A poem by Anthony Febo
Missing you in two parts
one.
if there is anyway i can forget the scent of your smile, how it fills the air like rain in a forest. then i hope, if forget it like autumn. a marvelous display of beauty before the last leaf falls. somewhere out there is a creek, and the rippling of the current does not sound like your name, i will swim thee one day. but until then, let the tide of the Atlantic carry me on your tongue. let me crash behind your teeth every time you speak so i can feel at home even while i drown. i pray, that the wind will bring me to peace. where i can drink, and it will taste like water and nothing else. even if i have to be dragged through the mud.
two.
if there is anyway my neck can forget the embrace of your whisper, how it covers my skin like a lunar eclipse. then i hope, i forget it like breath. the last link that connects me with all that i know. somewhere out there is a sidewalk. where the concrete does not feel like the weight of your goodbye, i will walk there one day. but until then, let every building be a testament to the height we achieved. let every lamp post be a spotlight for the nights we danced. so i can share the stage with you even if its our final bow. i pray that the streets will guide me to peace, where i can walk and not see your face on every passerby. even if i have to fall through the cracks.
Missing you in two parts
one.
if there is anyway i can forget the scent of your smile, how it fills the air like rain in a forest. then i hope, if forget it like autumn. a marvelous display of beauty before the last leaf falls. somewhere out there is a creek, and the rippling of the current does not sound like your name, i will swim thee one day. but until then, let the tide of the Atlantic carry me on your tongue. let me crash behind your teeth every time you speak so i can feel at home even while i drown. i pray, that the wind will bring me to peace. where i can drink, and it will taste like water and nothing else. even if i have to be dragged through the mud.
two.
if there is anyway my neck can forget the embrace of your whisper, how it covers my skin like a lunar eclipse. then i hope, i forget it like breath. the last link that connects me with all that i know. somewhere out there is a sidewalk. where the concrete does not feel like the weight of your goodbye, i will walk there one day. but until then, let every building be a testament to the height we achieved. let every lamp post be a spotlight for the nights we danced. so i can share the stage with you even if its our final bow. i pray that the streets will guide me to peace, where i can walk and not see your face on every passerby. even if i have to fall through the cracks.
A poem by Elisabeth Houston
Dollhouse Poem
Bedtime. The moon is pressed
like a silver dollar in the sky.
Moon, take me away,
says Baby. There’s silence,
so she lifts the moon
from the night’s velvet cushion
and puts it in her pocket.
Breakfasttime. Mother scrambles
a yellow universe
in a hot black pan.
The moon in Baby’s pocket,
the sun, a shiny penny
in the palm of the sky.
Father sits like an old loaf
of bread, spreads his toast
with Mother’s buttery eggs.
Baby waits, saucer-eyed
her mouth, a flat, silent line.
The moon in her pocket,
a flattened wish, a dare.
Dollhouse Poem
Bedtime. The moon is pressed
like a silver dollar in the sky.
Moon, take me away,
says Baby. There’s silence,
so she lifts the moon
from the night’s velvet cushion
and puts it in her pocket.
Breakfasttime. Mother scrambles
a yellow universe
in a hot black pan.
The moon in Baby’s pocket,
the sun, a shiny penny
in the palm of the sky.
Father sits like an old loaf
of bread, spreads his toast
with Mother’s buttery eggs.
Baby waits, saucer-eyed
her mouth, a flat, silent line.
The moon in her pocket,
a flattened wish, a dare.
A poem by Hannah Baker-Siroty
BEEKEEPER OUTSIDE ESCANABA, MICHIGAN
In the Upper Peninsula some bees
made a connection with a body.
The story is 2nd hand, from a friend
of a friend. It’s not important
to be there, exactly, outside Escanaba,
to know how she took her dress off.
It was loose, light fabric, and bees were under it.
A swarm began, so she removed the only
layer, slowly, until, naked, she
scraped honey from the comb
BEEKEEPER OUTSIDE ESCANABA, MICHIGAN
In the Upper Peninsula some bees
made a connection with a body.
The story is 2nd hand, from a friend
of a friend. It’s not important
to be there, exactly, outside Escanaba,
to know how she took her dress off.
It was loose, light fabric, and bees were under it.
