seen the Morning Sun?

WITHOUT RAIN Instead of the sunlight, give me rain.

Rain, cleansing me of all those memories…

INSANE Rain is tears in disguise.

Can’t hide those lies, Can’t hide the rain.

The sun warms me, dries me, yet at times annoys me burning my skin, like flames…

Like a whiplash— a whiplash, that’s constantly striking my skin…

Beating like a drum, without rhythm.

Beating like a dream, without rhythm.

Beating without rhythm, Without rhythm, Without Rain…

My life’s insane.

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23

Poems by

Rosa Velez

TAKE TIME OUT Take time out to see me for who I really am Take time out to hear me when my ears hear no more whispers Take time out to share a moment with me, to feel the echoes of my heart, to feel the memories of the past wisp away in the wind.

Take time out to realize, your blindness is only temporary, for the true sight, is the one that sees from the soul…

Take time out.

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THE ENTRANCE silence is where we entered where there were ashes, there were broken masks. ashes of the past, ashes of the present, wings wide open, taking everything. everything that you gave me, everything that we shared, everything tossed into the flames— bright, hot, fiery flames. like the pits of hell swallowing me, tonight i shall run naked in the wind, not caring what they’ll say not caring what i feel. pain, like hot coals sizzling again, crisping the outer layers of my skin leather-like, reptile maybe, a barrier, like a porcupine. no passions left… who am i? trying to be free from the silence where i entered… tonight i will wipe a tear from the ashes of the past turning the flames into the residue of the phoenix. i shall rise like the phoenix from the fire into the ashes strong, beautiful, wings wide open. tonight i shall enter my life, knowing that if i fall, i shall be caught by the universe— not you? where unicorns fly and dolphins sing their haunting songs siren-like mesmerizing putting men into trances tonight I shall enter my life entering time-zones not known connected to this world—not necessarily my own, tonight i shall enter this life, with a belief that magic can exist within the realms of its entity. tonight, i shall walk in silence.

Poems by

Rufino Colón

NOVEMBER 3, 1972 Nov. 3: The day my heart was buried in an unknown cemetery.

Nov. 3: The day my parents hid the truth from me, that my Angel no longer resided on this earth.

Nov. 3: The day her best friend said to me, We buried her this morning … I felt something inside of me leave.

Nov. 3: The day hope died.

Nov. 3: The day that the happy in birthday died.

Nov. 3: The day I thought my life was over … But now I know that life started that day, in spite of the pain … God put you in my life so that my heart can know what LOVE is.

(THANK YOU, MY BELOVED LYNNE)

I’M BACK LYNNE Dearest LYNNE, I forgot to thank you for teaching me what Love is— what you didn’t teach me was how to live without you.

So I’ve served forty-eight years of a natural life sentence in the prison of the brokenhearted.

I pray to God that on my release day, you are the one holding the key to my freedom.

God willing, I’ll see you then.

P.S. I miss you.

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25

Poems by

Johann Lingl

MOM I remember my mother Strong, Proud, Full of courage Mother courage A survivor _________ Last time I saw my mother An old woman White hair, Wrinkled Body in pain Defeated Lost her first born Gave up on life _________ It was the last time I saw my mother The next time I saw her at the cemetery The funeral Saw my Dad crying for the first time Funeral Cemetery _________ There for the grace of God She suffered no more Eternal peace Angel trumpets calling So shall it be written So shall it be done I remember my mother

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RIDER IN THE PARK

But you are true friend, never do you kiss and tell.

You stand on your black, shimmering pedestal Cast out of iron, clad in copper.

You’re the rider of the horse you’re sitting on, Strongly mounted on your steed.

Horse and rider mounted on the pedestal.

You’re the landmark of the towns, cities, parks.

We see you everywhere, Barely giving you a second glance.

Oh, if you could only talk.

The stories, the histories, what adventures could you tell us.

Or would your mouth stay closed?

Only you know the things you have seen, Only you will know things you still will see.

We are long gone … you the Rider of the Mighty Steed will still stand proud and strong.

Remember, once I saw you as more than just a Statue.

Sitting on a park bench, Gravel under my feet Grass, bushes, trees around me Flowers enticing with their scent.

Watching people, seeing dogs frolicking Birds are darting by with the flutter of their wings, Twitter and chirp with some kind of urgency.

Where are they flying to?

Where are their homes?

In front of me, A statue on its pedestal.

How long has it been there?

How long has it been in the same spot?

How long has it called the pedestal its home?

Or is the whole park its home?

Cast out of iron, Clad in copper, tarnished—almost to a beautiful turquoise-like color.

Pedestal made out of black granite, Polished to shimmering shine, Enhanced with little embedded sparkles in golden hues.

What have you endured all these years in your solitude?

What have you seen, heard, witnessed?

Years, decades, or a century, how long have you been on your lonely, Singularly appointed spot in the park?

Keeping vigil, keeping watch, keeping quiet.

All this time you stand there, proud.

