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ROBIN WYATT DUNN - POEMS

2/13/2020

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​Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. 

***

​what can we tell each other when we're dead
the sliding glass door of fate
sinking in to dread
the night and willpower's resistance

the grace to find the light and need
shirking the burning fork of your endurance
to burn within
the naked hour of the brine
shaking its power in droplets from its body


***

​now with burning
the tired and tremulous shattering
not quite--

the excision of the laundry list of bright spots and burns
scattered over the oasis
lecherous delays
time gaps and winters
the knuckled furl of your voice
embittered

we can count the ways to know you
tracking back through the minutes
looking for the doorway out:

some shield from the floor of the world
where you were sighing


***

​the delicious tripe
tucked careful beneath the whip
where the calls whine round the light shining out
from the theater

on the brink:

the naked liquid fire
curls under my lip
a kiss

the naked flame of the temple
under my heel


***

​the patience of the dark
shimmers underneath the morning
waiting for you to kiss its face

the soldiers glimmer underneath their paint
watching and waiting for the fragment of your eye beneath the pupil
to tighten


***

the pale weight of the light shines against my head
the fever's bled delight and bread into my skin
like my enemies rejoice upon the field,
the sinking sins of streets and alleys bind to my feet
embracing

the narrow weight of each incision in the day
step into the breach beneath the air over the cement
to cut the net
or merely step away:

some broken branch of the orchestra is warbling out its song of destruction
an army of miscreants marking the tide with their every beat
south to the sea

​
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MARC CARVER - POEMS

2/13/2020

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​Marc Carver writes because he has nothing else to do.

​GORMLEY

​As I drive up the road 
I see a man on a flat roof 
he is like one of those Gormley statures. 
He is perfectly still 
as he looks out into the distance he does not move at all 
could almost be dead 
it is like he is looking at this land for the first time 
like 
it never existed before he got up on that roof 
and now he doesn't want to come down 
so 
he is turned to stone 
When I drive past later 
I will see if he is still there looking for something that he will never find.

THE ARCHITECT

​There is no feeling 
like the feeling you get when you wake up at four in the morning 
and know you are the only one alive 
the deadness 
the stillness 
you could almost be dead yourself and not know it.
You start to think with a clarity that has alluded you your whole life 
no doubts 
nothing to hold you back 
and suddenly you want to build 
brick after brick those words that speak out from the darkness 
tell stories that no one will ever hear 
but they shout out of the silence like alarm bells warn the sailors of the rocks that lurk underneath. 
So you piece them together 
and you know you are making something you don't know or need to know what it is you only find out when you finish 
then you can stand back and see what it is 
as if you knew before you started 
then you look and know and see what it is 
and for once you know what it is

UNTITLED

​I think about whether I should put this out into the world
just one more just one more.
Even if I only send it to one person 
just one more just one more.
So people can see that I am an artist, I can create still
just one more just one more
but I have given up on the world 
just one more just one more.
The stillness that gives me this bed is the only thing I want
Just one more just one more
So if I hit send or not the chances are the world will not see it
but no one will lose much sleep for me 
so for the last time the very last time one more time
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NDABA SIBANDA - POEMS

2/13/2020

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Ndaba`s poems have been widely anthologised . Sibanda is the author of The Gushungo Way, Sleeping Rivers, Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache: Unsympathetic Untruth, Of the Saliva and the Tongue, When Inspiration Sings In Silence and Poetry Pharmacy. His work is featured in The Anthology House, in The New Shoots Anthology, and in The Van Gogh Anthology, and A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections. Some of Ndaba`s works are found or forthcoming in  Page & Spine,  Peeking Cat, Piker Press , SCARLET LEAF REVIEW , Universidad Complutense de Madrid, the Pangolin Review, Kalahari Review and Botsotso. 

Ruthless Ruin ​

​There was
A menace. 
A genocidist. 
A gukurahundist.
A wrecker of life itself. 
He possessed oppression. 
Brutality. Immunity. Iniquity. 
A real wrecker of a rich nation.
Intolerant of those who dared 
To challenge his oppressive style
Of leadership, his life of deception.
What a life and a foul lie he lived.
His legacy is not only a disgrace 
But also a wreck and a hellhole. 
Dissent he couldn’t stomach. No.      
High was his heartlessness. Ego.
It knew no apologies but orgies.  
For all his vile,selfish decisions--
His failures, his sellout  actions 
He had scapegoats,sycophants  
There was shamelessness in it
In his blame game: be it critics,
The opposition or the West or all
Sadly some fell victim to his foolery 
He was a cunning and cruel tragedy.  
Never frank. No. Ever power-hungry. 
He sang of unity as a phony unifier.
He was no panAfricanist. Not at all.
He was a schemer and a divisionist.  
The history books must be exorcised 
Of lies and dishonesties otherwise history
Will not only judge a bunch of pretenders 
And confusionists and denialists severely 
But as facts` rapists and insensitive loyalists
Who ignore the reality of shallow mass graves
Whose orphaned tears continue to seek justice.   

