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absence abuse
addiction adventure
africa age
allah allegory
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anger angst
animal anniversary
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bible bio
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blessing blue
boat body
books boyfriend
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business butterfly
cancer candy
car care
career caregiving
cat celebration
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chanukah character
cheer up chicago
child childhood
children chocolate
christian christmas
cinderella city
class clothes
color community
computer conflict
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cousin cowboy
crazy creation
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culture cute love
dad dance
dark daughter
day death
death of a friend december
dedication deep
depression desire
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discrimination divorce
dog dream
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education emo
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epic eulogy
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fear february
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fire firework
first love fish
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for her for him
for kids forgiveness
freedom friend
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fun funeral
funny funny love
future games
garden gender
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girlfriend giving
god golf
good morning good night
goodbye gothic
graduate graduation
grandchild granddaughter
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grave green
grief growing up
growth guitar
hair halloween
happiness happy
happy birthday hate
health heart
heartbreak heartbroken
heaven hello
hero high school
hilarious hindi
hip hop history
hockey holiday
holocaust home
homework hope
horror horse
house how i feel
howl humor
humorous hurt
husband hyperbole
i love you i miss you
identity image
imagery imagination
immigration innocence
insect inspiration
inspirational international
internet introspection
ireland irony
islamic january
jealousy jesus
jewish jobs
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judgement july
june kid
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light little sister
london loneliness
lonely longing
loss lost
lost love love
love hurts lust
lyric magic
malayalam marathi
march marriage
math may
me memorial day
memory men
mentor metaphor
middle school military
miracle mirror
miss you missing
missing you mom
money moon
morning mother
mother daughter mothers day
mountains moving on
murder muse
music my child
my children mystery
myth mythology
name native american
natural disasters nature
new year new york
nice niece
night nonsense
nostalgia november
nursery rhyme obituary
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old onomatopoeia
pain paradise
parents paris
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passion patriotic
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pets philosophy
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poets political
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power prayer
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rap raven
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repetition retirement
rights river
romance romantic
rose rude
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satire scary
school science
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seasons self
senses sensual
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sick silence
silly silver
simile simple
sin sister
sky slam
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smart smile
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solitude sometimes
son song
sorrow sorry
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space spanish
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stress student
success suicide
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sweet symbolism
sympathy tamil
teacher technology
teen teenage
thank you thanks
thanksgiving tiger
time today
together travel
tree tribute
trust truth
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urdu usa
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vanity veterans day
violence visionary
vogon voice
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war water
weather wedding
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wisdom woman
women word play
words work
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writing yellow
youth

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Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

Cameron Diaz

Herpetologist meets actress (Cameron Diaz).
If he's funny he's me.
South America or Africa (on location).
In a diamond mind.
The protagonists (lovers), the diamonds, the miners and the minders.
By minders I (he) mean (means) watchers, organizers, supervisors.
As all art must: choose a focus.
The personal is political said Cameron on the night bus to Quebec.
I had never met a girl so willing to make love in public.
Open to it.

To what extent is violence necessary? And
is that the essential question or
should violence be accepted as man's state, fate
a more essential question existing beyond or below
peace or war. Perhaps
the religious and (for the irreligious) sacred injunction
against egregious violence exists
to still ourselves
to open ourselves
to the deeper question. That Cameron Diaz is funny and beautiful
is hopeful. And the telescope and microscope have extended
the eye's appreciation. Under the microscope
Cameron becomes a collection of foreign, alien, uncompassionate,
      selfish, self-organizing
organisms. Frightening, inexorable, fascinating
to the scientist in you!

To the telescope
vanishingly small, infinitesimal as the farthest sun
only smaller
smaller by magnitudes of magnitudes of ten
and incinerated in a nanosecond. Gone
from the movie (photographs the contents of which move
for the naked eye).
I cannot help what I do or hope.

Anyway, it's a love story
or science project, socio-political documentary. An essay.
An essay about how it is actually impossible to say what you mean
but it is possible with a lifetime of meditation and study to shut up
and know what you meant.

Now I'm deaf.
I can see Cameron Diaz but not hear her.
The guy, the herpetologist, at first colorless turns out to be
colorful as a bird or snake!
He knows a lot about snakes, and birds! Not only how they mate
but what they eat
(amateur botanist)
where they rest
what they do with their pain. Do they get depressed?
Can they have guests?
How do they judiciously employ violence to organize and defend
the nest.