A swarm began, so she removed the only
layer, slowly, until, naked, she
scraped honey from the comb
A poem by Jamele Adams, aka Harlym 1two5
FOR THE LOVE OF A DREAM
For the love of a dream
I will run full steam
Into the spleen
Of a nightmare
Until it has nothing
Mean to lean on
And we can all sing
Dr. Kings FREEDOM SONG
For the love of your dream
I will unlace my eyelids
Let them flutter to the floor
Catch as much as I can in my eyes
So the dirt never gets in yours
Did you know Dreams know pain?
That they understand sacrifice,
And cradle the causes of your self-esteem.
Scrape the grit of sorrow
Keep us alive
Never rest
And love til death
What would you do for the love of your dream?
Would you be first?
Would you be failure?
Would you loose roses from your veins?
Could be homeless?
Could you be without?
How outside of yourself would you go to get out of your own way?
Would you be the canvas for a gun drawn on someone else?
What would you not do?
Would you save a life,
If it was the dream of millions to kill that person?
Would you forgive?
Could you forget?
Could you be selfless?
Would you privilege poverty?
Lose the light from your halo?
And clip your wings,
So others could fly?
Could you put new colors in the rainbow?
Would you go numb and limp and limbless?
How important are hands
To someone that can only Picaso their dreams in sign language?
So listen carefully to what your fingertips touch
For the love of a dream
You must live again......everyday
Making the lives of others better.
FOR THE LOVE OF A DREAM
For the love of a dream
I will run full steam
Into the spleen
Of a nightmare
Until it has nothing
Mean to lean on
And we can all sing
Dr. Kings FREEDOM SONG
For the love of your dream
I will unlace my eyelids
Let them flutter to the floor
Catch as much as I can in my eyes
So the dirt never gets in yours
Did you know Dreams know pain?
That they understand sacrifice,
And cradle the causes of your self-esteem.
Scrape the grit of sorrow
Keep us alive
Never rest
And love til death
What would you do for the love of your dream?
Would you be first?
Would you be failure?
Would you loose roses from your veins?
Could be homeless?
Could you be without?
How outside of yourself would you go to get out of your own way?
Would you be the canvas for a gun drawn on someone else?
What would you not do?
Would you save a life,
If it was the dream of millions to kill that person?
Would you forgive?
Could you forget?
Could you be selfless?
Would you privilege poverty?
Lose the light from your halo?
And clip your wings,
So others could fly?
Could you put new colors in the rainbow?
Would you go numb and limp and limbless?
How important are hands
To someone that can only Picaso their dreams in sign language?
So listen carefully to what your fingertips touch
For the love of a dream
You must live again......everyday
Making the lives of others better.
A poem by January Gill O'Neil
Night at the Roller Palace
After the birthday crowds thin out,
after the Hokey Pokey and Chicken Dance,
after the parents have towed their shaky kids
like cabooses ready to decouple
and the pint-sized skaters have circled the rink
like a gang of meerkats spun into a 10-car pileup,
you turn sideways and angle by as “Another One Bites the Dust”
thumps overhead. You give a finger point to the DJ stand
because, in your mind, you are soldiers in the march against time,
grooving to the retro beat while the disco ball shines overhead
cut crystal against rainbow walls.
You glide like Mercury or Apollo Ono
without wings or skin suit, in low-rider jeans
that hug your body like you hug corners,
pass them all on the smoothed-out parquet floor,
worn down by time and rhythm. The trick is
to make it look effortless, remind them that
your quickness is a kind of love. You are the spark
between wood and wheel. And when your cranky kids
hang out by the wall ready to go,
holding those eight wheels by their brown leather tongues,
you give them a wave and keep circling,
Just one more song, you say.
This is your “me” time. It’s all-skate.
You’ve got your whole self in--
that’s what it’s all about.
Night at the Roller Palace
After the birthday crowds thin out,
after the Hokey Pokey and Chicken Dance,
after the parents have towed their shaky kids
like cabooses ready to decouple
and the pint-sized skaters have circled the rink
like a gang of meerkats spun into a 10-car pileup,
you turn sideways and angle by as “Another One Bites the Dust”
thumps overhead. You give a finger point to the DJ stand
because, in your mind, you are soldiers in the march against time,
grooving to the retro beat while the disco ball shines overhead
cut crystal against rainbow walls.
