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music ,graphics, Lovers of the Arts , advertisement etc... 

Web Zine for Everyone...literature , poetry , spoken word, music ,graphics, Lovers of the Arts , advertisement etc...

 Featured Poetry !


Daring to be Writ by mrbaithher aka B Moore 

Life is a poem Daring to be Writ

By any old one with pen in their mitt
It don't have to rhyme and don't have to make sense
So long as its author can interpret it

There's beauty in pain and glory in defeat
Laughter in sorrow and there's bitter in sweet
You don't need no subject don't need to convince
Don't need no audience that's eager to read

To write about something you don't got to be right
It can be loose or can be un-tight
Don't got to be dismal don't got say whence
Don't got have nothing but feelings inside

It can meander from seashore to plain
It can peek through a shuttered window pane
A poem can scale barbed wire prison fence
Can be a salve to the in-firmed and insane

It can be uplifting but don't gotta be
It can reverence the Maker of fools such as me
Don't got to be timely but once it is spent
It should always bring to its author peace
BMoore 10/2013





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Michael Brown's Father's Tears by Author Christopher Higgins

Have you ever seen a grown man cry
weeping tears with a big belly
sound that resurrect ancestors
from the racist fist of America's palm
have you ever heard a man cry when his son
has died
not the white picket
two point kids father
just a dude who did what he knew best
lest we judge
I saw him crying
going home ceremony
a Psalm couldn't shield his seed
a son dead
left in the street for four hours
God's sun burning dead flesh
body confiscated in black SUV
hid from jury
doctored the American way
tell me Massa Wilson
how many shots does it take
to get to the middle

somewhere in MoonShine America

fiddle played

celebration over dinner

 another darkie dead

but Massa Wilson this poem isn't about you
and your kind
because we have waited over four hundreds
and you and your type will eventually do
your time
this poem is about a father losing a son
a father who bawled like an old slave captured
from his palace
and chained with middle passage eternity
this poem is about a father
who will sleep night after night knowing that his boy
is buried in some American soil that doesn't recognize him
that doesn't love him
American soil that still counts him Three Fifths
we are still searching for that other Two Fifths
losing the battle at times
but still we fight
this poem
this moment
this few lines is about a father
an American father
who had to say goodbye
to his boy with an old negro spiritual
and a Psalm that couldn't save him .




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Curios by Rickey Hood of The Artist Lounge 

 there is a crack on the hard wood floor

near the corner where the curio cabinet holds pictures
of my family precious little things
nic-nacs i've collected over the years
a life now dulled from dust and neglect

i've been busy
making a world for my life
busy/ tearing down the old and making way for the new
creating a place for me
renovating/ remodeling my world
my life

all was going as planned/ until the day
i saw a crack on the hard wood floor
near the corner where the curio cabinet stands
and i saw what i had been destroying

so what now?
my world is nearly complete
should i rip this crack and everything with it
or open the curio and dust off the memories
to keep my world undone



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Carolina Blues by Mythra of The Artist Lounge

Sunnet (English) Carolina Blues

Out the crevice of the windows blinds
I watch the day turn to night like déjà vu
Thru the crevice of the windows blinds
I can see silhouettes of trees & that Carolina blue

Forgot how magnificent a sunrise could be
Til I went N2 the condition
Forgot how magnificent a sunset could be
Til I rid myself of all premonitions

So each morning as appropriate, when in zazen mind
I glimpse @ all there is; the Divine has blessed views 4 these eyes
With the vivid manifestations foreseen beyond time
I watch the people time tick-tocks, under these light blue skies

Out of the crevice of the windows blinds, where I finda view
I can see silhouettes of trees & that Carolina blue AddThis Social Bookmark Button




Wounds by Blusladysouritn of The Artist Lounge 

They pierce me like shards of glass
Stabbing away at my heart, promises forgotten and nurturance unfulfilled
Wounds that fester and heal, only to be reopened and scabbed over
Broken and lanced then broken again
Scabs form and new areas are pierced.
I am the cushion that holds a thousand piercings
I want the pain to make me remember promises forgotten
I will wear my sacrifice like a badge of honor until I stand before my maker
A solider
Cast in the fire
Forged in the blood
Strengthened by the promise


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Heroes by 1 Folomenia aka Marguerrita of The Artist Lounge

Sitting under the maple tree
I wait not for an apple to fall down 
but, something other that might hit me
restoring my faith in human race.
And I think;
in the absence of heroes
dark forces take over a stage.
Winds turn into the killer hurricanes
erasing unambiguous images.
Spiteful whispers
become the huge offences.
Words spreading venom
leave the clues of malicious intends.
Arrogance and bigotry mark the presence
of highly celebrated antiheroes. 
Chaos, disgust, promotion of segregation,
repulsion displayed and harbored 
towards those who neither applaud
nor agree with your point of view.
That's everyday occurrence
here, where I live.
Acclaimed, erudite statements
reign without any restrains,
using every possible opportunity
as a dress rehearsal
for the radical, personal games.
And I sit under the maple tree 

and I wonder

where, o where are the heroes

willing to sacrifice

there own ego,  pride , and fame

after all is racism curable 

under what circumstances and when ?


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willing to sacrifice

their own ego, pride and fame?
After all, Is racism curable
under what circumstances
and when?