The international collective remains insufficiently organized
resulting in violence and threats of violence that interrupt
commerce, procreation (love) and the pursuit of happiness (Cameron
      Diaz)
at least for certain populations, sometimes.
Otherwise, most men, most times, live in peace excepting
flood or fire God or man may
choose to impose.
I lay in my bed and listen naked.
Have a good day (Diaz).
The goddess does not exist, except as bone.

Around this time (July)
the queen yellow jacket (redcoat) searches
blind and deaf
for a ledge or cavity to build a city of her descendants
safe, that they can defend.
Most cities
prosper, undisturbed
and sleeping peacefully, overwinter. We, however,
remain active, Cameron Diaz makes winter movies or
love stories in South America, and I
delight to imagine her herpetologist. Or one who
discovers the sun
around which a habitable, understandable, compatible
orb orbs. Or
maybe the movie's about the revolution, soldiers dying defending
this dictator or that dreamer
and the movie completely failing, not even trying, to explain how
the sons and daughters of the dying soldiers (miners) feel
fishing alone, hunting for wisdom, thereafter.
Sure, these men chose violence, not Cameron Diaz, and were not
farmers, botanists or herpetologists
their tools could have been and should have been the telescope or
      microscope
but are there enough microscopes and telescopes to go around
and did we not (taxpayers, movie makers) encourage them to
defend Cameron Diaz?

Man's world is insufficiently organized to preclude violence
in allocating resources (Cameron Diaz).
When we invade Iraq
to defend our allies and interests
with rockets and rocket throwers, Rockettes and Cameron Diaz
each man (each Diaz) must make his
own individual choice
whether this war
is worth fighting for or the next or the worst.
Go to jail, go directly to waterboard, at the hands of
your local police, chamber of commerce.
Learn how to walk the desert and the universe.
The names of rocks and planets,
that being the only answer to the hyperorganization that is a cancer on
      our insufficient organization.

I was reading Foreign Affairs
The Case Against the West by Kishore Mabubami (Cameron Diaz).
How can I relinquish my privileged position
sit still, lie naked
until what constitutes consent of the governed and non-violent change,
      Cameron Diaz,
to her herpetologist
is known.






Long poem by Xander Martin | Details |

The Lights ft Edgar Allan Poe

I 

See the phone towers with the lights- 
Glowing lights! 
What a world of mischief and sorrow their pattern foretells! 
How they twinkle, twinkle, twinkle
In the icy air of night! 
While the clouds that are gray
And so boring, seem to snicker 
As they watch over the street known as Gay; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Philadelphian rhyme, 
To the long-word-I-don't-know-what-it-means that so visually delights 
From the lights, lights, lights, lights, 
Lights, lights, lights- 
From the flickering and the twinkling of the lights. 

II 

Feel the ominous Morse Code message of the lights, 
Incandescent lights! 
What a world of tightly packed buildings and traffic their harmony foretells! 
Through the balmy air of midnight 
How they ring out their delight! 
From the creepy redden lights, 
And an insight, 
What a lot of lost sleep I once owed
To the white light reflected onto a certain window making it look 
Like the moon! 
Oh, from out the dormhouse cells, 
What a gush of imprisoned restless students wanting the night to end voluminously wells! 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
On the Future! Now we face 
The crushing reality that is this place 
To the shining and the lining
Of the lights, lights, lights, 
Of the lights, lights, lights, lights, 
Lights, lights, lights- 
To the electrifying coolness of the lights! 

III 

See the now visible sources of the lights- 
Stacked lights! 
What a tale of terror, now, their position tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the city, 
In a fit of desperation from a phone line seeking pity, 
Climbing higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor, 
Now- now to sit or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the lights, lights, lights! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Urban Society! 
How they flash, and spark, and repeat! 
What an inconvenience they defeat 
Riding the electrical current of the atmosphere with glee! 
Yet the eye it fully knows, 
By the pondering, 
And the wandering, 
How the danger ebbs and flows: 
Yet the eye distinctly tells, 
In each tower's tallness, 
And my smallness, 
How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the lights- 
Of the lights- 
Of the lights, lights, lights, lights, 
Lights, lights, lights- 
In the unique ability and memorability of the lights! 