​Disowned Long Long Back

​The destructive justice evader
And demented deceiver 
Was NOT my leader!
So much for his fever!  

For I have no relationship
Whatsoever with dictatorship 
Masquerading as stewardship!  
Author of hardship & censorship! 

 Sleaze and decay was his authorship
Misrule saw a floundering,capsizing ship 
Yes men, sycophants formed his discipleship
What was missing in his ways was statesmanship

​Mlobikazi Of Mzilikazi Along Vithikazi

​Few people knew she had lived in Soweto
Not only had she resided in that township
Of the city of Jo'burg,Mlobikazi of Mzilikazi
Had lived in the core of greatness on Vilakazi 
Street, for Soweto is historic by virtue of heroic
Struggles against apartheid that ensued there

There was Mlobikazi from Bulawayo's Mzilikazi
Suburb with a painting that told of a great story--
Titled Vilakazi, the pretty princess from Mzilikazi
Not only exhibited the literary artistry of Dr Vilakazi
It also captured how Vilakazi  is the only street
In the world where two Nobel Laureates once lived


Perseverance, painting, passion, her mantra
None could see, hear ,smell, taste or touch it
A breakthrough, a beauty's brilliance and dance
Mlobikazi of Mzilikazi lived on Vithikazi Street
Mlobikazi of Mzilikazi had an awesome  passion
Her loyalty to her profession paid off  in profusion
And precision when her painting proudly propelled her  
Into prominence:they crowned her a prizewinning painter
A sea of attendees ,her mates, all they could see  was glee!


​An Orgy Of Bondage And Plundering

​He had an insatiable hunger for all things
That clanked like capitals and cartels  
He had the disorder of grabbing all--
And a compulsion to cheap labor 
His cluster, his colony and all
Were founded on captivity
Oh Africa, oh dear Africa
You surely don’t want
Or warrant any pain
And a rain of drain
Anymore, anytime 
For an official’s gain  

A  Distinction And A Dance To Life  ​

​I recently watched an inspiring video featuring old chaps,
All men and women dancing in an eye-catching fashion. 

I guess they were gyrating to the music of the 50s or 60s,
What stood out as my eyes feasted on their dance routines

Was the smoothness and elegance of movement, wow!
They twisted and turned with effortless grace and charm! 

Can I dance with such finesse? -- I found myself wondering. 
How does one master such delicate dance moves? I pondered.

Music is not my domain, but let me say it again for our gain--- 
They twisted and turned with effortless grace and charm! 

By any definition or action, I conceded that I was damn no game!  
Their dancing was an outright delight, I was awed, downright too!     

I recalled when one day granddad found me dancing like crazy:
Some modern dance moves and music … I don’t know what to say…

Gone are the good old days, he bemoaned as I halted, breathless.   
Our dancing was artful and delightful and meaningful, he stated.

Now what I see here is artless and directionless clowning (oops!)
Our music was timeless, the lyrics of your music is meaningless!

He grinned warmly for a while, and cuddled me, saying dance on,
You can`t be dancing like you`re boneless if the music isn’t telling!!    

​Cut Down

​They bought lawn mower after lawn mower
as if they had lots of cash or they had grassland  
yet they wanted to bid on government contracts
to cut the unkempt hair of government officials!

They brought razor blade after razor blade 
as if they wanted to cut the long nails of officials
yet all they sought to do was to move from shop
to shop in order to cut down the prices of goods! 
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JAN BALL - POEMS

2/13/2020

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Jan has had 309 poems published in various journals including: Atlanta Review, Calyx, Chiron, Connecticut Review and Nimrod, in Australia, Canada, Czechoslovakia, England, India and The U.S.. Jan’s two chapbooks and full length poetry collection, I Wanted To Dance With My Father, are available from Finishing Line Press and Amazon. When not traveling, Jan and her husband like to cook for friends.

​

​revenge of the cockatoos

​At first, Keith chuckles and rubs his hands
 together, his shoulders bouncing up and
 down like Lleyton Hewitt preparing to serve
 at the Australian Open, when he sees
 the sulfur crested cockatoos dive-bombing
 pedestrians who pass in front of the red
 bottle brush shrubs he has planted with
 as much devotion as an Episcopalian Sunday
 School teacher explains Moses and the
 Burning Bush, his bushes a striking border
 for the gray convict cottage he has restored:
 cedar planks from a demolition yard, shutters
 he has adzed and stained himself, but not
 satisfied with harassing passers-by, the birds
 attack his weathered cedar, sharpening
 their beaks as companionably as bridesmaids
 getting manicures before a wedding.

