Month: April 2016 Page 1 of 4

Postado by: Camila Tellez Pardo, Acrylic on canvas, 2016.

Temptation
by: Emilee Lawrence

Prop a couple of toothpicks underneath heavy eyelids,
Sweeten my coffee with Baileys,
I’m ready to start the day.

Dragging shoes made of lead,
I’ll get there eventually.

Begging the day to end
Are the minutes counting me down?
As if it matters.

Covering yawns with shining teeth.
But these teeth are not as lovely as they seem,
Just ask my bleeding tongue.

The anxiety seeping through my pores
Like last night’s fun,
Invisible to see with the naked eye.
The torn up tissue where skin meets nail tells the truth.

This understanding disguised itself as wisdom,
And slowly wrapped itself around my neck
Into a rope of delicate pearls.

The knot tightens
As the fog around the finish line clears,
And the cheers from the solace awaiting me on the other side
Grow louder.

The coaxing
Is becoming impossible to ignore.

How much longer
Will I resist the temptation
To knock over the wobbling stool
Beneath my feet?

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Untitled 1 by: Lyvia Alvarez, Oil on canvas, 2016.

New Orleans Deadly Enchantment
by: Michelle Marie Chase

Dauphine’s golden trumpets blared for the crowd of drunken fools.
Skilled hands twirled me under twinkling lights on Royal.
Bourbon on our feet, whiskey in our veins.
Midnight we married at La Supreme Court.
Fortunetellers told him to leave me.
He chose to ignore them.
The morning came quietly.
I looked back.
He slept.
Forever.

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The Hand You’re Dealt by: Rose Dobson, Acrylic on Canvas, 2016.

Wetback

by: Edgar Trejo

Baptized under a cradle of hands
And blanketed under an old t-shirt.
Like Moses, traveled to the Promised Land,
But by desert.

When he arrived no prophecies were fulfilled.
Hopes never came to be.
He was christened by his first nickname:

Everything you owned and everything you are
Has been left behind.
You will never be heard, you will never be seen-
That missing shoe you left in the desert.
Things are not how they were,
Everything you own, everything you are
Is nothing.
You are just a job.

“Make America Great Again,”
Our bastard brother.
There is nothing to be said, just give in.
We built the ditch they’ve trapped us in.

“Just let it happen.”
Our language arts teachers
Whispered after school.
No one heard.

We never spoke English.

People never change
Until the first cry is heard.
Slaves to “The Land of The Free”
Cowards of “The Home of The Brave”.

We built the ditch they’ve trapped us in.

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Time by: Rose Dobson, Mixed media on paper, 2016.

Aphotic Rest
by: Ash Brand

It’s the only choice to make
when all the world is watching.
The radiance wraps around you like ribbons,
you never knew its silk could turn to grit.
Keep smiling, Keep working.
The door was glinting in the dark,
promising to lead you down a vivid path.
No one told you the glow could blind.
No one warned you about
its opaque pressure.
Keep smiling, Keep working.
The choice was clear, but now
it hurts to look at.
You struggle to keep up with the incandesce with all of your might
but you fall
all the same.
You did not collapse in vain.
The shadows mean no harm.
Breathe in, Breathe out.
All-encompassing but not suffocating,
No one can see your cracks.
No one can see you repair yourself.
Breathe in, Breathe out.
You are not less here.
Reinforce your resolve, use the inky blackness
to rewrite your goals.
The door did not crumble because you needed to rebuild.
Take all the time you need
to reach for the knob once more.

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Circles of Chaos by: Julie Wells, Acrylic on canvas, 2014.

Sitting Solitary in Starbucks
by: Allison Kennedy

Business men hunch; computer peckers, them, not me,
A display of evolution, the genes permutate
accompanied by the smell of burned coffee.

Behind, a can of tuna is opened. Ew, how can that be?!
Through the atmosphere it permeates.
The college student munches; smelly eater, him, not me.

Several languages are spoken over tea.
The indistinct murmur surprisingly resonates
over the smell of burned coffee.

Two graying, pot-bellied men chat casually
of their pasts and of their fates.
A chance meeting at brunch; nostalgic speakers, them, not me.

A sample platter is passed around for free
She offers, but I negate,
over the smell of burned coffee.

Sun sets as the light travels down my thigh to knee.
Several patrons come in with their mates.
Happy couples flirt; sacrificially satisfied, them, not me.
Inhaling the smell of burned coffee.

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He Looked At Me With Eyes Full of Love by Sarah Hutchings, mixed media, 2015.

The Future is Ours
by: Mary Beth Foster

Where is my jetpack?
Where is my freedom from woe?
Where is my field of daisies, my bed of roses?

Nothing about the ‘eighties prepared me for this:
The age spots on my hands
The quaver new in my mother’s voice.

The future was ours
We could do anything a boy could do.
Through the haze of burning bras and noisy plackards

Glimmered the new Jerusalem
We need only follow the shining path
Paved by our grand-s and great-s
Who did the work of Hoovers, Singers and Whirlpools
Til their hands cracked.

We were free of that
We have the scented lotions to prove it.

I have it all:
The Miele, the Bosch, the Kitchenaid and Cuisinart.
I brought home the bacon, fried it up in a pan.
My kitchen counters come from Italy and gleam like mother-of-pearl.
Recessed lighting in my boudoir casts flattering shadows.