You glide like Mercury or Apollo Ono
without wings or skin suit, in low-rider jeans
that hug your body like you hug corners,
pass them all on the smoothed-out parquet floor,
worn down by time and rhythm. The trick is
to make it look effortless, remind them that
your quickness is a kind of love. You are the spark
between wood and wheel. And when your cranky kids
hang out by the wall ready to go,
holding those eight wheels by their brown leather tongues,
you give them a wave and keep circling,
Just one more song, you say.
This is your “me” time. It’s all-skate.
You’ve got your whole self in--
that’s what it’s all about.
A poem by Jennifer Jean
originally published in Poets/Artists in August 2011
Grace
1. Indian Summer
We heard rumors of razors in apples
and needle holes in wrappers.
But, we peeled a trillion sweetmeats
hungrily, as a three alarm fire
gnawed at the San Fernando Valley hills
on Halloween. The smoke
tumbled right
into nearby Simi Valley where rich people lived
in stucco split levels
just below the old Manson Family caves.
We knew, where there’s smoke
there’s snakes--
rattlers, copperheads and more settling over Simi
like the black billows.
You just can’t tell where
the wind blows, I guess.
2. Trick or Treat
That year, we were homespun
pirates or gypsies
draped in fool’s gold.
We were cheap sheet-ghosts--
our pillowcases nearly empty for taking
in the skyline. Flames
fanned the air in praise.
They hustled—made a halo of those sharp licks--
while buckling brush clapped
and free candy paled
when free candy was everything to us.
We lay in bed before they snuffed the fire--
3. Lights Out
we lay open
armed in the relative dark,
our bellies gnashing and moaning
for food, our weak teeth chewing one last
Tootsie pop or Skittle.
We needed more
jaw breaking treats to last like this
mean season gone gracious.
We needed every red-engine knell to slumber
and a neighborhood cease-fire
and then we could wake stoked
to survive—stretch and run
into the All Saints Day dawn.
originally published in Poets/Artists in August 2011
Grace
1. Indian Summer
We heard rumors of razors in apples
and needle holes in wrappers.
But, we peeled a trillion sweetmeats
hungrily, as a three alarm fire
gnawed at the San Fernando Valley hills
on Halloween. The smoke
tumbled right
into nearby Simi Valley where rich people lived
in stucco split levels
just below the old Manson Family caves.
We knew, where there’s smoke
there’s snakes--
rattlers, copperheads and more settling over Simi
like the black billows.
You just can’t tell where
the wind blows, I guess.
2. Trick or Treat
That year, we were homespun
pirates or gypsies
draped in fool’s gold.
We were cheap sheet-ghosts--
our pillowcases nearly empty for taking
in the skyline. Flames
fanned the air in praise.
They hustled—made a halo of those sharp licks--
while buckling brush clapped
and free candy paled
when free candy was everything to us.
We lay in bed before they snuffed the fire--
3. Lights Out
we lay open
armed in the relative dark,
our bellies gnashing and moaning
for food, our weak teeth chewing one last
Tootsie pop or Skittle.
We needed more
jaw breaking treats to last like this
mean season gone gracious.
We needed every red-engine knell to slumber
and a neighborhood cease-fire
and then we could wake stoked
to survive—stretch and run
into the All Saints Day dawn.
A poem by Johanna Lyman
FOR THE BROKEN ONES
You think I don’t know you, but I do. I see me in you.
In the cocky you (hey, I’m up here on stage baring my soul to complete strangers now THAT
takes some self assurance which is a fancy way of saying cocky)
In the skeptical you
In the “don’t wanna be here don’t wanna do this” you, I see me.
In the doubtful you (who takes a dare to prove a point and ends up up-ended in your convinctions,
doubting what you never doubted before)
In the lonely you
In the scared, the lost, the dazed and confused you (that’s me, too)
In the beaten down, broken up, “even superglue can’t fix that” you
In the one who is in constant pain.
In the bully, in the victim, and in the one who walks away ignoring the scene (I see me)
In the pants belted below the butt you... oh wait.
You do not want to see me like that.
But I’ll bet you can’t see yourself with poufed up hair and legwarmers, either.
On that one point, we will agree to disagree.
In the hopeful you (the one who hopes against all hope that love is real even when
you have not seen one.shred.of.evidence.)
In the curious you
In the playful, creative, Man-child/Woman-child about to land in this crazy, mad,
mixed up world you (I see me)
In the determined you (do you KNOW what kind of determination it took to stand up for
what I know to be true when I was ahead of the times and everyone thought I was crazy
and now they all want to know how I became such a freaking genius overnight
(it was a loooooong night))
In the resilient you
In the survivor you, the one who says, “I KNOW I have something to say,” the one
who won’t give up and won’t go away (that’s me too)
To you I say: Stand up. Speak up. Figure out who you are and what you like and what you will
and will not accept in your life.