 At night, as he tries to sleep in the soft Sydney
 air, he hears them pecking, pecking, pecking
 at the wooden exterior so, in lieu of a scarecrow,
 he ties a yellow kite to a shutter knob to try
 to end their repetitive grooming, but he is not
 successful. Finally, he crosses and crisscrosses
 fishing wire across the east side of the house
 like an intricate cat’s cradle and the noise stops.
 He goes to work the next day as flash as a rat
 with a gold tooth, happy as Larry that he has
 fixed the problem. When he returns at dusk
 whistling Abba’s Dancing Queen, however,
 he sees white feathers floating above splintered
 ruins as mystically as the background music
 in the Australian movie, Picnic at Hanging
 Rock. Revenge.

​Secure footing

​Ron helps her into the boat
 after the banquet on the island
 off Hong Kong mainland
 the way anyone would,
 holding her elbow to help her judge
 the little distance from the dock
 to the boat edge, her yellow espadrilles
 finally shuffling to secure footing
 on the boat bottom, so difficult
 for her now, until she sits staring
 as if lost in her own musings.

 She never did say much
 when we played cards with them
 in Chicago years ago, except
 to articulate the pinnochle words:
 I open, or pass.

 Her fingers, bedazzled with showy rings,
 clinked against the glass when she’d get up
 to mix another gin and tonic for us or fill
 the cashew bowl.

 Now she doesn’t comment
 on the charming stationary sanpans
 we pass, the Chinese women
 cooking on charcoal brassiers,
 their chicken or pork fragrant
 with four flavor spice
 in the nine p.m. hot breezes
 continuing from the sunny day.

 Once ashore,we say “Good-night,
 Cynthia,” and hug, the way we used to,
 but it’s clear she doesn’t know
 who we are any more.

​The Gleaning

The ancient distant hills are bruised
 with mist
 this morning in the South of France.

 Within the frame of a Millet painting,
 I sit under a tree, bucolic as one of
 my piebald bovine friends who chews cud.

 I listlessly gaze at the aproned women
 who glean the fields for leftovers
 after the nobility have taken what they want,

 then the noises of real life intrude:
 -grind of the morning coffee maker
 -flip-flop rhythmn of clothes in the European
 washing machine
 -and the forever coo-cooing
 of mourning doves in the pine trees.

 I step out of the frame into a foggy day.

​

​Until Fall

​All cold winter
 the snow piles up
 between us like
 the neighbor’s
 wall
 in Robert Frost’s
 poem,
 you late
 for dinner
 in Rochester
 most nights
 due to icey roads
 along Allen Creek,
 so you say.

 I clatter the pots
 on the stove
 as I reheat
 the chicken
 casserole
 with carrots
 and aromatic
 marjoram
 and feel more
 anger icycles
 accumulate
 on the eaves
 of our marriage.

 However,
 this morning,
 I wake with your
 fingers just grazing
 my left breast,
 your warm breath
 on my shoulder.

​Visiting My Sister

​I can’t face visiting my twin sister alone,
 in Cumming, Georgia, after this two-day
 conference in Buckhead, trendy suburb
 of Atlanta. My sister let her ortho take out
 her whole hip like a roast out of the freezer.

 The ortho couldn’t clear up her infection
 from her hip replacement after a year
 of trying so she has to wear a four inch high
“elevator shoe” (we called them as children
 in Chicago) when everyone we knew had hips
 and noone scooted around in wheelchairs
 like she does now.

 Medical friends suggested she go to an ortho
 at a university hospital and even though she only
 sheepishly replied, “But my ortho likes me,”
instead of changing enthusiasticly when we told her
 what they advised, I understand that she probably
 didn’t want to leave the convenience of her hospital
 for Northwestern or Rush nearer us.

 Her hospital was poorly rated on YELP and
 the doctor got snarly with “interfering relatives”
who asked about her options. She wouldn’t
 ask the doctor the brand of the hip replacement
 so we could figure out if her doctor used a cheaper,
 defective one so she could sue, he must have realized.

 We do appreciate that she was malnourished
 when she first saw the doctor which must have
 given him a certain perspective and is partly why
 her children finally suggested a senior facility
 in Cumming where her oldest boy, Eric, lives.

 Nevertheless, tonight, my husband and I will eat well
 at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse with my sister plus Eric
 and his wife, Sharon. They’ve made the reservation.

