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Alexandra Mor Mar 2015
The sketch that ensues
will soon
be transformed
over the course of many months
into an heirloom.

Painstakingly crafted,
my intention
is that it’s created to remain,
now and forever.
A classic.
For the special woman,
who will wear it.
ALEXANDRA MOR LLC
All Rights Reserved 2015
Ishita Mar 2015
Where words fly
But carving exists
I am too ancient to be new
I am glued to the truth
Not to any falsehoods
I carry the same precision,the same hue
Dig out my birth and you'll see me same
Lying motionless,fighting the time change
My shadow hasn't changed
Nor it has tried to run away
To the mere fact of being new
Where only illusions exist
I display the glory,the mighty wins
While people try to absorb me during their blinks
And now the time plays havoc
Tyrannous is he
But I stand-motionless
Dead but alive,
Alive, for the truth I display
Scratched are my walls
By the new lovers
Broken are my idols
By the gruesome manipulators
But I stand-motionless
Steady but lively
Fighting all foes
I'll be me,the old me
Cause I'm mellow
While new is hollow
And by each passing day
People flock to see me
Full of brimming curiosity
"Ah,what a beauty" they say.
CJ Flynn Feb 2015
It says don’t eat breed
But eat some carrot sticks instead
don’t eat this and don’t eat that
what can I eat, and not get fat,
they point out lots of food to choose
to make you lose, and lose, and lose
But I love to eat, and I love to cook,
and All I’ve lost, is m diet book.
A poem past down on my mother's Czech family Folklore. most of the them were overweight Czech people. So I post this as a fitting tribute :)
Brycical Nov 2014
(I)
My mom once kicked a hole in the wall as a way to threaten me.  
Any minute, it feels like my mom could toss out all her marbles & shove a pillow in her mother's face.

Sometimes my entitled Grandma has no idea what her name is,
so she wouldn't know what the **** is happening.

Before he died, my fair-skinned grandfather tried to hide the fact that his wife would forget where she was sometimes. And as his face melted because of leukemia he also tried to hide the fact that he was a hoarder, blaming all of it on Grandma, who was also a hoarder.

There's talk amongst some of my family that Grandfather's brother, the one who went to church every Sunday and spoiled everyone in the family with copious amounts of pies, cookies and money decided to pull the breathing tubes out of his nose.

This is the same Uncle who decided that his sister, whom I used to see as a saint, shouldn't be hooked up to a machine after her stroke. My Aunt made the best pancakes, and cookies, and cakes, and sweet treats from scratch.

From my understanding, their father was a scumbag drunkaholic but their mother was the church going working type who had a way with dogs. She's the stuff of those walking uphill in the snow to and from school with one boot legends.  


(II)
My Father used to be a dreamer. Now he sleeps with the TV on blaring either CNN or Fox News, sometimes in a buzzy drunken chainsaw snoring kind of sleep that's only awoken in a panicked restlessness wishing he had a gun under his pillow, probably because he ran away from a cult.

His mother joined a cult at a young age after years of working for the man. Now she's constantly in debt but swears that this cult is helping her change the world.

Her husband split when my dad was around three years old. He died homeless in Washington State. The day my father married my mom was the first time my dad met his step-father, also part of the cult.

My Grandmother's brothers are all the libatious kind of drinkers who all took jobs as either firemen or bank truck drivers. They're proud hellraisers.

Their father was a double-****** beer drinker on days he wasn't cheating on his wife with her sister, supposedly. He was a **** ballerina with a beer gut on the ice. Their mother was a bitter woman whose family lost all their money and would sometimes beat her husband with a skillet.


(III)
I don't wish to say much about my brother because i once found him in a compromising position in the bathroom with mom's panyhose over his head when he was around 10 or 11. So I shudder to think what weird things he's into now.
A response to all the people who have told me that my family "must have done something right" because I turned out ok.
Jo Nov 2014
Ah!  Another hero
Washed with bleach
Like the Son,
Who is only holy
When rinsed of his
Melanin.  

I wear a white coat
That browns in sunlight -
It appears the moon and I
Will be good friends.

How deep must I scrub
To rid my pores of
The southeast Asian sun;
To wash my hair of Pacific salt?
(Even my mother painted herself
With a European brush).  

How can I know myself
When denied the magma
In my blood?  

It's of no fault of mine
That I've been stripped
Down to resemble a
Colonial caricature -

I've been taught
The victories
And learned
Medals are smelt
In white gold,
But mostly
I've been told
That mixtures separate
And I am mostly
Creme with a dash of coffee.  

A shame!  
Us beige babies must be
Assigned colors
As if palettes were for paintings
Not people -

My family tree has
Cane fields and apple orchards,
So don't act like
You're surprised
When I mention
White isn't the only
Color of my skin.
Some mixed race angst for you.
Pilot Sep 2014
My language, my language
We hide behind
Like a veil, like a mask
We´re all walking blind.

My language, my language
Hardly mine anymore.
It belongs to no man,
But to politics and war.

My language, our language
It is all the same.
My language to you
Is a child´s game.

This language, these words
Even at their best
Could you possibly tell me
Apart from the rest?
Lía Sep 2014
They call me Ghetto.
They call me
gunfights and drive-bys,
pregnant teens.
They call me Poverty,
and concrete winter walls
splashed with blood-red
graffiti.
They call me
junior-high druggies
and gang-banging muchachos.
They call me Mexico
like it’s a ***** word.
They call me Ghetto.

But haven’t they seen through
the white-washed walls
of the
“American Dream”?
Don’t they know hurt
and suffering,
imperfections
and neglect,
as well?

So call me Mexico;
call me Poverty;
call me Ghetto.

I am
run-down yards
filled with laughing brown children,
small apartments
bursting with the scent
of tamales,
mingled with joy and the chatter of relatives.
I am home-made tortillas
at Thanksgiving
and wrinkled hands pounding masa
at Christmas.
I am friendly smiles
and shouted jokes
followed by roaring
laughter.
I am the lilting syllables
of a beautiful
culture.
I am comfort.

They call me Ghetto
and so I am.
steven Jul 2014
My culture betrayed me at birth,
Abandoned me on the West Coast
And stripped the heritage from my
Rosy red tongue
                                       the Cali sun
Kissing my ****** skin, carefully, softly,
Wrapping me in her white bed sheets
Calling me one of her own.
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