Take a STAND for yourself.
You are Not broken.
See Johanna read this poem: http://openingpandorasbox.com/teen-stories/
FOR THE BROKEN ONES
You think I don’t know you, but I do. I see me in you.
In the cocky you (hey, I’m up here on stage baring my soul to complete strangers now THAT
takes some self assurance which is a fancy way of saying cocky)
In the skeptical you
In the “don’t wanna be here don’t wanna do this” you, I see me.
In the doubtful you (who takes a dare to prove a point and ends up up-ended in your convinctions,
doubting what you never doubted before)
In the lonely you
In the scared, the lost, the dazed and confused you (that’s me, too)
In the beaten down, broken up, “even superglue can’t fix that” you
In the one who is in constant pain.
In the bully, in the victim, and in the one who walks away ignoring the scene (I see me)
In the pants belted below the butt you... oh wait.
You do not want to see me like that.
But I’ll bet you can’t see yourself with poufed up hair and legwarmers, either.
On that one point, we will agree to disagree.
In the hopeful you (the one who hopes against all hope that love is real even when
you have not seen one.shred.of.evidence.)
In the curious you
In the playful, creative, Man-child/Woman-child about to land in this crazy, mad,
mixed up world you (I see me)
In the determined you (do you KNOW what kind of determination it took to stand up for
what I know to be true when I was ahead of the times and everyone thought I was crazy
and now they all want to know how I became such a freaking genius overnight
(it was a loooooong night))
In the resilient you
In the survivor you, the one who says, “I KNOW I have something to say,” the one
who won’t give up and won’t go away (that’s me too)
To you I say: Stand up. Speak up. Figure out who you are and what you like and what you will
and will not accept in your life.
Take a STAND for yourself.
You are Not broken.
See Johanna read this poem: http://openingpandorasbox.com/teen-stories/
A poem by Jonathan Mendoza
On the Boston Marathon of 2014
Let this be progress.
Let this be moving.
Let this be fresh air and new days.
Let this be a moment separate from the last.
Let this be remembrance
of tragedy
and mourning.
Let this be sorrow.
Let this be knife-took-their-skin.
knife-poked-ours.
Let this be wake-up call.
Let this be spilt blood.
Let this be
Dorchester,
Mattapan,
Roxbury.
Let this be terrorized beauty.
Let this be city strength through 50 homicides in a year.
Let this be cognizance.
Let this be empathy.
Let this
be tragedy
and mourning.
Let this be anything but forgetting.
On the Boston Marathon of 2014
Let this be progress.
Let this be moving.
Let this be fresh air and new days.
Let this be a moment separate from the last.
Let this be remembrance
of tragedy
and mourning.
Let this be sorrow.
Let this be knife-took-their-skin.
knife-poked-ours.
Let this be wake-up call.
Let this be spilt blood.
Let this be
Dorchester,
Mattapan,
Roxbury.
Let this be terrorized beauty.
Let this be city strength through 50 homicides in a year.
Let this be cognizance.
Let this be empathy.
Let this
be tragedy
and mourning.
Let this be anything but forgetting.
A poem by Noah Burton
Originally published in The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review
Earthboy
A rod in his hands
for digging in the garden.
Crawling in. The hole
closing above him.
Artichokes rooting.
Ginger. Like a pillow
behind his head—a potato.
The vegetables form a tribunal.
Decide that he can
stay here, and will.
Originally published in The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review
Earthboy
A rod in his hands
for digging in the garden.
Crawling in. The hole
closing above him.
Artichokes rooting.
Ginger. Like a pillow
behind his head—a potato.
The vegetables form a tribunal.
Decide that he can
stay here, and will.