 I’ll bet my sister will order fish or soft lobster
 since she won’t replace her upper partial and fish
 is softer than the steak which Ruth’s Chris is known for
 plus it’s nutritious which she needs because she continues
 to suck gummy bears and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups
 supplementing her senior living diet.
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AJAY KUMAR - POEMS

2/13/2020

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Ajay Kumar is an undergraduate student based in Chennai, India. Poetry, for him, is an explosion of things he cannot say out loud. He was the editor of his school magazine- Abhivyanjana. His works have previously appeared in The Bangalore Review, Muse India and The Medley among others.

Angulimaal

I don’t know why I cover my nakedness
with doors dressed in tantalizing ajarness,
why the clock, when I punch through it,
gets lodged on my wrist & when I try to
shake it off makes me jerk off the air,
orgasming in a breeze that ruffles nothing
but the everything of me- never go into
the river with wounds, fish will lick them healed
& no one will ask you how you got those scars
& you will not narrate the solar myth labor
behind it- you won’t wake up with the nebulous
idea of existence, wet cloth on your forehead,
back of fingers feeling throat, palm in palm
in palm, no touch to bridge energies- 
I don’t know why I wrote haikus under benches
as if benches are for anything more than chewing
gum punctuation & lunchboxes before lunch-
appetite, when I lose it, will give way to digestion,
of the smells of the lunchboxes of the benches
still opened ahead of its time, by rusted words,
that pinch of sugar, that pinch of fingers that wait
on you swallowing a bitter herb when you woke up
with the nebula.

​

Fire medicine
​

Has a knight ever slain the damsel & loved the dragon,
the words you say sometimes are exactly not what you 
meant, wondering at the accuracy of error & the shell

of metamorphosis, the Taoist alchemists were thinking
immortality when fiddling with sulfur & saltpeter, would
have they thought fireworks, tunnels, mortality- tunnels

pincered on both ends by LED fingers, the jade mirrors,
looked into by gunpowder fathers, look at hungry animals,
on gunpowder mornings, in 250 sq ft apartments, thinking

only of dawns.

​

& the cycle chain slips
​

/ The fishermen go to farm, hand sickles slung across the back,
gandasas hooked on lungi-folds, on-head baskets kept on
 with broken twill weave wraps, the crops
 all mirrors, caudal fins rooted,
gills un-gasping, 
the 75 iridescent scales
 sheet music of boat-songs,
 fading as the oar-printed hands swing 
& the baskets get heavier/

/ Mad, the jungle of legs,
waxed hairy bruised muddy
thighful gaunt, rainbow,
a cadaverous spill of bicycle dreams
to any eye but there is none
& the legs cycle in the nirvanic breeze,
propelling the jungle forward/

/ Some pale eggy thing on the mountain top
is sun, & when you see a hatchling drooling
by the dewy grass: say good morning/

​

song, purple
​

Before- walking yellow streets- black buildings banyan strangling shadows-
Wake up to god in a beard escaped from innocence- but the light-
A CFL eddy- shows it cousin on father’s side saying his hands are dirty
With life- tell him the mythology of teenage- more than breasts and boners 
And blood and semen- is about justifications gaunt excuses of how you are
What you are- little fictions realizing like chants everymorning typed into eyelids-
You are fire without a salaam of smoldering- no smothering sayonara- 
You pot a rose in oil lamp- see houses content with being roofs-
Cousin god confessed wanting to run away- but where kept him ropewalking
The golden thread- tongue tied with think twice-
I am on the canopy and fall- caught by the branch a sigh away from thud-
Dangling by a leg- looking the right way- from the right place- cupping jamuns
And squeezing them- undripping- not onto the fallow earth but into the sky
Purpling it- she said you look the handsomest in purple- she is dead- or
At least married something the first day of her eighteen-
(Huh, jamuns unsoaked in salt? What are you, a monster? Look over shoulders at the jar
Of salt, knocked off, smashed, by a running rat, or a cunning lizard. There used to be 
A ocean here, it is a spill of memory ma, I’ll explain it that way, rather than cleaning up)


Or the eye storm

The battery would be dead today, this may well be
the last call for weeks. It was, for a month. 
I remember the mornings, resident mosquitoes, rubber trees
ejaculating into coconut shells tied to them. Nothing is in its place,
palms bent into bridges & the rising water drowned them, making mud
of houses, and bodies.
There is no longer that temple over there or the house behind it
nor the coconut-climber living in it. I remember him,
billhook on lungi, cloth wrapped around ankles, up the tree somewhat
exactly like Frogger crossing the road; me and my sister holding jute blankets
make them fall softer than sunlight and later eat them with shaved jaggery.
The coconut tree snapped in agony but nobody looked. I remember,
the yet unconceived memory, of the inability to write my name
on beach sand without the sea claiming it for herself.

