Cream Yellow Mustang
This Way, My Love
I didn’t know him, But I was very acquainted with his Mustang. I imagine as a babe I was rocked To sleep at least once In his arms ... Possibly while standing next to that Mustang ... Maybe he smoked a Cigarette taking puffs and drags In rhythm with my small baby laughs Before he couldn’t draw enough Breath to laugh or talk or stand. I didn’t get to know him, But I knew his Mustang well. Collecting dust in the garage like Cigarette ashes on the concrete. Parked hidden away Like my reserve and childhood lack of Self-control. I am the descendant of that car. Cream Yellow and dust colored, Was the dust protection from the rays Of the sun. Sunscreen to keep it young forever, Like the glare of ocean water from the Side of a Navy ship. Kept hidden away, but I was ready to rage on the inside. I didn’t really know him too well, But I was acquainted with his Mustang. I am a descendant of that car. Tippy toes ... piece of metal ... Can I peer inside the window Like I’m looking at the past? Looking for perception of what remains. The taller I got the easier it got To peer inside at the make believe. Kept hidden away, but engine Ready to roar inside. Years go by and years swing by, And I can still point it out on the Road. And maybe I eventually came to realize I’m not a descendant of the car I am the car. And so was he.
When I’ve forgotten how to Pray And the words won’t come Give me two, Forgive me When my heart searches for The comfort of gratitude, but My mind invades the space with Judgment Despair And angst Give me two, Restore me When loneliness threatens to Imprison me And the only color is gray, When I’ve lost my way back from the illusion of separateness, her depths threatening to Claim me Give me two, Receive me When I forget, you point me to the poets New England, Belfast Caged or Free Ancient, Asian, Greek And my heart cracks open Once again There you are. There I am. And we sit And I pray.
— Carrie Quinn
The Sweetest Fragrance The sweetest fragrance What is it Where is it It is nothing But the divine love It is within us This perfume of heavenly affection Brings us closer every moment The sensory aroma Dwells in our beautiful hearts Once we feel it with immense devotion Surely we will find it with the speed of light — Irfan Shariff
¡¡¿Estas Seguro?!! Cuando ellos cerca hacen inseguridad Por preguntas que exasperan sus integridad … ¡¡¿Estas Seguro?!! O que sobre vida y todos de sus fatigas Que traen dolor y innecesario calor … ¡¡¿Estas Seguro?!! ¿Cómo podimos pelear cuando estas cosas nos atacan? Cuando acciones no nos ayudan los escenarios de nuestras charadas. Todo que es dejó a hablar es una regalo irrefutable: Lo sirve como una cura desafiante, todo que es nesecario que lo hables es … ¡¡¿Estas Seguro?!! Are You Sure?!! When those close cause question by testing their integrity through shallow suggestion ... Are You Sure?!! Or how about life and all if its strife Which bring pain and unnecessary strain ... Are You Sure?!! How can we fight back when these things attack? When actions do not aid the scenes of our personal charades. All that is left to be spoken is an irrefutable token: To serve as a defiant cure, all that is needed to be said is ... Are You Sure?!! — Reggie Legend
— Anastasia Gensler
Poets of Elgin Literary Festival 2019 Raised My Hand There’s no such thing as a stupid question, We all know LIFE is one big lesson, So I must ask myself questions, Because contrary to popular belief I don’t know it all…. To me, power of questions has always been clear They elevate our consciousness as a collective They can be philosophical Or paradoxical even … Questions help you determine what you believe in Getting the right questions are key to getting the right answers Some answers I haven’t found yet Whether it’s a life of second chances or living with regrets Going off instinct, emotions, and experience Questions can lead to confusion or brilliance Like, what’s my purpose on earth? & which religion is legitimate? Common sense, logic, intuition, book smarts Questions influence my psyche so I can be sure of what I want I, raised my hand But there’s no need to ask a teacher I’m thirsty for knowledge and truth You can call me the truth seeker I, raised my hand In solidarity for my people I, raised my hand Asking why they don’t see us as equal. — Chalet Lorraine
Old Child’s View of the Dream We’re all in a limbo of dreams as dream believers when making the dream more than what it is. Of course, you know that. (?) Interrupted, I wake up to pee; and reminiscing on the toilet: I’m three years old. Were old people young like me? I shot the sun with Dad’s gun. Will earth die? How will the plants grow? In the dream forest, or is it a tavern where I discover this flower? And the answer: a scent in my head, of which I know nothing. I’m not Neanderthal, or mature, more like an old child with hoary children in a dream tavern, dizzily pretending time is forever, disappears like drinks. Of course, there’s another round. Waking, my dream bartender pours into the reality of morn, birds gossip — I’m older, of course. — Les Keress