But Spandex and silk go not together.
Sleeveless isn’t an option – too many tans have passed.
Sanitizing cleaners violate my manicure.
But it’s alright, because I have a choice of brands.
I stand in the aisle under the flickering fluorescents,
Comparing the merits of Clorox and Lysol.

The doctor says that, with maintenance, quality of life can be extended
Indefinitely.
The other doctor says that I must keep an eye on that mole – remember my ABCDEFGs.
Fish oil can help with joint pain and foggy memory, but may carry added cancer risk.
Hormone replacement therapy was maybe not such a good idea.

Maybe I should send myself flowers
Pluck the petals
Scatter them across my sheets
Lie down, and dream of
Jet-pack flying silent along the path
To the city my fore-mothers built
So my hands could travel across silk
Without snagging.

Then I’ll rise,
Change the sheets,
Add bleach to take out the pollen stains,
Drive to mom’s
And change her sheets too.

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Untitled by: Camila Tellez Pardo, Acrylic on Canvas, 2015.

My Curse
by: Brenda L. Chacon

What are they talking about?
The whispers, the voices, the yelling, the growls.
I can never tell. There’s so many of them.
What are they talking about?

So strange and jumbled.
I hear them here and there.
Not sure what they want. I wish they would say.
Or maybe they are, and I just do not want to hear.

They are always near me, surrounding me day and night.
I want to sleep tonight. “Stop sitting on my bed!”

Can I please have this day?
I’m just walking through, “Leave me alone,” I say.
They keep on and on.
“Stop. Just Stop!”
I run and peek around the corner.
Are they still following?

Where did she come from?
She’s the scariest yet.
Maybe she just came from a costume party, but I know she didn’t.
Just wishful thinking.
“Leave me alone. I can’t help you.” I plead as I walk away.

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Untitled by: Macy Partain, Acrylic on canvas, 2015.

Obsessive Talk
by: Marissa Aguilar

The room with the clock that hung between two windows
kept track of the seconds until Sammy got paid.
I glared at the yellow couch against the wall,
its baby puke appearance fixed as a memory,
A terrible contrast to my blue jeans.
Others have touched this piece before,
flopped over tattered cushions,
their secrets hidden within its cracks,
along with forgotten pennies.
The mustard sofa,
neglected and soiled,
had it once been clean like me?
Before the pulled hair,
tossed kitchen scissors on bathroom tile floor,
a rush of “you’ll feel better once it’s done.”
Mother bent, pounding a hand against her thigh,
“it’s all in your head!” echoes off apartment walls.
“Friends” point and sneer at new close cut,
because pretty girls have long hair.
“How do you feel?” Sammy asked.
Sudden reminder of these past two years,
Fingertips tapping the spot exposed to air.
A sign labeled “patients” above,
I no longer had a name.

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Him by: Rose Dobson, mixed media, 2016.

Untitled
by: enlischo

One sun fried afternoon, over a cup of tea
As usual, my companion recounted her recent tryst
Unmoving, unwilling to hurt, I kept my eyes level and my mouth silent
Ripple upon ripple, her tolerance at last breached
She asked, she prodded, she accused,
my unfaithfulness prevalent in the halfheartedness I showed.
‘No, dear friend, I’m just callous.’
‘Show me your support, at least.’
Bitter smile, I told her the blankness of my mind
was filled with concern one day she would be hurt.
Had I been her friend for a mere thirty days
she would hurl the hot liquid into my face.
I asked her favorite color.
To her answer, ‘red like rose,’ I wanted to know another thing.
Would she like if her love was red?
With a nod, her smile barely hidden,
Blowing off the steam from Ceylon tea,
Letting out the harmless sigh I had long perfected,
I let my voice trace the colors of the rainbow,
Red like blood as a certain suicidal rejected captain.
Hopeless, as black as the love of a father.
Innocent the name of white, leaving both with nothing but pain.
Deep blue sea washed ashore a perpetual sorrow.
Yellow hay belly betrayal.
Greenish veins pumped jealousy.
Then came satin purple, carrying the burden of age old wisdom.
All of those, my mother the witness.
Untrue none of them.
The question was
when will the shade of love bleed out from its definite range
and turn every once sweet nothing into a lifelong scar?

*Editor’s Note: The author of this poem is not a native English speaker.

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Comptine d’un Autre ete: L’Apres-Midi by: Camila Tellez Pardo, Mixed media on canvas, 2016.

20 Years Ago (March 31st)
by: Jenise

March 31st, 1995 Tejana singer Selena was shot.
Twenty years later, I was surprised to find out my mother
Thought she was dying of cancer.

As news kept coming in about the woman who died so young,
my mother locked herself in the laundry room,
Sat on her new dryer,
And grieved.

Both newlywed, aspiring women,
Yet here one was sitting on her dryer in tears
because she thought she was dying.

Tejanos remember the day
Selena Quintanilla was taken,

My mother remembers because
It was discovered she was pregnant.

I was the cancer she thought she had.
Thinking about it now,
I fit both definitions.

I was a malignant growth of uncontrolled cell division in my mother’s body,
But also, I grew to be evil, destructive, and hard to eradicate.

I am evil because I caused my mother birthing pains,
And I drained my parents of money.
I am destructive because I deteriorated my mother’s health
for nine months and, after my birth,
I continued to destroy my parent’s peace
and my mother’s clean house.
I am hard to eradicate because of forensic science.

So many years ago today my mother thought she had cancer.
Perhaps she was right.

Most importantly,
Twenty years ago today my favorite singer died
And I am sitting in the open,
Listening to sirens and remembering her death,
As if I was here.

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