​
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PATRICK DOUGLAS LEGAY - POEMS

2/13/2020

0 Comments

 
Patrick's writing has appeared in The Writing Disorder, Apeiron Review, and Dance Macabre. 
​
When he is not reading or writing fiction, Patrick works as a union staffer, dreaming of workplace democracy for all.

if you can share experience ​


“It always makes it
more real
if you can share experience”
-- you think to yourself
buckled next to the propeller
fying into the gaping face
of the grain moon
overwhelming everything with its 

borrowed light on the night horizon
while the others around you
cough and sleep
and ask each other
if they are heading home
or away
and then look out at the craters
​and trail of 


if such a thing happens ​


their wings beat so fast
they paint their colors
onto the air 

                       
their deep reds and blues
and copper tones
wrap around them 


holding them where they hover 

as they hunt for the nectar
that Grandy and I hung
in the tree near the bench-swing. 


are you going to help little miss? 
    yes Grandy! he asked without looking up
hearing me scuffing along the row
his back bent away from me
knees in the soil 

pulling the prickly ones out by the root
with his right hand gloved
his left picking the bugs
off the tall fat leaved ones
and putting them in a can
one hand doing its work and then the other 


me sweating in the heavy wool
pirate hat
and vinyl eye-patch
I wore everywhere. 

nothing in the sky
but the summer morning sun 

I switched the eye-patch to the other side
and squinted. 

      but Grampa James sprays medicine on his plants.
that's not medicine, love
it's pesticide
and I'm sure Grampa James has
his own reasons
but I don't do it because it kills the earth. 

now come over here by me.
can you get the ladybugs like this? 

dehe they're not ladies?
well they're certainly dressed right -
see them in their red polka-dot summer dresses? 

      do I put them in the can?
yes then later we'll move them somewhere better.
don't crush them. 

     can I keep them?
​you can keep one but
you can't bring it in the house -
Gramma won't like it. 


    why do we have to take them of?
because this kind eats my plants. 
  
  why does the spray kill the earth?
because it has chemicals that
get into the ground. 

both of us filling the can between us with 
big round red polka-dot summer dresses
and then moving the can with us up the rows
that hide us under their green. 

it's always better to do things
carefully with your fingers
than it is to carpet bomb everything
to get rid of a few bugs. 
     carpets?
no I guess I was
talking again about Europe. 

     there were carpets? 
no love, spraying pesticide is like warfare.
it all comes from the same place.
     oh no Grampa James does it!
he probably doesn't think
of it that way:
you'll have to ask him. 

    can we call him later?
let's see what we get up to
when Gramma gets home.
she'll have stories for

us to hear. 

Gramma and Grandy's farm
is a bazillion miles
with their house by the road
where we watch movies at night
and drink all the soda pop we want
and it has a deck where 
the dollhouse Grandy built for me stays
and Grandy's garden is in the field
and his horses Skip and Shady
behind the fence I shouldn't go by
and the woods behind them
with the train tracks that got pulled up
because people use cars now
and far back in the woods the river
smells like candy
the mint plants -- that people and horses can eat --
grow along it thick where Skip brings us on his back because 
that's a better place for the ladybugs
so that's where we empty them from the bucket. 

     look Grandy, Miss Ladybug is napping
I held her up cupped in my hand
so he could see
he saw and nodded and smiled but she leapt
and dropped into his wineglass
     oh no!
he picked her out 
gently by the sides
his fingers barely fitting into the glass
then he dabbed her on his shirt
put her back in my palm
and took a sip of wine. 

      oh no Grandy, you'll get sick!
sick? why? 
     
from the bug!
no love, anything bad from
Misses Ladybug
will be taken care of by the alcohol.
not to worry. 

one time a fruit fy got in Uncle Dan's drink 
    and he swore and poured it out.
well I'm sure he has his own reasons. 

the chain of the bench swing
creaked if we went too high 
which we weren't supposed to do
because it wasn't that kind of swing. 

us swinging by the tree
with the sun moving
behind the house
and the chalky moon out
early in the daylight
Grandy would point out
the hummingbirds -
the arc their wings made 

their sharp zigzag movements
their long stem beaks
which have come to be formed
perfectly for their work
how peaceful they were
and that he knows it's fanciful
but if such a thing happens
in any manner 
he would like to come back as a hummingbird. 
which is what I was thinking about just now
when you caught me staring.
us seeing these birds makes me think of him
and what he would say now I wonder
if I could piece it together
​from the traces of him that I recollect. 






