The new way of life


Nobody deserves to die
Mother dressed in black with flowers while she cries
The new way to deal with your problems is with a gun
But you don’t know the reality of the harm that you’ve done
And now a mother has to bury her son
Tears coming down her face and even through all of this we still kill our own race
What is the issue? How can it be resolved?
What is the answer to this puzzle we caused?
Is it the guns? Is it the gangs?
In the end it doesn’t matter because we all still hang
We hang from a tree of slavery making it a need to kill our own to look cool or be tough
We look like fools acting like this knowing our ancestors had it rough
Now sketched into stone is your sibling’s name with bones
Wishing you could have told them to stay out that zone
This is all a cycle that we need to stop
But it never stops because we still have cops
The people who are supposed to protect us
They abuse the power they have and objectify us
“I only killed him because he looked threatening to me”
He look threatening to you?
My black skin is nothing new
Now you are turning blue because you feel unsafe
I’m guessing that it has to do with my race
And the fact that our Kings and Queens have beautiful faces
Or maybe it’s our height that gives you fright
Whatever it is our people will always be alright
For the past 300 years we have had to fight
Nothing has ever been easy for us
We weren’t even allowed at the front of the bus
What have we done to deserve this?
I wish there was a way we could reverse this


By Chyna Colon


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Echoes of peace

Wind chimes

In the echoes of peace

the house seemed so quietly

still as if it held its breath

and the wind chimes outside

the glass door would catch

the sunlight and add their

own brightness to the room.

Overcome by a curious sense

of elation, I tie back the white

lace curtains to invite the sky

in, glimpse the cerise blossoms

in the wind. The day smiles

back at me and I feel a quiver

in my heart of what’s to come.

The air, soft as a lady’s hand,

gently wraps me in.


By Bobbi Sinha-Morey


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The infinite curse

Infinite curse


A fine place to

set up a lifetime.

A grain of sand has more cachet.


And what do I get.

Eighty years if I’m lucky.

Ninety if I’m not.

And how many years

are there in infinity?

How many lives?


If I knew I was

going to be this insignificant

I wouldn’t have bothered

learning to walk and talk,

or going to the bathroom on my own.


But of all the substances

that ever were,

here I am.

And of all the times

that have ever been

and ever will be,

this one’s happening now.


The coincidence is killing me.


By John Grey


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Speech of the flower


When no other voice was

spoken or heard I listened

to the speech of the flower,

the delicate petals of the blue

orchid so shyly speaking to

me in the quick wind, open

to let in the golden aura of

the sky, the joy at its center

I could hear above the water,

and the blue orchid waved

to me as if it had seen me

before. My fingers trembled,

so afraid to touch it, and I

paused with a stillness in my

soul. Gracefully, in the clear

deep pool of palpable light, I

graze every curve, let the blue

orchid brim over with its own

wellspring of life.


By Bobbi Sinha-Morey


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Gypsy Miles

Gypsy Miles

She traveled the gypsy miles and now she dreams 

In the courses of her early stages of life she stood in the valley watching her dove take flight 

This fashion a desire to only soar with pure site 

But her dreams had to be put on hold 

For so many stories and patterns had to unfold 

I will tell you now, this is the how I was told 

She traveled the Gypsy miles and now she dreams 

She heard the forest screaming in pain that’s stands so near 

Only using an enchanting touch for the faces of the tribes and Musketeers 

Never letting go to all that she found so dear

Running running pulling pulling their Mandrake roots 

Wanting to ease their pain while playing her supernatural flute 

Always teaching them to heal with genuine fruit 

She traveled the Gypsy miles and now she dreams 

Her story even merges down to the ocean floor 

Unlocking safes and many coffin doors

Preparing mankind minds to not desire poor 

Dancing die hards to the surface with all her might

Walking them on water with their knew site 

Honestly guiding them to take new flight 

She traveled the Gypsy miles and now she dreams 

The Gypsy verify that the ones she enlightened would be fed 

And determine none of them left for dead 

That each of their churches lite and read 

She enjoys watching them fly freely out of their cages  

Always supplying skills to master how to turn their pages 

If any person desires to face them to a lock the Madame gypsy would become outraged 