IV 

See the final flash of the lights- 
Evil Lights! 
What a world of greed and lust their monotony compels! 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy coldness of the air conditioning! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within our throats 
Is a groan. 
And the people- ah, the people- 
They that dwell up in the buildings, 
All Alone 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 
In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 
On the human heart a stone- 
They are neither man nor woman- 
They are neither brute nor human- 
They are slaves to the system: 
And their Internet it is who rules; 
And he pulls, pulls, pulls, 
Pulls 
A meme right out of his arse! 
And his jolly news websites discuss human rights
With the guidance of the lights! 
And he dances, and he yells; 
Fighting crime, crime, crime, 
In a sort of cheesy rhyme, 
To the mysterious melody of the lights- 
Of the lights: 
Keeping geeks, geeks, geeks, 
In a stupor which the Internet seeks, 
To the throbbing of the lights- 
Of the lights, lights, lights- 
To the sobbing of the lights; 
Taking in, in, in,
All the sights, sights, sights
Of this pathetic tourist trap rat-hole called Manayunk, 
To the rolling of the lights- 
Of the lights, lights, lights: 
To the tolling of the lights, 
Of the lights, lights, lights, lights- 
Lights, lights, lights- 
Oh, the mystery and the history of the lights.


Long poem by Faith Dye | Details |

My Brother

My brother is and will always be my Memorial Day
Of course I will always respect every warrior that fought let's say
My brother joined the Marines to get away from our mother at seventeen
she was mean, mentally ill, bossy, and out of her mind in between
so serving his country during the Vietnam War felt better to him
leaving all of us behind, going over there with the body count wasn't a whim
we all cried as he went out the door
mom cried the most and I was just floored
because she yelled and screamed at him all of the time
but today looked like she loved him so much and wanted him to stay behind
if he knew this and didn't have to think that she didn't care for him
his journey may have been so much better with more care and begin
to think of her differently like a loving mom
then when he was detecting land mines and hearing bombs
he may have been more comforted by love
looking at the stars up above
wearing peanut butter on his feet 
in the monsoon season
as not give the rats a reason 
to bite his flesh and hurt
they could drive you berserk
and the tunnels pray tell
they were a living hell
they would come out anytime
no reason no rhyme
hand grenades in hand
blow you up on their land
It was always a dangerous situation
you never knew when injury was a completion
you'd blacken your face up and find a tree
and sit real still and listen to everything carefully
because one wrong move could mean your life so
you had to be super aware to all the facts before you could go
to sleep for a matter of minutes perhaps a little longer if your lucky
things sure aren't the same since that plane ride all the way from Kentucky
so they put their helmets on their rifles in case they were shot at
they'd think that was their head and they would miss them flat
out right was the goal only some of them knew
and some of them snuck around to the front of you
to blow off your real head and shatter you
and if anyone say "medic" they'll shatter them too
it's just too destructive being there
you're a trained killer and it just isn't fair
You don't believe in Memorial Day, you say?
Don't stay in the states, we should run you away
too many men gave their lives for you to keep you free
we should throw you in prison lock the door and get rid of the key
this celebrates men like my brother, my cousins, good men that didn't come back
the audacity of you to talk bad about this day, disrespect them, the deck was stacked
not in their favor, believe me, we should've sent guys like you, their bodies hacked
to scare them, I wish I could scare you
no your not even worth it to do
anything to drop down to your kind
just remember when you look behind 
you, proud men gave you freedom believe it or not
you ignorant bastard you must have forgot
your daddy, your grandpa, somebody you know
fought a war for you and us and you show
no respect
to the rest
Happy Memorial Day!
Thanks to all you Women and Men whom keep and kept us safe


















Long poem by Gary Fields | Details |

Will A Divided House Stand In any Land

@one must have lived
on both' sides of
justice to be fully
exposed...gf


There are so many
     languages'
There are oh! So
many plans'
But, in this day of
confusion..
Can it really
stand....
     ------
Their are those who
live in the shadow
There are those who
are on top!
Many have faith in
the interest of
justice
I say some-times' it
is merely just a
plot!
   ----- Now think
about that ----
           
----------
Do you live in a
state of justice
Or in a state of
police...
Where your strife is
minimal
And pales' beyond
belief
           ---------
Can you go out at
   ? ...night!
With-out subscribing
of your plight
Hence:  the fear of
going out at night
            -------
This reflects' the
type of judgement
That which you
subscribe
too....