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RENEE DRUMMOND-BROWN - POEMS

2/13/2020

4 Comments

 
Picture
​Renee Drummond-Brown is an accomplished poetess with experience in creative writing. She is a (Summa Cum Laude) graduate of Geneva College of Western Pennsylvania and The Center for Urban Biblical Ministry (CUBM). Renee’ is still in pursuit of excellence towards her mark for higher education. She is working on her fourth book and has numerous works published globally which can be seen in cubm.org/news, KWEE Magazine (Liberian L. Review), Leaves of Ink Magazine, New Pittsburgh Courier, Raven Cage Poetry and Prose Ezine Magazine, Realistic Poetry International, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, SickLit Magazine, The Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., Tuck, and Whispers Magazine just to name a few. Civil Rights Activist, Ms. Rutha Mae Harris, Original Freedom Singer of the Civil Rights Movement, was responsible for having Drummond-Brown’s very first poem published in the Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., in Albany, GA. Renee’ also has poetry published in several anthologies and honorable mentions to her credit in various writing outlets. The Multicultural Student Services Office of Geneva College presented her with 2nd prize in the Undergraduate Essay Contest. Renee’ also won and/or placed in several poetry contests globally. She was Poet of the Month Winner in the prestigious Potpourri Poets/Artists Writing Community and in the running for Poet of the Year. She has even graced the cover of KWEE Magazine in the month of May, 2016. Her love for creative writing is undoubtedly displayed through her very unique style and her work solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

April Showers ​

I smell ecstasy, taste diamonds
in the sky, touch love,
heard a baby cry, and see myself
for the very first time
rammed in love.
 
Dedicated to:  Rain, rain don’t go away!

MADE IN THE USA
​

Produced in the south.
Plantation-owned;
down to his holy infested 
trouser-and-shirt.
Poor dirt. Dirt poor. 
Without a nickel to loan,
or, surname of his own.

Light-skinned-ed,
cept Mrs. Millie and Massa’,
ain’t hardly putting claims on that tan-skin.
Yep, he’s (half) owned, 
bought, and sold!

Green-eyes.
Other slaves smell a spy.
Too beige to be black;
too red, to be white-bright.
He’s loathed by all,
and generations to follow
will wear his stigma…
Ill will “PLIGHT.”

Plight mimics the 
ancestors breed. The 21st century,
meticulously produces them
one-of-a-kinds’…dirt cheap!
Liberty proudly clones her slaves unto this very day.
The more thAngs have changed
The more coloured-slaves have stayed the same.
Afterall, they’re designer studs,
proudly owned, and made 
by the US of A.


Dedicated to: Prototype.


A RocDeeRay Production

They Call Us Out Our Names!
​

Over 25% of all languages are spoken by your brilliant tongue,
and-yes, that Mother-tongue wags truths, 
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth…So help me God!
Your breast houses the word. Therefore, you are the 
richest, rarest, realist of all Eden’s spotless dirt.
This for certain…I do know!
What do they call you African-gal?
They call you out your name.
But ‘imma love on you hard anyhow.
Yeah, I love you just the same.
Press on gal, 
and wear that glorified sanctified braided crown!


Although, snatch west of the Congo;
your breed is no come from behind race.
But you persevered sustah-gal and are 
the most educated species
in alllllll “these” United States!  
You my sistah, are the Mother of humanity
as you meticulously breastfeed EVERYONE’S shameful-breed.
You sustah-gal are more than Webster’s odyssey;
none can ev’r dispute your holy truth, notoriety, and/or creed.
What do they call you Afro-American-gal?
They call you out your name.
But ‘imma love on you hard anyhow.
Yeah, I love you just the same.
Press on gal, 
and wear that glorified sanctified processed crown!


The law is in your tongue.
The truth is in your ways.
You walk a straight and narrow path, and not talk the talk of hideous games.
Your headscarf covers your mysterious face;
modesty coupled with a symbol of love depicts great religious faith.   
What do they call you Middle Eastern-gal?
They call you out your name.
But ‘imma love on you hard anyhow.
Yeah, I love you just the same.
Press on gal, 
and wear that glorified sanctified khimar crown!

Dedicated to:
“JUST” put Ms. in front of it when you pucker your lips to call-out our names!


A RocDeeRay Production

Easy like Sunday Mourning
​

Life ain’t been so easy 
for us, since the time we 
came-cross 
belligerent-boisterous-battered seas.
Since bondage.
Since brandings.
Since slavery.
Since beatings.
Since laboring.
Since moaning.
Since breastfeeding’s.
Since raping’s.
Since hangings.
Since bombings.
Since killings.
Since marching.
Since pleading.
Since penitentiaries. 
Since existing.
Life ain’t been so easy.

Dedicated to: There’s a difference between living, and existing.

A RocDeeRay Production

Silence Speaks

THIS POEM IS DEDICATED TO, AND WRITTEN FOR MY DEAREST SISTER:  Minister Diane Bennett…I love you sister.