No complaints arise on your side of the perspective.

If only you could talk, would you tell the tales you witnessed?

Lovers holding and kissing under your presence.

Couples bickering.

Youth came and smoked their first cigarettes behind your back.

Young and old, the sick and the tired, have made use of you.

Rested, recharged.

Homeless people used you as their sleeping bed.

Dogs have pissed on you.

Pigeons and doves left their excrement.

If only, if only you could tell the tales that people tell under your casting shadow.

Nothing bothers you, nothing sets you aflutter, nothing gets you angry.

Strong, unshakeable, you stand, proud overlooking the park.

Spring rains, Summer breezes, Fall storms, winter’s fury.

You endure it all.

Again, you stand proud, strong, silent.

Silent in your inner self.

Silent on your spot on your pedestal.

Men built you.

Men look up to you.

The things you see, the things you hear,

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27

Poems by

Johann Lingl

NIGHTINGALE Is it Triumph of the Will ?

Or La Vie en Rose?

Does the Nightingale ever sleep; Are the angels above blowing their trumpets all the time?

What do the saints do in Heaven?

Are the angels playing the strings of their harps all the time?

Things are seldom as they seem.

Blowing winds crack your cheeks, Open up sky, unleash torrential rains, Wash away the sins of my Fathers, Wash away the sins from myself.

You’re misery, my man.

Does Saint Peter stand all day long at the Pearly Gate?

Does he ever sit down, eat, drink, use the bathroom?

Birds build nests.

I will not.

Isn’t it ironic—all the things we do, achieve?

That none of your works will ever endure!

God heard me cry, Why do sinners’ ways prosper?

Are you, “God,” my enemy or my friend?

Bones built me, flesh covered them, Blood flowed through the body you gave me.

Desires can’t be quenched with wine.

Crying. Weeping.

What you did tell me, What I do is me, what you do is hesitation in the face of your choice; You’re figuring out the morality of the thing.

Does the nightingale ever sleep, or is it an insomniac?

Once again I feel you and find you.

Your truth is heard, There I go, but for the grace of God.

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Poems by

Iris Elizabeth Sankey-Lewis SIMPLICITY To add to the joy of another Means it is good with your soul to share To subtract from one’s fears Is to lay transparent their inner strength To multiply blessings Means we’re honest, humorous students and teachers To divide any burden Is to dissolve the foe, and awaken the friend in us.

WHY I WRITE I write to be seasoned with sharp taste of spice I write to improve my view of us, left and right I write to sift through sound and sense I write because writing has been my loyal friend I write to find my voice in dew of freshness I write because writing beckons thoughtfulness I write to see everything the naked eye fails to show me SOMETHING OR SOMEONE PHENOMENAL When where you are today Is better than yesterday, Something or someone phenomenal hears you.

I write to unearth gems waiting within me I write because with stillness, it’s therapy so free I write to learn to live, and to share the joys I feel from writing I write, so that my inner lamp with oil won’t flicker dim

When haters hate you But your kindness stays true, Something or someone phenomenal touches you.

When the devil comes luring But you set him fleeing, Something or someone phenomenal guides you.

When you’re calm amidst any storm While others seem alarmed, Something or someone phenomenal buffers you.

When your wealth is with features Other than dollars, Something or someone phenomenal provides for you.

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Poems by

Iris Elizabeth Sankey-Lewis POETRY OF ART SURPASSES WORDS Painters become artists at their canvas.

They won’t paint to drown out the world They won’t paint with wavering soul Their ears, their eyes become friends inspiring Dancers who love to dance feel live more fully.

They won’t dance the dance of loneliness They won’t dance the dance of drowsiness Their ears, their eyes become friends they believe in Singers sing because music flows from their hearts.

They won’t sing songs suppressing joy They won’t sing songs making them coy Their ears, their eyes become friends with blessings Drummers drum on anything, anywhere, anytime.

They won’t drum to chase frustration They won’t drum, calling condemnation Their ears, their eyes become friends that lead to the Master The painter, the dancer, the singer, and drummer understood The poetry of art surpasses words.

The natural rhythm of innocent humorous hearts is art.

432 PARK IN NEW YORK 432 Park in New York Haunts the masses night and day Each cardinal view shows phallus palace Belonging to those, ultra famous?

Such joystick of the rich Belongs to a one-legged giant You’ll see Gulliver’s thumb up Some say it’s “freedom-from-poor-people” tower 432 Park in New York Could be mid-finger of a financial foe A sore pinkie A matchstick of the one percent A rectal thermometer A giant chopstick A maypole sans ribbons The pencil tower 432 Park in New York Is toothpick award And that too, is final.

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ASCNYC annually helps more than 14,000 men and women affected by HIV/AIDS and other chronic illnesses to make lasting positive changes towards health, housing, recovery and self-sufficiency. Since 1990, ASCNYC has been designing and implementing innovative peer education, access to healthcare, and harm reduction counseling services that foster self-respect, personal responsibility and connection to community.