A issue shrouded
in black and white
A deadly combination
of the many social
wrongs' or
rights'...
         Where the
truth comes' to the
light
       ----
As a human body lay
riddled in the heat
and stench
of the night....
          --------
If you are stopped
in a store to-day
Do you expect to
make it home?
        -Or-
Are you subjected
to the night?
Where justice is
swift a constant
norm!
     - Only...
To end up at the
business end of
justice...!

To the end of
justice....!
contrary to
your life.... 

 Only to be pondered
upon as a
creature in that
laboratory of
life...
Where you your-self
have just payed
The supreme price
from a flash of
justice
That threatens' to
end your life...
         .......... 
Where some-one else
in his unique 
......since of
justice amend to
take your life
(Some-call it a snap
decision only... it
is
        .......not
such a snap to take
another life) later
deemed 
to be call a mishap
in the name of
protecting life
I still say' maybe
we are
acting on a little
bad advice
         -----
justifiable murder
In the name of our
Constitution....  
Needless too say,
Is this the best
solution?

Who's constitution
dare I choose?

Your life
choked-off,
filled full of
holes'
With a truth slowly
delivered....
only God knows'
just exactly
What has just
transposed...
     .... And the
reason why so many
should die....
          ------
Who's brand of
justice would you
survive...  In that
vain' instance
Just to stay
alive....
      -Or-
 which do you
care.... to defend?

Would it be
attributed to the
feat of justice 
Or will it be just
us?

Or to the
determination of the
life of just another
Young innocent
man..... Or that
breath of justice
From which he did
truly depend...

To abide and to
trust in....

The accomplishment
of man... Awh! Yes,

The truth depends'
on the end of the
sword
That which is in
your hand..... With
the meter
of justice that we
are
willing to
defend....

That brand of
justice that which
you may call upon
for the sake of your
fellow man!



Poet/Author
Gary Fields
Censored in Contrast







Long poem by W. L. Said | Details |

Poortown

I grew up in Poortown 
A mile down the road 
From hard topped streets 
Where Miss Eleanor lived 
She sat on the front porch 
Smoking ready rolled 
Eating brought on peaches 
And she would hide in back 
When she took a dip of snuff 
She wore nice dresses 
With zippers on the side 
And her stockings both
 Had seams and no holes 
Her shoes were shiny
As a brand new nickel 
Miss Eleanor was not poor 
And she made it a point 
To let everybody know it 
She always had a new 
Cadillac car to drive 
And the sweetest smelling 
French perfume… 
I was just a boy when she 
Called me in her yard one day 
Told me how she watched me 
In my ragged old overalls 
Passing by her gate each day 
She asked me how a boy 
With no visible means 
Could afford to go into town 
Most every day and stay 
From morning till dusk 
She had no understanding 
How life really was in Poortown 
So I told her best I could 
The particulars of my day 
How Pa was sick in bed 
And my Ma had passed away 
I told her I was working for 
For the wealthy folk in town 
For my dinner and to get my Pa 
His medicine he had to have 
It felt as though she had 
A special kind of glass 
That she could use to look 
Right on through my lie 
Made me feel so small and petty 
Then she told me not to go 
Into town anymore 
But to come to her house 
And I would work for her 
I show the next morning 
To a brand new pair of overalls 
And some shiny Brogan shoes 
Not new but unlike any I’d ever had 
She took me to the back yard 
And gave me tasks to do 
I worked as hard as I could 
Just to make a good impression 
Miss Eleanor brought some iced tea 
To the settle in the shade 
Under the old apple tree 
Where we began to talk 
All about life and our lot in it 
I learned from her and she from me 
And when the day was over 
And she paid me from her purse 
For the work I had done 
And not a penny more 
She told me plain that the 
Money I had earned was mine 
And mine alone and if my Pa 
Wanted his “medicine” he’d 
Have to work for his own 
Same as I did for mine 
Years passed by and I grew up 
Miss Eleanor is gone on now 
But she left me all she had 
Which to my surprise wasn’t 
Very much… You see she believed 
That appearances could hide a 
Myriad of deficiencies from 
Prying eyes, but not the heart 
She taught me while appearances 
Were important they meant 
Little in comparison to character 
Honesty and integrity… 
So I sit here on the front porch 
Smoking ready rolled cigarettes 
Enjoying a brought on peach 
Watching the endless parade 
Of poor and destitute young’uns 
I think back to the days 
When I would pass by and 
Imagine the mystery and beauty 
Inside this little stone cottage 
And who Miss Eleanor really was… 
I like to think when she passed away 
That she passed down a little 
Of herself to me…