Silence speaks through
the core of wisdom.

Silence speaks volume;
when volume can’t speak.

Silence speaks to harsh voices;
whilst paying close attention, as she listens.

Silence speaks. Although, ambiguous,
She’s used deliberately. Nonetheless, she still speaks.

Silence speaks 
in the rainforest through the “Trees’.”

Silence really speaks through typed-keys,
when one refuses to hear “Thee, and thee.”

Absence of sound.
Let them who have an ear; hEAR silence ROAR at her loudest,
out loud! Silent now…

Dedicated to: My dearest sister, and friend, Minister Diane Bennett…A season-Shhhhhhh…

A RocDeeRay Production

Play That Funky Music White ‘Boyz!
​

I wonder, wonder, wonder, wonder who
sangs to the sad, sad truth that dirty lowdown…
Oh my bad! Its you Boz Scaggs…
Just you Boz Scaggs…
Yes indeedy, that be you.
Play that funky music white boy.

Ur’yday, Average White Band. Faithfully, quarter til 4:00.
I waited till ‘urybody ‘wuz long gone,
and me and my boombox 
was ‘justa spinnin like a helter-skelter 
while I belted out your soulful-sangin-songs.
‘Justa school-gal-crush (I’m ‘guessin) 
inna-playground, 
hoping get to know each other if we can (that’s all).
STRUNG OUT!
Play that funky music white ‘boyz.

Bobby Caldwell,
We’re still wondering where you came from 
with your soulful musicality (and all) 
and I guess your wondering were we’ve been
as we search to find your soul within.
Just came back to let you know 
we gotta thang fo your music, that we’ll never let go…
Play that funky music white boy.

Daryl Hall & John Oates, you sang to us 
“Baby hair with a woman’s eyes.” 
You said, you felt me ‘watchin in the night…
Well my name wasn’t-hardly Sarah (who smiled) 
but one on one, you sure did made me cry. 
Play that funky music white ‘boyz.

Paul Wall, I’m no rapper (you see), 
but I’ve certainly 
eavesdropped on ‘summa your-conversation
tween you, Nelly, Kyjuan, Ali, and Murphy Lee…
Remember dat Air Force One ft., 
Oh, my bad, Ice man,
wrong video. Y’all robbed dat jewelry stow,  
and told ‘em 
“Make me a grill.”
I heard, 20 karats, 30 stacks letting us know 
you’z fo-real (killed it)! 
Rap that funky music white boy.

Holdin back the years;
thinkin of the fears. Nothin had the chance to be good
Simply Red. Cept, your soulful voice.
So, we’ll keep holdin on…waistin all our tears.
Play that funky music white boy.

We ain’t forgot bout your “Fame,” David Bowie.
Making us all think things ov’r 
putting us right there where things were hollow.
Fame, fame, fame, faaaame.
Please don’t reject us first cause what “we get,” is no tomorrow.

And were still left thinkin things ov’r
So, while on your new journey Bowie… 
Play that funky music white boy.
 
Teena Marie and Rickie Lee Jones
I ain’t hardly forgot bout your sAngs 
I’ll get to you, soul-sangin-sistahs 
in another poem on another day. 
Play that funky music white ‘galz!

I remember all these funky SANGERS.
And just when they hit us on the one,
(like Bootsy, and Parliament-Funkadelics…EverythAngs on the one…)
Wild Cherry had us all turnin-round shoutin:
“Play That Funky Music White ‘Boyz,”
lay down that boogie and “SANG” that soulful music to us 
til you die!


Dedicated to: 
“Our” white soul “SANGERS” whom we love, and embrace. I wonder, wonder, wonder, wonder who?

Note* An unfinished poem that artist will be added to.


A RocDeeRay Production

Dirt Poor
​

They ov’r-looked her.
Nev’r saw her ‘comin.

Thought they were better than.
Upside-down-brown.

Dirt poor.
She cried “Lord! Lord!”

He heard.
He came.

He gave her pride.
She conquers her fear. 

Now it is them
who cries.


Dedicated to: It’s a low-down dirty shame.


A RocDeeRay Production

4 Comments

PENNY WILSON - POEMS

2/13/2020

1 Comment

 
Penny Wilson is a freelance writer who writes in several genres. She has written articles for WOW Women on Writing.  Her poetry has been published in online journals, such as Ariel Chart, Spill Words Press and the Poppy Road Review.  Penny is a member of the Austin Poetry Society. Her poetry has been featured in the publication America's Emerging Poets 2018 & 2019 by Z Publishing, Poets Quarterly and Dual Coast Magazine published by Prolific Press. You can find more of her writings on her blog at https://pennywilsonwrites.com/  and follow her on Twitter @pennywilson123.

