photo cover by (c) HilLesha O’Nan
Thanks to Paul Brookes for featuring my short poems on his blog. Click the links below!
photo cover by (c) HilLesha O’Nan
Thanks to Paul Brookes for featuring my short poems on his blog. Click the links below!
Including poetry, stories & art/photography from
Faye Alexandra Rose, HLR, Lisa Mary Armstrong, Charlotte Hamrick, Z.R. Ghani, Kushal Poddar, Lawrence Moore, R.D. Johnson, Paul Brookes, David L O’Nan, Stephen Allen, HilLesha O’Nan, Annest Gwilym, Pasithea Chan, Matthew da Silva, Rosie Johnston, Amanda Crum, Barney Ashton-Bullock, Elisabeth Horan, Peach Delphine, Coby Daniels, Rose Knapp, A.R. Salandy, Tim Heerdink, Catrice Greer, Maggs Vibo, Martins Deep, Stephen J. Golds, Anisha Kaul, James Diaz, Charles K. Carter, Linda M. Crate, Vicky Allen, Charlotte Oliver, Ryan Flett, Samantha Terrell, Robin McNamara, Anneka Chambers, Maxine Rose Munro, Gayle J. Greenlea, Elizabeth M. Castillo, Sarika Jaswani, Sarra Culleno, Ethan McGuire, Georgia Hilton, Briony Collins, Bruce McRae, Shiksha Dheda, M.S. Evans, Michael Igoe, Devika Mathur
Small Town Lothario
He was a silvery eyed devil in the guise of a postal worker that begrudgingly delivered your mail like he was Henry Charles Bukowski. In his mind, he was a laureate and he had paid his dues long enough. He thought of himself as a small town lothario, that was making women feverishly swoon when he wasn't murdering them in his poems that he claimed that was better than anything Hemingway could have ever written. He once wrote about the women of the night, calling them brazen whores that danced with strange men before disappearing before dawn. Was it true crime? Either way, the older artists were his ever faithful lap dog, calling him the next Jack Kerouac. Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan
With eyes like the emerald mines in Patagonia, I set afoot on your trail only to be led on to the flames and you watched as memories burned away. You walked away as if a heavy burden was lifted from your shoulders. Forget all of the handwritten letters and poetry, promising me Utopia. They were only words written on paper. Wasted ink and time, there will be a day when our paths cross. I may recognize your face, but I will not remember your name. I'll walk away as if I never knew you. These Walls Put this sledgehammer away I have to build these walls. that were never meant for you to climb and see the real me In the past, I revealed too many truths to people Who never took the time to see the real me So I put the sledgehammer away Unless You want to see the real me. Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan
This poetry shouldn’t be a challenge. This will be a celebration of unity & a place to unleash any sadness, tensions, exhaustion regarding the ongoing unjust killings due to racist ideologies & terrorist who like to re-invent their own history to match an idea in their head that was never theirs. Give us your feelings, give us your words. Tell us what you can do to encourage others, Tell us how you can help stop political & blue corruption, systemic racism, and most importantly give us words that you feel will stop these deaths.
It has been a year since George Floyd, longer for Breonna Taylor, longer for the shit that was Jim Crow Laws, Slavery, don’t forget Rodney King, don’t forget Amadou Diallo, Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Rekia Boyd, thousands upon thousands others. Martin Luther King Jr gunned down for change. The leaders that preached for change always met with resistance. Stop this hate America!
Poem #1 by Catrice Greer
Check below link for what Catrice and other poets are doing for the Cheltenham Poetry Festival Events.
