POETRY

Let The Dreamer Rise

By Aaron M. Carter: Male, Black, California.

It is morning in a cell somewhere

Where a.m. alarm bells sound

it is morning, so

let the dreamer rise

let him leave the grasp of sleep

and prepare for a fresh task from deep

in a garden of men with no masks to keep

This dreamer am I daily

standing on a typical rock singing

typical blues in a typical spot

trying to dodge and dislodge the

earthbound thoughts of typical cops

while I do my atypical job:

healing in a roomful of Icaruses

rebuilding our wings

I mean, just a peek behind

the security screen of our old lives

we remember together the tombs we built,

the times I wouldn’t let the dreamer

rise from guilt: in fact,

I caged him

I shamed him

I refused to claim him

But today is the day I and We

let the dreamer rise and re-make his way

wake the new day up—like the golden lotus flower blooming

from the mud of dirty politics

out—from the "just do your time" offerings

of O.G. hollow tips

away! from the baggage of murderers

robbers, thieves, hold ups

we were held up in a grieving state

and grew unconcerned with a leaving date

Until I learned to turn towards

education that unlocks minds

that can pierce the side of an

anti-system with blades of light

I write--

I sing daily this ode to the dreamer unto night

in a cell somewhere

lost in the twilight

Every morning I say to the darkness

Good night—

Won' t you go.

Now: Let the dreamers rise!

You Have No Idea

By Ira Thomas: Gender, Race, Location Unknown.

You have no idea what it's like to grow up in the hood.

Where I’m from everybody at war, either with each other or 
their self

Close your eyes and fathom this picture.

Mother battles daughters for the whore of the year award

Boys trying to be fathers

Babies raising babies

Drug dealers vs. Killers

Niggas vs. niggas

Who hub caps the biggest?

Who trigger finger the quickest?

Who da realist?

Who pockets the biggest?

It's always a war and champ want more

I’m from the slum

Where the bum use to be the one

Where the young quick to grab his gun

Where the failure is the winner

And the the winner is the failure

You don’t know what I just said but it will hit you later

I thank you for your time

But is it going to help me free my mind?

Is it going to do my time?

Or is it another word on the line?

I’ll find out in due time.

Where you from money is a tool & not a result

Where I’m from money can get you anything,

even a life can be bought.

I get it in wit this pen don’t I slim?

You ain’t got to admit it but mama always told me 
I was a KING and

I always had a dream only of the finest things.

I heard you tell somebody that back in Kemet we were Kings

Walking around draped in golf

Drinking out of gold cups

But who gives a fuck

Excuse my language, but u don’t get it and 
I know u don’t get it.

See, where I’m from the thrill of living occurs 
in playing to win

Not in the actual win

That’s why winning is overrated and

Playing to win is underrated.

The say ‘education rules the nation’

But answer this, does education uplift the human spirit 
understanding and improve the quality of lives for families?

If so, why being educated about crack set me back?

Why being educated about Mac’s have me devious acts?

I bet you can’t answer that,

As a matter of fact don’t even write back because 
whatever your answer is it won’t solve jack.

By: The Voice of The Dead.

Contraband

By Greg Goodman: Male, Black, Location Unknown.

Oh, the orchestra we would make, playing tubas, trumpets,

And steel guitars, from smeltered and hammered prison bars,

Drawn out and thinned into violin and cello strings-

Oh the music we would play, the songs we would sing!

2.5 million of us with choirs within, lamenting longings,

Legal fights, brutalities survived and still sufferin'-

We'd perform these classics, “A Change is Gonna Come,”the blues,

And spirituals of a depth so deep our souls would weep from 
their vastitude.

Some spoken word and rap would provide a nice soliloquy

“Hamilton” wouldn't have nothing on our tragedies.

Its high bar based on word of mouth and flattering reviews,

Scuttlebutt as inconsequential, as unreliable to us as 
Inmate.com news.

And though I've never seen “Hamilton” and won't, anytime soon-

I intend to, once all the prison bars are hammered into horns 
and violin strings,

And we’re exonerated, fair-trialed, paroled, or springed...

Oh the music we will play, the songs we will sing.

I Come From Black

By Alex Briggs: Male, Black, California.

I come from Black

Southern American Folk

Complex they were indeed

Our skin pigment is society’s mystique

	A stigma

	An enigma

My grandparents passed before I could unravel the family's tree.

Good Times were plenty

	Despite the slosh of archaic bigotry

	I felt safe

	I felt loved

	I was taught to be humble

		Carry no grudge

		Don’t grumble

I come from bayou swamp water and dirty red clay

	Opossums and polecats lacing territories

In your face

Saluting me with spray.

Hot and sticky rainfall

	Showers without a moment's notice

Smelly roadside ditches

Outhouses

Shanties and wells

Homes propped on bricks

Screened porches

Roofs made of tin and sticks.

Five Haiku Plus Two

By Geneva J. Phillips: Female, White, Oklahoma.

1) The sheet falls tangles

Searching hand returns empty

He curls around her

2) Storms blow sleeting snow

Endless panes shimmering glass

December fences

3) Noodle bowl steaming

White paint flakes gently

Flutters to earth

4) Hard silver glinting

Clear sunglazed deep blue day

Plane passes over

5) Accumulation

On shelves, empty locker

Disposable life