Long poem by Jesse James Forster | Details |

Combat

I remember that day and never looking back
I said goodbye to my family and grabbed my duffel bag
Im off to be a hero just like my grandfather and my dad
Im going to fight for America Im going to become a man 
I will make you all proud by protecting all your dreams
Generations of battles war nerve pumping throughout my veins
Familiar echoing war drum beating inside from my angry heart
No sooner than I am deployed the blood shed and death will start
Nothing could prepare me for the violence I would see
I met death with my first kill, and made a deal with inhumanity
My first experience of occupation I fired at every moving car
The rules of engagement were simple kill everything both near and far
Giving candy to little kids all named Michel Jackson, but not to win hearts
But to use them as human shields against  the enemy insurgent charge
Women and child seperated from their husbands and father
We were lethal shepherds in armor hurding the lambs into the slaughter
Still to this day when I close my eyes their screams become my ghost
Eight months inside the hole, I lost myself, I lost all of my hope
My dreams become a horror for my nightmares have now over filled
And from my cup and my eyes their blood will be poured and spilled
I look at a tattered picture of my own family back at home
But can not smile or remember or I too will come undone
Numb by design, programmed in fear, and not to feel
Compassion has left me alone, I am cold organic steel
Casualties of war are corpses I ran over in the valleys and the fields
Im a killing machine a 1014 an M16 are the swords that I weild
A modern day holocaust ordered to kill anything posing a threat
But when getting fired upon from a crowd its hard to identify a target
Lock and load Little Elvis once again it's time to kill
Weapons forged against us lay in the terrain and hides in the hills
RPG fires into defending walls as bullets fire screaming past my head
Machine gunners leveled that f@@#ing building while my comrades are laying dead
Adrenalin pumping fuels the plans for my next attack
Hot flashes of steel pierces my skin as shrapnel shreds through my flak 
People who were in prayer were no safer from their deaths
Bodies still burning, in pieces, or taking their final breath
Children run through my site with tears inside their innocent stripped eyes
She was no older than ten as she watched her little brother die
Deafened ears fall upon me, blood now is my fate 
Hell is abroad in this desolate God forsaken place 
Soldiers took trophy pictures of their faces with the dead
Who is the enemy I wonder, this doesn't make any sense
The boy who left home to become a man he never did come back
His soul still wanders the Tigris River lost forever to Combat

For all of my fallen friends, heroes, and families. You are always with me and will see you soon


Long poem by River Greene | Details |

From a Black perspective

It's Black History Month, we all celebrate our Heritage,
come together and speak about the Greats of a past age.
Talk about how far we have come, and how far we've yet to go.
I think to myself, I feel inspired and enraged.

I think of my Neighborhood, the hustlin' on the streets,
I think of all the single mothers, making sure their babies eat.
The Asses of the Masses, sees these titles as derogatory or criminal.
I see it only as another Brother or Sister, making sure ends meet.

I watch the news a lot, look at these congressmen in suits,
defending shady police procedures, another polished up excuse,
They never mention how real the struggle is in our neighborhoods,
quick to label us as repeat criminals, they never trace the roots.

Martin Luther King, Maya Angelou, and Rosa Parks the legendary greats,
knew how to organize successfully, To fearlessly and Peacefully demonstrate.
I think to myself further, I wish we could once again stand tall until we are heard.
we've made progress but we are fenced, oppression leads to hate.

The politicians say that we are granted equal opportunities,
But looking at the budgets for our schools, that's not what I see.
half of our teachers barely care, the art programs are damn near gone
limited access to education, with economic expectations of a college degree.