Come Home a poem for George Floyd (June 7, 2020 Catrice Greer) These wombs, sacred, we build placenta worlds of blood and bone cord by cord, cells churning with life a zygotic landscape s .. a .. f .. e safe from gunshots, lethal force, blue bias, blows safe from bent-tongued accusations, chokeholds, grief tears and pain light-years away the amniotic sac aglow you hear only my voice Mommy … I walked with you, my love, my sun floating close to my own heartbeat tethered in the mitochondrial house we are one my peace, your peace my child, to lose you to this world that does not know you never carried you is not the deep-rooted tree of life I birthed a premature exit is not the afterbirth of my labor Call my name when the end is near I will come again for you I will come again for you, my angel my sweetness you will reside here with me, rest in peace. Come home. breathe breathe breathe
Poem #2 Links to my social justice poems on this blog & other links
Above is a link from my wife HilLesha's blog Tothemotherhood.com HilLesha is a mixed-race writer, blogger, co-editor, mother, wife & so much more. *this was from her blog, any content about contests is no longer available*
Poem #3 link to R.D. Johnson’s poems about civil rights & social justice 4 Poems by R.D. Johnson : Malcolm & Martin, Angels, Dr. King’s Dream & February 1st (re-post)
Poem #4 link to Troy Jackson’s Essay “We the People” from the Anthology An Essay “We the People” by Troy Jackson (from Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020)
Poem #5 link to Samantha Terrell’s social justice poetry 3 social justice poems by Samantha Terrell : “Advocacy” “Who We Are” & “Hurry Up Justice”
Poem #6 Stop the Hate Poem by Sarika Jaswani
Below the lambent candor of periwinkle sky Beneath redolent shades of sovereign sun In a garden of remembrance lays a Martyr Farther from littered complexities Yonder of stinking grudges Away from leaking old bottles of comparisons Mildew and rotting timber of America's foundation Off the beaten track Floyd breathes beyond color of skin Where grief ceases to be transient And shuns mute palette of emotions At the end of rainbow where they each call out and Say their names There rests a harbinger of hope and change.
Poem #7 Able & Sable Hearts in Color & Deed by Pasithea Chan
The world is a stable filled with creatures both able & unstable. Those who are able have hearts capable of empathy towards their community. But those who are unstable have hearts so sable they cripple humanity. Their differences define a life of dignity for the rest of humanity. Able hearts play their parts sorting people by acts not words in the name of equality & justice But sable hearts take part in breaking people's hearts sorting them by color to spread terror in the name of service. Able hearts have peaceful minds that analyze words to sort what they fear from what they see or hear. But sable hearts have broken minds that pander to their fear blinding their eyes with what their hearts steer. Able hearts are driven by compassion to foster good even if late because for them right and wrong are black and white. But sable hearts are driven by obsession to spread blind hate because for them freedom is a bait to catch black enjoying whats white. Able hearts will do what's fair because they care But sable hearts will just be there to hunt those unaware. Like day and night, one is light bringing wealth the other is dark with crime bringing death. Show me a man who ran & I'll show you fear from those near. But show me a man who stood his ground & I'll show you justice. There are many George Floyds and Breonna Taylors out there but sadly there are few who truly care or dare to say times have changed yet sable hearts haven't Because right and wrong are not the only black & white In a world where grey is for those who chose to bray blind lies to hide behind a colorful rind. In the end, hearts and minds dictate the kind of life we lead not our colors because we all bleed Red So how can color decide who is good or bad? We are all one; color is just one kind of human kind I'm sure we can agree that deeds can sort the human kind. Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Pasithea Chan
Poetry: Nine by Anneka Chambers
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life In an instant my body is slammed to the ground Nine Minutes I Fight For Life Exclaims from the public echo all around Nine Minutes I Fight For Life I am unarmed, handcuffed and I pose no threat Nine Minutes I Fight For Life Enforcement of this kind is unlawful, do you have no mercy, nor any regret? Nine Minutes I Fight For Life I am pleading with you, please stop! Nine Minutes I Fight For Life Emotionless is the expression of every standing cop Nine Minutes I Fight For Life I lay here helplessly, one against four Nine Minutes I Fight For Life Excessively this Officer pins me to the floor Nine Minutes I Fight For Life I am in excruciating pain Nine Minutes I Fight for Life Explain why you have chosen my soul to claim? Nine Minutes I Fight For Life I hurt until I bleed Nine Minutes I Fight For Life Executing your act of violence, as I cry and plead Nine Minutes I Fight For Life I cannot breathe, I cannot move, I only feel Nine Minutes I Fight For Life Encourage this Officer to remove his knee, from where he kneels Nine Minutes I Fight For Life I am doing all I can to hold on Nine Minutes I Fight For Life Every cell in my being is fighting this wrong Nine Minutes And I Will Not Survive I love you family, colleagues and friends Nine Minutes And I Will Not Survive Eventually My Life Ends. REST IN POWER GEORGE FLOYD 25.05.2020
