Year: 2016

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“For Apollo ” Michael Tucker

I find you
each morning
in the sun rise

and in this Western culture

of Estimated Prophets
standing in their shafts of light.
I find you in the daily grind from nine to five

where science is the new religion.

I find you

lighting up action hero movie screens

and while I am sitting at my desk composing poetry

staring back at me from behind the white glow of a an LED monitor.

I find you in the right angles of the polished floor hallway at school

and in the pages of my notebook proudly written.

I find you in the cold marble perfection of gallery statues

from long ago ideal forms made solid

by the cold light of reason
and still staring time
bravely in the eyes

you never blink.

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“Anxiety” by Victoria Carter

Dear anxiety,

I once knew you as innocence creeping up my spine. I saw you as a deranged smile upon this face. Now I know you are the poison filling my veins, the dark side of peace, and the one thing that keeps me from believing. But I know you aren’t there, because you only exist in my faded mind.

 

Dear anxiety,

Go away. I hate that you keep me breathing. I hate that you keep me from believing. But I know you’re there, because I see you when I look in the mirror. You feed off my emotions, and cling to my fear. So…

 

Dear anxiety,

Let me live my life. I don’t need you guiding me. I only need you behind me. Don’t look me in the eye. Don’t feed me your lies.

 

Dear anxiety,

I’m gonna get well.

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“On Fond Memories and Unspoken Words” by Abigail Tiska

My heart beats faster under the underpass and

all I want is to make this last.

City lights reflect off the lenses in your glasses and

I can feel your heart get warmer

just from holding your clammy hands.

They always did shake.

 

(you’re the reason I love brown eyes)

 

Dirty parking garages and

new surprises around each corner.

We really had a thing going—

Remember that cab ride in Philadelphia?

 

Now I’m riding alone

paying more for less

you still haven’t been back.

Phantom pains in my hands where yours used to be.

I keep checking the mail

but to no avail do I find anything from you.

Only cobwebs and bank statements.

If you won’t write to me just promise that

you’ll write about me.

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“For Gawain” By Mike Tucker

An emerald, a clover, grass that’s waiting to be cut,

cat’s eyes and Sheehan’s light, the beam of a young man’s heart.

Beveled glass in the morning light, palm fronds, pumpkin stem, chameleon’s  default.

Please don’t lose your head.

 

Merlin’s cloak, sheep’s pasture, a fresh and virgin spring.

oak leaves and holly sprig, m’ lady’s velvet robe

A Season in Hell all bound up tightly in green.

Please don’t lose your head.

 

A chapel in the wood, dense and overgrown, lush leaves and

ivy creeping up the walls, the smell of rain, the apple worm,

sea glass on sandy shores, the tree outside my window, cracked.

Please don’t lose your head.

 

Gaian mind, moss creeping over rocks,

smooth surface of the water,

sharp flash of the glittering eel

like Mercury on white-crested waves  or

a snake in the grass

in the nick of time

he  slinks off

into one more starless sun rise

off he swims

away he swims

carrying your head

as the last leaf falls

from off the tree.

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“Drowning” by Hannah Himes

8 minutes. The water closes over your head. You can feel yourself slipping lower, even though your legs are still moving. Waves are crashing above you, but there’s too much water in your ears to hear them. You think maybe you read something somewhere about the average person being able to hold their breath for 3-4 minutes. You wonder if that’s how long it’s going to take. Drowning, that is.

7 minutes. Your brain is telling you to inhale but your lungs are resisting. Your ribs are starting to be consumed by an almighty burning and the water is getting darker. The level of oxygen in your blood is going down, while the level of carbon dioxide is going up. You think how strange it is that oxygen is what makes cells age, that what we need most kills us in the end.

6 minutes. Your limbs aren’t moving anymore. Your body is more concerned with trying to make your lungs fill. You think the breath-hold break point is coming soon. It must be. Your body is screaming. Every vein, every artery, every fiber, every nerve ending screaming for oxygen. Your brain keeps telling you not to breathe. You know that breathing in water is bad. That’s what your dad said when you were learning to swim, wasn’t it?