​The Fortress--

The walls are high 
and built to withstand the harshest 
assaults.  

They were pieced together 
over the years 
using 
scars 
as mortar.  

I’ve paid the price 
for this fortress 
with bits of my soul.  

Although my heart 
is protected, 
my spirit 
has suffocated 
behind these walls.  

Throwing back the curtains, 
I slowly open the door.  

Through the crack 
I see the light 
of a new day.  

The promise of tomorrow 
beyond the horizon.  

​

The Shell--
​

There was a crack 
in the shell that I
built around myself

It's a funny thing 
about shells 

They not only keep the
bad things out

they keep the good things out
too

I had nowhere else to turn

I could no longer stand 
on my own 

So I fell 
to my knees


​

Halo--
​

Your touch

nourishment 

to this thirsty soul

You forgot your halo

It’s still lying here

Just slightly tarnished. 

​
1 Comment

ALAN BERGER - POEMS

2/13/2020

0 Comments

 
Picture
​Alan Berger has two films on Netflix etc that he wrote and directed.
He has had over 50 short stories and poem published since 2018 in five different publications,
Before the writing and directed he was a feature casting director for Ivan Reitman  and Howard Zieff.
He also acts in commercials and just did two episodes of,:Baskets".

          HELP
​

                                                  I have not done anything wrong
                                                        Then again, my memory
                                                              Ain’t that long
                                                       A walk in the sunny park
                                                   Has become a stroll in quicksand 
                                                                 In the dark
                                                            I watch the news
                                                           And search to see 
                                                          Who has got it worse?
                                                          It does not help
                                                         It doesn’t  remove my curse
                                                         I should not complain
                                                                  But I do
                                                         I should keep in the race
                                                         Even if I think I’m through
                                                         It’s not like I have a choice
                                                         My alone time in the wilderness
                                                         Is not the only voice
                                                         And if the answers are only
                                                         That humans are a mistake
                                                          Find a big eraser
                                                          For the future and past steps
                                                          You may take
                                                          I think I’ll stay in the saddle
                                                          And enjoy the battle
                                                          

​

  WHISKERS AND WHISPERS
​

                                                        My little baby
                                                           My little dear
                                                   You’ve lost so much weight
                                                   Soon you’ll disappear
                                                   We been together for so long
                                                   Yet it seems like only yesterday
                                                   We both were born
                                                    You can’t feel anything except my kisses
                                                    You can’t hear a thing no more
                                                    Except my whispers
                                                    If cats and dogs lived as long as humans
                                                    And  I do mean to disparage 
                                                    There would certainly be no need for marriage 
                      Remember when that Racoon tried to eat me through the window?
                                                    You stayed by my side instead of running solo
                                                    Sooner or later we’ll both be in the sky
                                                    You can meet Grandma and Grandpa
                                                    And my first cat with one eye
                                                    There is no one left anyway except for us
                                                    And on this trip we won’t need a carrying case
                                                    Or the need of a senior discounted bus
                                                    Only thing left to say
                                                    Is that in a world full of barn feed
                                                    You’ve been a prime rib fillet

0 Comments

SAHAJ SABHARWAL - TEACHER - OUR FUTURE MAKER

2/13/2020

0 Comments

 
Picture
PERSONALITY OF JAMMU,INDIA,  Sahaj Sabharwal  loves writing poems and thoughts. He lives in Jammu city, Jammu and Kashmir, India. He is 17 years old now a young poet  . He has been awarded many awards in poem writing at State level, National and international level.     He was also selected to be invited for the INTERNATIONAL WRITERS MEETING IN TARIJA and HUNGARY,EUROPE. He was awarded with the INTERNATIONAL DIPLOMA IN WRITING and INTERNATIONAL MERIT CERTIFICATE IN WRITING and was PUBLISHED BY THE YOUNG WRITERS ASSOCIATION IN UK and RECIEVED  "CERTIFICATE OF PUBLICATION FROM UK".

TEACHER - Our Future Maker

​Giving us knowledge of something is a teacher,
Having an inbuilt experience feature.

A good teacher teaches us by heart,
And prays God for our peart.

A teacher helps us in developing our mind,
In such a way that is very kind.

A teacher teaches us tricks to achieve our goal,
And warns us to remain careful to avoid any thole.

Without the help of a teacher, we cant work rife,
And many difficulties will appear in our life.

In this vast world, they are teachers and parents only ,on whom we can rely,
They always keep on us their eye.

And we are confident that they never tell a lie,
They gives us blessings so that we can fly high.

That's why , Parents are our caretaker,
And teachers are our future maker.
0 Comments
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