More Links: https://subterraneanbluepoetry.com/SubterraneanBluePoetry.IX.II.html including a poem by Wolfpack Contributor Megha Sood WolfPack Contributor Bio: Megha Sood
Poems by Laura Grevel:
Texas Freeze Over—February 16, 2021 On that freezing eve in a winter storm, where nothing was the norm, eighteen-year-old Rodney Reese was walking home down a Plano street. He’d finished his shift at Walmart, groceries in hand, still had a good ways to go, slipping and stumbling in ice and snow, still had a good ways to go, when they showed up and slowed. He heard the shout, saw the colors of the car, felt a shiver run over his memory wars: remembered what happened to George Floyd in Minnesota, Eric Garner in New York, Ahmaud Arbery in Georgia, Daniel Prude in New York. Did the cops remember the truth as they told him to stop? That they’d been sent to make a wellness check? Not to be a pain in the friggin’ neck? That the state was now a disaster zone of ice and snow, bodies freezing in homes? Did they remember that he was a man? That warnings were given by the weathermen? That warnings were shouted by the BLM? They asked him to stop; he sweated and labored on. If only he could get home or where someone could see what was going on. He peered resolute through the snow, through the dark, and he prayed. “Where you going, son?” “I’m going home.” “Why you walkin’ in the road?” “Sidewalk’s icy, man.” “Where you goin’? You need a ride.” “I’m goin’ home. Don’t touch me!” The cops get out, come close. “Why don’t you stop? We want to talk.” “Don’t touch me, man!” They grab his arms, cuff him. “This is an investigation!” So though it makes no sense to anyone with a few cells of gray, they charged him for walking home—charged him with being a pedestrian in a roadway. He spent the night in jail, managed to keep his heart from fail, managed to keep from other travail. Next day the police chief let him go, said they should ‘a’ taken him home, didn’t know what was in those cops minds, was it race? The chief couldn’t say. Rodney, when asked later why he didn’t want to stop for the cops, said, “I seen all this stuff with George Floyd. It hurts, man.” People Are Looking They just keep killing black men— these self-appointed vigilantes and cops—killing men jogging down the street like Ahmaud Arbery or men coming out of a shop like George Floyd and the BLM started marching and the Trump response sent an Armageddon of armored cops and henchmen to attack people who were not armored who were protesting the murders of black men. A Star Wars attack on regular people, and the protesters march wearing Covid masks, march those streets, through smoke and tear gas, and the robotic cops bear down bear down brutalize and my mind races to find the puzzle pieces because I seem to have missed something. 1968 I am seven. I walk into a church in East Austin with my mother, brother, sister. Moselle who cleans our house and takes care of us kids invited us to her daughter’s wedding. And when we walk in and walk down the aisle and sit down, my heart begins to thud because people are looking, then not looking, at us. We are the only white people there. 1988 I am 27. I walk into a church for the wedding of Sara. She is a friend, a co-worker, a fellow accountant at the State Auditor’s Office. And when I walk in and walk down the aisle and sit down, my heart begins to thud because something is similar, something is wrong, people are looking, then people are not looking, at us. We are the only white people there. 2020 And my mind races to find the puzzle pieces as a despot’s robot army marches on people who are protesting the murders of men— murders because of the color of their skin. An obscene scene of spleen sent by a President who is more mean than man, sending a smokescreen to make a show that is the only way he knows. And my heart thuds and my mind races to find the puzzle pieces: 1968, 1988, 2020, and I look back and ask Sara, where were the other people from the office? Why did none of them come to your wedding? During workdays, we all worked together. During lunches, we ate out together. During out-of-town audits, we travelled together. My God, Sara, I remember back then I heard one or two excuses busy, kids . . . but most had no kids— most of our co-workers were single, and white. Oh, Sara, how blind have I been?