Walls Between Races

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Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

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Take away my color and the texture of my hair
Forget the way I dress, it’s only clothes I wear
I must stop doing the things that I know are wrong
Don’t hate anyone because of words in a song
Stand up for yourself and give others a hand
Think before you choose where to make a stand
Stay away from people that talk hate with every word
You must learn to love, to start to heal, that is what I heard
Keeping us separate, making sure we stay apart
Is the way they control us or at least that's how they start
If we ever join together we will be an unstoppable force
It will be difficult but possible if we stay the course
Teaching hate and mistrust because of how we look
Baiting us with lies, reeling us in like a fish on a hook
You are black and I am white just another part of life
They twist the truth behind our backs like an assassins knife
Governments that build walls between races need to be replaced
Deeds done to innocent by the guilty must be bravely faced

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He was born and raised in Ohio, and now lives in Florida. He is married and has two children. Most important he is a Papa. He has over a dozen poems on this site and one printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".

Flawed Diamonds

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Contributor: Richard Schnap

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The middle-aged debutante
Conned by her lover
Into giving him the funds
To the organization she ran

The housewife that brought up
An unstable daughter
In the same way her own
Mother had done

The author that composed
A biography of an artist
Trapped in a madness
Similar to her own

And in each of their eyes
Could be seen a skewed sparkle
Of a gem that was wrought
By a jeweler from hell

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Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. A two-time Best of the Net nominee, his poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications. His debut chapbook, "A Wind From Nowhere", is available from Flutter Press.

Ode to a New Hell

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Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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blame me not of heartless vengeance
spoken words nor intolerable pestilence
a keeper of life's incandescent tolerance
mocked by the icy queried inquisitions
smoky breath within pious incantations
that raucous mind of an incessant joy
home in purgatory, layered with evil
I'm not afraid to walk this world alone
in dungeons of darkish desperation
percolating a new hell from deep within
roaming the covenant on ancient paths
uncovering graves of the fallen saints
through battlements and gated horrors
into bunkers of suicidal choreography
saltpeter and brimstone explode in envy
seeing the stars within eternal darkness
the sky a dark hazy purple with red hues
I'm missing the blood moon in all her glory.

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Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms! His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues. His poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net for 2016.

A Dream of Utopia

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Contributor: Jason Constantine Ford

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The rulers in charge of pleasures sweet which never dry
Promise to provide an endless food supply
For citizens desiring wealth without the sweat.

As droids are gathering crops around a field,
Databases print records of healthy summer yield
Across the many zones secured within a safety net.

A system where the people have the choice to roam
Zones without restriction like another home
Cannot prepare for virus ready to attack.

As city’s key defenses sleep throughout the night,
Ignorance rapidly rises to a greater height
As fiends observe protective data they desire to crack.

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Jason Constantine Ford is the assistant editor of the print edition of Thought Notebook and has over a hundred publications of poetry from around the world.


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Contributor: Ben Riddle

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There are holes inside of me
in which I always assumed
someone would fit
so I tore more
it would call you to me
a little faster.

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Founding member of the Said Poets Society and recipient of the Fred Simpson Prize for Poetry in 2014, Ben Riddle is a graduate of the University of Western Australia and is really just another twenty-something unsure of where he’s going in life.


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Contributor: Theresa A. Cancro

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I have no blind, only
lace curtains gracing
my back, similar to clouds.

I release the walls
from their oppression,
loosening rigid structure.

No eyes necessary yet
plate glass is my skin,
solid and viscous at once.

Those within gaze through me
each day, laugh at squirrel antics,
murmur among birdsong.

They obsess over doors,
safety, fear in the lock
that keeps them in, ills away.

Wind ekes between layers,
soft shrill gives me voice,
they finally listen, sense my raw.

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Theresa A. Cancro writes poetry, especially haiku and related short forms, as well as short fiction and nonfiction. Her work has appeared worldwide in dozens of publications.

A Dalliance with Dysfuction

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Contributor: Shirley Jones

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I covet misfortune,
it's a black obelisk of damaged
psyches that tower over me
as I try to pick up the pieces
from the last emotional storm

I worship worry,
it's a barrier of bondage
tightening around my heart
as I try to break free from the malaise
that threatens to suffocate me

I bow, bereft of all feeling
watching it wither away
like leaves in autumn
and are blown away
and forgotten

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Shirley Jones-Luke is a poet, writer and educator from Boston, Massachusetts. Ms. Luke has an MA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing. She has been published in The Voices Project, Raising Mothers, ENUF and the Creative Ezine.

One Old Gigolo Counsels Another

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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You take care now, Harold,
and don't slip on the ice
looking for a good bookstore
on the streets of Chicago.

Print is dead, Harold,
and it's being waked
in empty bookstores.
Soon all bookstores

will be dead, Harold,
and then you will have
no good reason
to go out on the ice.

At our age, Harold,
ice can be lethal
so take my advice
and do as I do:

Walk head down
even if there's no ice
so you can avoid
not only the ice

but also the women
disgruntled with men.
Believe me, Harold,
they're out there

armed with bumbershoots.
They prowl the streets now
more than when we were
young and dashing

and making them angry.
They haven't forgotten us.
So for God's sake, Harold,
go out for a walk but

bundle up and take your cane
and walk with your head down.
Do you believe in God, Harold?
I hope you do because

at our age, Harold, ice or a
woman could be the chariot
that takes us over the moon
faster than we'd like.

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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

The Chapel Inside Out

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Contributor: Jun Lit

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I’ve been here before
I’ve seen these all, I’m sure

the priestly garbs of black and stripes
that fit this atmosphere of masquerade
the golden tasseled black berets
that hide
the emptiness,
the mindlessness,
the heartlessness
the flowing capes of silk and wool
too hot to wear – they’re never cool
in this clime of eternal steam…
the roll call of names
like summoning all the saints -
the confessor’s ears are ready
but nobody dares
to speak out the sacred truth
the naked truth
the blank walls
behind the pretending pomp
and disguising pageantry

these palatial halls
conceal with draperies of elegance
sculptured paupers
a multitude of shanties
an army of dark shadows
digging mountains of rubbish
for spoils to salvage

holy hypocrisy?
emperors parading naked?
or beggars in velvet cloaks
of royal blue?

The blind loyal servant bangs the gavel
as Lord Hunger knocks
at the door
of the Almighty Loo

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Ireneo L. Lit, Jr. (a.k.a. Jun Lit), Professor at the University of the Philippines Los Baños, is an entomologist who also writes poems about nature and society.

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