She traveled the gypsy miles and now she dreams 

A male blind horse with a black carriage captured her one stormy noonday 

It was her love for others that made him look her way 

If you ask me it was him that took her so far out and lead her astray 

She finally escaped and took a walk with a full moon and surveyed her ancestors books 

For the story was never told to her and she forgot to look 

The truth of the matter awakened her charmed heart and the information made her shook

She traveled the Gypsy miles and now she dreams 

The Sun finally shined on a crossroad with a mirror standing near 

Remembering all her loved ones she taught how to take flight with pure site and without fear 

She turned to the east and peered through her lacey rose, that’s when her valley finally reappeared 

She took one more look at her reflected study which was her own dove so she could soar 

She only wanted the Love that comes from the heavens above it something you can just ask for  

Finally, I got the message from the man in the cage that the lady is in that valley forevermore.


By Annashea Downey


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A lover, by definition


A lover

is not a predicament,

a circumstance,

but a determination


an effort

which follows a revelation

and sets off a revolution


in which

existing strains

of emotion

and forms of entertainment

are jettisoned as inappropriate

or irrelevant

or are drastically revised –


a great tension arises

between what is divested

and what is taken on –


when it snaps,

a lover is what you’re left with.


By John Grey


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Step over


People stepped over the body

thinking he was just sleeping it off

     (whatever it was)

until he’d been there for days

and stinking worse than the neighborhood.


That’s when they called the cops.

Not 911.

They figured he didn’t deserve rescue.

But if he could only be moved.

Besides, the crows had been taking a

long and interested look at his corpse.

Hot day.

Everything smelled like piss.

Exposed innards was the last thing

folks wanted to see from their windows.

Continue reading “Step over”

The Beautiful Belle


Twice a week I beheld a sound

And this sound resounds so well

It’s educational music for those who would use it

The notes of the melodic Belle


With a perfect shape she looks so smooth

And if I had to walk through Hell

I would barely escape and could hardly wait

To lay eyes on this wonderful Belle


Every time that I hear her voice

My heart begins to swell

As I begin to believe in this angelic dream

This dream of my Southern Belle


With unparalleled attractiveness

And personality that gleams so well

Her eyes they shine like ideas in my mind

The brown eyes of my elegant Belle


If I ever bought her flowers

She’d get the best that they would sell

I cannot un-start what I feel in my heart

For the angel, my muse, my Belle


With soft eyes, skin and glorious tones

She’s a rose with a fragrant smell

This flower, this siren, this object of love

The beautiful, indisputable…Belle!


By Thomas Alexander Friday


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Delicate is her soul and soft is her heart

Her wilt is stronger than most go

Scratches and tears will repair

But plucking, don’t you dare

For loving her is a sacred share

Only the brave crumble in despair

*     *     *

I once planted a garden filled with flowers from my youth

Soil turned in spring and held the fearful seedlings

I once grew a garden in my youth

Slowly spring turned to summer with blooms

I once was a definition of youth

Impatience for life bloomed in dullness

For no one ever told me to relax

Before too long, life will leave you wilting Continue reading “Roses”

You are mine, both now and forever


Are you Moon or my beloved?
Are you real or flight of fancy?
Are you last month as I beheld you
The Sky, who rests in my embrace?

Sky my limit, your home am I
Whether faint or smile, you light
The gloom, fight against the darkness
To live the vision, the dream, the call

O you, my Love, most rare and radiant
My pride and peace, secret and confession
Me you crown and adorn completely
With eyes ever open, our story unfolds

Our God we thank for noon and night
And seasons ever busy in their glorious flight
Yet our kisses, never disturbing ordained by God, the world ever coursing

And whether near you be or far
I by your side am ne’er forsaking
If tears should come or Nature enshroud you
You are mine both now and forever


By Carmanie Bhatti


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