5 minutes. Your body forces you to inhale, immediately causing you to cough, which only increases the amount of water in your throat. Your larynx and vocal cords constrict to keep water out of your lungs, so it goes to your stomach. This will last about a minute, you think. Water in the stomach. Then your larynx will relax and water will flood your chest. You saw this on the news once; they call it wet drowning.

4 minutes. Things are black. You’ve passed out. Like the news said it would, your larynx relaxes in your unconscious state. Your heart is slowing down, as it tries to pump your blood. The blood is getting thicker, something with the amount of salt in the water. You read that in your 7th grade science textbook.

3 minutes. You go into cardiac arrest. Your blood stops flowing. Oxygen stops going to your brain. Your body gives up in the amount of time it takes a spaceship to lift off. 3

 

2

 

1

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“Black Grass” by Rachel Babylon

Before the fall, in mid-September

I passed by the fire house and remembered the black ring of grass.

It was that patch of dead grass

Where the too hot kettle had sat

And had burned its mark into the ground beneath it.

 

We’d stood by the fire house,

Watching the kettle heat up,

Smelt the sweet fragrance of corn;

And felt the crisp autumn air around us

Which swirled the smells I can no longer stand.

 

The next few months I avoided that road.

I’d take alternative routes;

Longer trips down other streets

Just to avoid seeing the burnt circle

Amidst the healthy lawn.

 

The sight of that black grass

Brought back painful memories.

Those thoughts scorched my heart

Just as the kettle charred the grass beneath it;

Withering the innocent strands into nothing.

 

Although years have gone by,

I still hate the scent of cooking corn.

But I cannot loathe the road where singed grass once was.

The patch has healed;

It blends within the Just as the kettle charred the grass beneath it;

Withering the innocent strands into nothing.

 

Although years have gone by,

I still hate the scent of cooking corn.

But I cannot loathe the road where singed grass once was.

The patch has healed;

It blends within the other blades, other blades.

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“walking toward yes” by Mike Tucker

(The author would like to acknowledge Ram Dass from whom the idea for the poem came.)

a walk in the woods

tangle of branches

surrounded by trees

each one is different

the tall straight oak

the crooked maple

the wise and prickly pine

the one with few leaves remaining

the sickly one

the robust one

the evergreen

I love each tree

I accept each one without judgement

 

a walk in the city

crowded sidewalk

cement and neon

synthetic forest

surrounded by people

each one is different

the tall one the short one

the dark one the light one

the healthy one the sick one

the rich one the poor one

the one who has not had time to find out who she is

the one who speaks a language that I can’t understand

the one who worships a different goddess

the well- dressed one with the broken heart

the one who sleeps on the park bench at night

can I love each one?

can I accept each person without judgement?

yes

yes

a resounding yes

I can love them just like I love the trees…

 

but the best part of being human is that

when the music plays

we can all dance together

and not only accept

but celebrate our differences

 

listen

listen

my whole human family

 

they’re playing our song

it sounds like love and inclusion

and the singer tells a beautiful truth

so gather here

and tell your own truth

each of us is on a journey

won’t you come and dance with us…

 

 

 

 

 

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The Fabric of Our Lives by Amanda McPherson

1863 The Emancipation Proclamation

1955 I will not change my seat

1963 Thousands marching for what they believe

1920 Harlem screams “We have a new beat”

2008 Welcome President Obama

1954 Separate is not equal

1963 I have a dream

 

History is not linear.

And without diversity, there is no true history

Because history is a tangle of events

That go in and out of existence

Becoming current when in the consciousness of someone’s mind

And going extinct when the world stops thinking about them.

This begs the questions,

Is history part of yesterday, or today?

 

Diversity is key to unraveling history.

Because like Philomela,

Those who’ve lost their tongue to speak

Are left with the duty of weaving the past

The world tries to hide.

And if we hide our past,

Our victories lose significance.

 

This victory is that it is 2016

The world is not colorblind!

We see the shades and flaws and beauty of humans,

As diverse and interconnected as the shades of a sunset.

No, we are not colorblind,

But we are learning to embrace the palette of humanity with open arms.

Like Martin Luther King Jr said,

“We must live together as brothers or perish together as fools.”

And we are learning.

 

(Amanda McPherson performed this piece for HCC’s Martin Luther King Jr. Diversity Celebration on January 18, 2016.)