Yes, we have rights now, no more segregation,
all races welcome everywhere, diverse population,
permitted to run the race, but they never even gave you feet.
I feel like we were more pacified than Liberated, that's my frustration.

Maybe if our neighborhoods weren't spots for cops to meet their quota,
Maybe if they'd approach with a smile, respect upon approach given not one iota, 
they always assume I'm up to no good, when I'm just walking home from work.
walking with a white friend they still stop me, all I say is "see, I told ya"

I can't help but wish and dream of change, of another futures day,
when our grand kids will think of us, with as much admiration as we give MLK,
I know one day we will all feel equal, no more labeling us by our skin color.
the neighborhood won't be so depressed and oppressed, our kids can safely play.

I have an dream, Like MLK Jr., I will pray for it out loud.
I wish that my children too one day, just blend in with the crowds
a day no Black child dies on his neighborhood streets by badge or by gangs
where all children receive adequate education, graduates college proud


It's Black History Month, we all celebrate our Heritage,
come together and speak about the Greats of a past age.
Talk about how far we have come, and how far we've yet to go.
I think to myself, I feel inspired and enraged.





 3/2/2015

for a contest : writings From a Black Perspective,
in honor of Black History Month.


Long poem by Christine Phillips | Details |

Riches to Rags

I have heard of it,
I was in it,
I have imagined it,
But I am yet to experience it.

What is this dream?
Who is this dream for?
Is it a dream for the wealthy and the powerful?
The politicians and the Gangs?
The Cartels and the Mafia?
Drugs and substance abuse?

Is it a dream for organized crime? 
Murder,
Robbery,
Rape,
Kidnapping,
Child molestation,
Sabotage, and hopeless?
What is this dream?

Is it a dream for big cars?
Credit card debts?
 Foreclosed home? 
And joblessness?
Is it a dream for freedom and justice?
Inequality and racisms?
Or is it a dream for peace, unity, love and compassion?

Some people have been dreaming too long,
 And it’s time to wake up to reality?
Everyday hundreds of people are killed in the streets of America,
Children are murdered in the schools
Businesses are robbed,
And illegal schools, and colleges are established on a daily basis,
Innocent people get hurt every second
And the security system is tainted with bribery and corruption
What is this dream?
Rags to riches or riches to rag?

Aunt Mary is a successful doctor;
She left her beautiful home by the beach;
She resigned a good paying job; 
She leaves her husband, and children
 behind in search of the American dream 
But she ended up in a rat infested brown stone, 
apartment in lower Manhattan. 
She works three jobs,
 flipping burger and scrubbing floors to make ends meet,
 And at the end of the month she can barely pay the rent,
 She cannot eat a proper meal
 she has to pay it back to the American dream.

My ink has been dried up for many years,
The weather was perhaps too cold for my ink to flow,
I have resorted to the computer 
but the keys were frozen too.
What on earth had gone wrong?
I might have been in America too long
My creativity was put on hold 
 because I was too busy trying to achieve my dreamless goals

Everyday thousands of people from across the globe
 landed on the shores of America;
Thousands of people have lost their lives
 in sunken boats, and extended journey across desserts
 some people have spent months travelling from country to country
 with the hope of reaching America 
only to be subjected to the materialistic dream.
A dream that will one day reduce them to nothing,
A dream that will make them work night and day,
A dream that will cause them earn their bread the hardest way.

Somewhere along the road
 the real essence of this dream has been destroyed
 And new meaning has been added to i.,
What happen to the ideals of America?
Where is the success and upward mobility?
Where is the fuller,
 and better life that everyone anticipated?

Can we still achieve prosperity and success?
Does this dream exist at all?
Is it a dream for some?
 Or is it a dream for all?
Open your eyes and recapture the American dream.