A poem by Regie Gibson
Godholler
Godholler // 1. n. A primal word. The first cry of creation. The sound from which all things manifest–––as in, Yes: the word his mother gave his father, in 1967, after he’d chased her for 8 years. Yes, there, in the cotton field, he, the father, wearing a halo of daysweat and dust. Yes: the word that became the kiss that became the tongue on the pulse that became the hand that turned up the transistor radio so Smokey Robinson and the Miracles could punctuate the newfound syllable with Ooooh, Baby, Baby becoming the baby they would have together, there, in that small Mississippi backwater they would soon leave for the promise of Chicago’s smokestacks and skyscrapers. 2. v. To loudly command with supreme and unquestioned authority––– as when the mother, like a carnival ventriloquist, sits with a deity on her knee making it mouth her “Thou Shalt Not’s”, or, when the father, fearing the son is gay, attempts to yell him into a “real man”. 3. n. The sound the boy, now a man with sons, attempts to muffle in his poetry.
Godholler
Godholler // 1. n. A primal word. The first cry of creation. The sound from which all things manifest–––as in, Yes: the word his mother gave his father, in 1967, after he’d chased her for 8 years. Yes, there, in the cotton field, he, the father, wearing a halo of daysweat and dust. Yes: the word that became the kiss that became the tongue on the pulse that became the hand that turned up the transistor radio so Smokey Robinson and the Miracles could punctuate the newfound syllable with Ooooh, Baby, Baby becoming the baby they would have together, there, in that small Mississippi backwater they would soon leave for the promise of Chicago’s smokestacks and skyscrapers. 2. v. To loudly command with supreme and unquestioned authority––– as when the mother, like a carnival ventriloquist, sits with a deity on her knee making it mouth her “Thou Shalt Not’s”, or, when the father, fearing the son is gay, attempts to yell him into a “real man”. 3. n. The sound the boy, now a man with sons, attempts to muffle in his poetry.
A poem by Tara Skurtu
SKURTU, ROMANIA
Dad hears there’s a town in Romania
where almost everyone is a Skurtu,
and I think about Jo-Ann Fabric.
The aisles of zippers, mismatched bolts
of cloth that frenzied my eyes electric—
and on all of these, a zebra-striped sticker
with the letters SKU. Skurtu supplies.
If this town exists, I imagine it’s full
of dads teaching their children to draw
shapes: circle, square, slibeedoo.
A town with balls—like Dad, when a cop
pulled him over for no apparent reason,
looked at his license and said,
Step out of the car, Mr. Skrewtoo.
Looking that cop in the eye, Dad said,
That’s not how you pronounce it.
My name is Mr. SkrewYou.
In that one-family town, no one loses
a name. Unlike Mr. Freid, whose grandfather,
at Ellis Island, spoke the only English words
he knew but couldn’t spell. I am afreid.
And fear, with a foreign accent, renamed him.
SKURTU, ROMANIA
Dad hears there’s a town in Romania
where almost everyone is a Skurtu,
and I think about Jo-Ann Fabric.
The aisles of zippers, mismatched bolts
of cloth that frenzied my eyes electric—
and on all of these, a zebra-striped sticker
with the letters SKU. Skurtu supplies.
If this town exists, I imagine it’s full
of dads teaching their children to draw
shapes: circle, square, slibeedoo.
A town with balls—like Dad, when a cop
pulled him over for no apparent reason,
looked at his license and said,
Step out of the car, Mr. Skrewtoo.
Looking that cop in the eye, Dad said,
That’s not how you pronounce it.
My name is Mr. SkrewYou.
In that one-family town, no one loses
a name. Unlike Mr. Freid, whose grandfather,
at Ellis Island, spoke the only English words
he knew but couldn’t spell. I am afreid.
And fear, with a foreign accent, renamed him.
A poem by Timothy Gager
The Shutting Door
We are solid oak doors that shut
on our past, close on dead mothers,
sons, daughters. These doors swell
often, won’t open. One midnight
we walked towards woods, the moss
cold under our toes, as we were,
caught in the light for a moment;
a glimpse of half full. We are dim
lights on dark nights, sending out calls
to the wolves howling at the sun
because the moon hanging there,
yet never seems to hear them.
If I should need to step back to see
how you glow in this light,
illumination, I can be at one with that,
us, growing like violets in the dark.
The Shutting Door
We are solid oak doors that shut
on our past, close on dead mothers,
sons, daughters. These doors swell
often, won’t open. One midnight
we walked towards woods, the moss
cold under our toes, as we were,
caught in the light for a moment;
a glimpse of half full. We are dim
lights on dark nights, sending out calls
to the wolves howling at the sun
because the moon hanging there,
yet never seems to hear them.
If I should need to step back to see
how you glow in this light,
illumination, I can be at one with that,
us, growing like violets in the dark.