L I T

The Wall: Mexico Markeith Hogan

The line between right and wrong what divides me from you is the destination

Where I work with my hands and feet, moving the earth, beating metal, and cleaning your mess.

But you work in luxury, office space at your disposal, freedom by law. One false claim and the law turns the other cheek.

Not for me though, for me it’s running through Hell’s obstacle course every day where one distorted move could send me back to the beginning where it all began.

The wall as my cloak, a chance to hide my old self to freshen their view, where the well of opportunity is full and the likelihood to evolve is infinite

Voices

Richard Scott

For Adnan Syed who was wrongly convicted for murder in 1999

Lift every voice and sing The praises of a hopeless justice system?

For those who will hug and kiss him till Earth and Heaven ring

Ring with the harmonies of Liberty ironically sung by a jury with a flawed conclusion

And since his culpability isn’t proven let our rejoicing rise

High as the listening skies that he was only able to see when permitted

And the screams of jubilation that he was acquitted let them resound loud as the rolling sea

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us and one that we shamefully still have not learned from

At least he was given another chance although it is too late for some so let us sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us

Facing the rising sun of our new day begun a day for Adnan that finally won’t start in a cell

And since there is another invalid case and heartbreaking story to tell let us march on till victory is won

2022 LANGSTON HUGHES POETRY PRIZE WINNER

We Markeith Hogan After Gwendolyn Brooks

We real cool. We march around, our collars popped, too cold for the world. We Left school. We gather near the park. Where we share the earth and the knowledge of what it takes to grow nonwhite. We

Lurk late. We stay till the sun is gone, till the bugs chirp and the street lights turn on. We Strike straight. The dawn of our generation cursed and our cry’s course yet, the only voice heard is the echos, our own. We Sing sin. Watched through a third eye, how am I viewed?

Am I admired, glorified, honored? We Thin gin.

Dreaming of a world where reality is what we make it, to celebrate what could be. We

Jazz June.

Till the new day dawns, the pressure of duty dazed, till the hourglass of our existence expires. We

Die soon.