Poems by Thom Hart

January

The sweet aroma

Released from

The pores of the earth

As the frost

Steadily thaws and

Spring is made

Apparent, yet it is

But January

Love

I will love

You as long

As love endures

As a cliff

Resentfully juts

Out above

The sea.

I’ll find you

And I’ll search

High and low but on

The mountaintop I will

Find you waiting.

Do not leave me.

Look

Look out the window,

Look, it’s me,

Or my soul.

Look, it’s a popped

Balloon, hanging

On a dead branch.

Look, I saw your

Face today, but

Every time it wasn’t

You.

Look, my friends are in the crowd.

You

Blood vessels straining

You dare them to

Push their limits

I yearn with every

Inch of my body

Every breath,

Every thought,

Involves you.

Monet

Music on my eyes,

Relief, contentment

I am happy

Thank god,

finally,

A Monet.

queens

poem by Tyffany Richards

Colored

What are you?

Call me colored but I won’t be offended.

Just means to me I’ve got more shading

Than a black and white portrait

Different shades

In one picture

But aren’t you black?

In a way

More like mahogany

Smooth almost dark brown with a red undertone

Not shiny blue black

Brown like the soil

Or tree bark

Like cardboard boxes

Like coffee and milk

Where are you from?

Not here not there

Everywhere

Where are you from?

I’m from many places around the world

But I am from my mother and father and the earth itself

Who are you?

I am me.

Mahogany brown skinned me

Who identifies with everything and everyone

Colored.

Not Black entirely, nor White

Not Asian or Latino

Nor Indian

Not entirely.

Just

Mahogany brown

Colored girl

Congratulations overdue! to Tyffany Richards, for having this poem chosen to be read at the ASAP Celebration of Young Writers at the Washington Town Hall in 2011. The poem was recently recovered and we thank Tyffany for sharing it with us. 

project/installment 4. by Yea Weon Kim

Poem by Sarah Shulman

Cry baby cry.

Actually no, you’re giving me a pain.

Slowly progressing, sometimes depressing.

Your dog is rude; it bit me in the face.

Yes it hurt.

Cry baby cry.

Your unshaven face is a playground for my fingers.

Your baby blue eyes, a universe, which pulls me.

Slowly progressing, sometimes depressing.

Travel the world, and try new things.

I’ll culture your belly, like it or not.

Cry baby cry.

Eight days a week I would make my self available.

While you check your twitter,

Slowly progressing sometimes depressing.

Please, the sand is running thin,

Get off your screen, and let me in.

Cry baby cry.

Slowly progressing, sometimes depressing.

songs, photos and writing by Thom Hart

Recommended: Thom Hart's bandcamp site. Have a look and listen. Also, check out Thom's writing here.