Tomorrow's Day, by Famekia Dingle

When the moon is full and there's no one else around,
my mind gets down to inspect the grounds

by which I live, by which I see,
by which I motivate myself to be me.

Having all this stuff inside my head,
trying not to be so full of dread,

dealing with the impurities of the mind,
working through a hell of a time,

toiling with life's adversities,
aiming always to please,

even though knowing that's hard to do.
Still trying through and through.

Asking questions others don't,
telling things that others won't.

Cleaning all the mess,
wiping away trash that was left.

Hanging new portraits on the walls,
giving tomorrow's day a new call.

Preparing for another day,
starting over the same way.

Where I Was When the Yong He Gong Opened its Doors and Was Abruptly Closed, by Janet Kozachek

The red sun rises over China

in the dawn that brings new arrivals

An east wind blowing across their path

uncovers the relics of old ways

The Temple of Eternal Joy

Flings wide its ethereal gates

inviting travelers from the west

into the sanctum of Tantric mysteries

Their rapacious eyes opened wide

Disbelief pried their jaws agape

Perusing the exotic unimaginable

statues of gods in erotic embrace

Painted in blue, emblazoned in gold

and dancing in sinuous lines

with hands held high on multiple arms

delicate fingers folded in secret signs

A womanly body with an elephant head

cavorts in sensual play

Her pendulous breasts grazing the chest

of the divine one in her leg’s embrace

Couples intertwined in ecstacy

point the way to enlightened glory

man to woman, woman to man

and woman to four-legged beasts

Their unions blazing in fiery halos

emanating from venerated heads

wooden bodies writhing in clouds and rain

falling like torrents in hallowed halls

As secrets seen and heard become secrets no more

and reach the eyes and ears of authorities

the censor dispenser of ordered society

closes the gates to the Buddhist display

The red and the expert behind closed doors

debate on what is to be done

to appease their guests while saving face

committee decisions pleasing all and no one

Seasons come and seasons go

The Buddhist temple opens once more

But all that remains are barren halls

and a few sculptures cloth covered chin to toe

Where I Was When Van Gogh Died, by Tamara Miles

I was a shadow in God’s eye

Cast from the future,

A black crow in the distant cornfield,

part of the mystified museum crowd

in New York City

One hundred years later,

that would stand

before Starry Night and tremble

at its savage beauty,

colors that predicted blues and jazz

and suffering and nirvana.

I would come to share his brother’s

experience of cradling my loved one

in the deathbed,

Would come to love the prostitutes

and thieves,

Would understand

that so little

Separates us all.

A few choices made,

the quick

sharp knife raised,

Bitter words whispered

to ourselves

and believed,

Fragile minds bent toward a

desperate cause.

I was there, Vincent, in the

Same way that you are here

now, a black crow in the

distant cornfield.

Voyage to Reese Hart, by Julia Helen Garris

We curled our souls
on the china-brothel tree
Alive and whee and gestampf and galumpy!

Virgil stomped and whined
"Druids leap at the pumpernickel gate
Fasten your seat belts, what a whale
of malarkey and bone and beer."

Retire at the firewood, you jingle balls merry
Polite cupcakes trimmed in ocean brown
Frothy people-wit, "Two bucks
Spit and curry."

Quintessence smoky pipecob dreams?

Where I'm From ... by Maurice Gordon

Who am I, what am I?

And where I ‘m from

I come from the moterlamd

where they carried us beyond

---

To Jam us, to make us ,

do their plan

They didn’t care about I

As I was only a solution

I’m from the land, the land Jah mek

Where I f-e-e-l the r-i-d-d-i-m

T-e-a-c-h the r-i-d-d-i-m

And r-i-d-e the r-i-d-d-i-m

In my land, we family large

One mother but two or more fathers

Many brothers and sisters

So I leave my land, with a plan

Come to your land

With my instrument

and riddim in hand

To help you under stand

How to r-i-d-e the r-i-d-d-i-m

Why we cry the r-i-d-d-i-m

And how to drive the r-i-d-d-i-m

I’m from the land, the land Jah mek

Where I f-e-e-l the r-i-d-d-i-m

T-e-a-c-h the r-i-d-d-i-m

And r-i-d-e the r-i-d-d-i-m

“Where I’m From,

The land of wood and water

Where the sunshine’s daily on the mountain top

Marley is jamming on one drop

Wailing like a like a cutting razor

And it don’t stop

As Marcus started with one aim, one destiny and one god

Fom mento to ska, rocksteady to reggae, and dub to dancehall

all in one, lOVE…… Irie

Where I Was When ... by Tom Cassidy

Tom's poem needed a little introduction, so this is what he offered us:

Growing up on Long Island in the 1960's, we lived in New York's orbit, and heard for years about this project to build a building that would be even larger than the Empire State Building, which my mother remembered being built when she was a kid. Around the time I was in third grade, a boy in my class did a report (there had been an article about it the little news magazine we got) in which he said it was going to be almost a mile high. That's the germ of this. I constructed a report that such a student might have given. My brother David swore that on a class trip to the Empire State Building, he had dropped a penny from the observation deck, so I used that. When I was a kid, I was scared to death of heights, and I put that in there.

Then having written it out, I sculpted it three different ways, each time starting from the beginning, picking words and phrases and parts of words. My rule was that I could use any words or letters from the report so long as I used them in the order in which they occurred.

In 1968, a Third Grade Student Reports to His Class on the World Trade Center, then Being Built

___________________________________________________________

History Replies

MY NAME IS BOBBY ACKERMAN AND THIS IS MY REPORT ON THE WORLD TRADE CENTER WHICH IS BEING BUILT IN NEW YORK CITY. IT IS GOING TO BE THE BIGGEST BUILDING IN THE WORLD. THERE ARE GOING TO BE TWO OF THEM AND THEY ARE GOING TO BE BIGGER THAN THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING. LAST YEAR I VISITED NEW YORK CITY AND MY SISTER BECKY SAID THAT IF I WENT UP TO THE TOP OF THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING AND LOOKED DOWN THE PEOPLE WOULD LOOK LIKE ANTS. I WANTED TO GO BUT MY MOTHER WAS AFRAID I MIGHT FALL OFF. MY BROTHER DAVID SAID HE WAS GOING TO THROW PENNIES FROM THE TOP AND WATCH THEM FLY INTO TAXI CABS BUT SHE SAID NOBODY IS GOING UP THERE TODAY. I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE WORLD TRADE CENTER TO BE BUILT. SO I CAN GO UP TO THE TOP AND SEE THE PEOPLE LOOK LIKE ANTS. IT IS GOING TO BE ALMOST A MILE HIGH AND I LIVE A MILE AWAY FROM SCHOOL AND THAT IS A VERY LONG WAY. THIS HAS BEEN MY REPORT ON THE WORLD TRADE CENTER WHICH IS GOING TO BE IN NEW YORK CITY. THE END.

i

My name is Bobby Ack.

My world is being built.

It is going to be big.

I can see the top.

I can’t wait to be.

ii.

The world is bigger than the empire.

I might fall off, and

I can’t trade up.

A mile high and a mile away,

My port on the world

Is going to end.

iii.

In New York City,

The people, like ants, fly high

A very long way.

Where I'm From .... by Julie Yadinak

I am from

Stars that reel

Around boundless skies

In tendrils

Of pin-poked light holes

That throb like minute heart beats;

Inside the womb

Of a half-eaten night

I am from

Dust that flickers and fans

In tawny ribbons

Of bright-eyed sunbeams;

Dashing through

The cosmos

On muted, buoyant feet

I am from

Last night’s bed,

The evening’s disciple,

And an edgy, mislaid colloquy

On a hung-over, half-bred morning;

Drinking coffee

In the shade of spirits long deceased

I am from

The profit (and the pain) of lying in the childbed

Markedly callow and unwitting;

Striving to digest the enormity

Of something so ostensibly small

And helpless

I am from

The shards of shattered fables,

Swept up into handfuls of jagged debris

And emptied into the refuse

Of a one parent domicile

I am from

A chronicle of womanly resolve

Wound into snaky veins

That traverse the backs of hands,

And legs

As we voyage from blue collars,

To white collars,

To rainbow sprinkles

On tiptoes of an unbending dream