               ©2013 Christine Phillips


Long poem by James Fraser | Details |

Hiroshima, Theodore Van Kirk, RIP

On that day, in Aug 45 Bomber over the city that's very much alive Nervous crew, cloudy day Pilots instructions, open bomb bay The words above as the pilot has said What happens next the World dreads The catch releases as Little Boy goes Are they really enemies, are they really foes? As he lands without a sound As he plummets into Japanese ground As he ignites his awesome power As he sprays his atomic shower An eternity clears in hours I hear No City which once was here Where are the people, no where near In Oppenheimer do I detect a tear If that's the worst the USA tells Nagasaki is next as the death toll swells Lo and behold that day has come The second city is indeed gunned down This Uranium gem as the Yanks declared Our troops at war will all be spared Not to think of these Japanese folks Who in Atomic ruin, their lives now soaked Buildings gone where they once were Populations vaporised without a care This Mushroom shape will shadow forever This day in History will never sever The following day as I look around A bustling city which has no sound I stand here bleeding from burns and sores Skin dripping my family torn All around me broken burning shapes Trying to make sense of what this all makes What could have created such destruction as this On these cities where yesterday was bliss I limp down my street in imaged spree Shadows of neighbours I will never see Silhouetted in shape in many forms Is this my World, it's not the norm Weeks have passed as I start to feel ill Once I was ten, now I feel nil Body sored with lacerations and boils This human life now entering it's toil As I look to the sky some birds still soar Those lovely doves I will see no more My life fades as my eyes gently close Should anyone receive those blows Now I'm gone as I look down, where once a city, now no more a town Once there were dots all running around Most are gone, blown from our ground Where mediation was never met, discussions were never said Two cities, many dead ( Lyrics by Queen ) Teo torriatte konomama iko Aisuruhito yo Shizukana yoi ni, Hikario tomoshi Itoshiki oshieo idaki Let us cling together as the years go by Oh my love, my love In the quiet of the night Let our candle always burn Let us never lose the lessons we have learned Are our lessons learnt, time will tell Berlin Wall, barriers fell Is it a start, or a start to come Is this race always on the run We need to look and look around No more we hear that whistling sound It's seems to be a more silent kill Typical Human, in it's typical will Re-posted in memory of 'Theodore Van Kirk' the last of the 'Enola Gay' ..


Long poem by Mike Liquori | Details |

Baltimore 4-28

Baltimore 4-28

Lets start,
By being real, 

I mean really, real! 

With harsh truths that need to be freed from our fragile lie, 

It is easy to say, or see "thugs", "punks" in the streets of BWI! 

But as I remove my eye from looking to weak,
and look from within at human torment, 
I see a generation lost. 
These are just scared kids!
By in-large they are alone, 
fatherless and some homeless, 
But all in pain,
And deep seeded need.
What a joke to hear "land o'plenty" while on a bleeding, bent knee. 

They are a generation lost upon the sea,
A ship sailing in the dark,
With no port to see,
No destination to guide with faint distant light. 
 
The cities are tinder boxes of oppression's disenfranchised youth...
looking to be heard, in the follies of the absurd.
  
Where do they go?
When will we lend an understanding ear?
or what do they say when it finally hears...
DO you want the answers that they live? 
The reply given in reality with the caps flying from a nine? 
Weaving and dodging all the god forsaken years. 
As any kid will do, 
They survive,
its the best they can do.

In the freshness, the excitement, 
They rush like a river broken free,
from the walls of opposition,
that was holding it back,
not only with our words, like "Your fenced off from that" 
but also in action, 
Cities full of scars. 

We must truly see the system is rigged from them to me.

Never really thought much about it,
We all know how white and easy answers can be,

But lets get real, fanning the fires flames,
is all they feel. 
Burning them insane! 
  
The failure is now upon all of us, 
my people, our time,
Our clock just struck twelve!
 
This generation,
Not just the white and black men, 
But also all the others on planet earth accompanying with them! 
The black brother must acknowledge,  how they let the child down, 
while the white man acknowledges that we pushed them even father around. 
In the end..... we both let everyone down, 
The sons,
The daughters 
we left,
and then never came 'round! 

Baltimore the city just showed up to say,
Get you acts together,
And start building docks right away! 
Make no more haste together, 
Get your kids to the harbor,
Now! Start today! Because you've wasted all the tomorrows! 
 
As my eye is father opened, 
What if that was me? 
Who spiked a pillar in a sandy spot out to sea?
So I wrote this up,
Where I started to say,
resolute on the matter,
that just maybe,
we can build a dock together and get some kids back safe, 
No more black or white pillar, 
just one great giant dock.
My safe American Family!
Complete with an anchor and the rope to adhere, 
courtesy of The Poet Mike?
I do hope you all really hear.....


Long Poems