URBANKORE 速 1.4 SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER 2015 MAHRYN BARRON NATASHA RIA EL-SCARI
DENEAN WINSLETT JONES TREY LOOMIS BARRY MARCUS
TONY NAPONIC CHRIS ODAM THE END TIME SCRIBE JOHN ISIAH WALTON
URBANKORE SEPTEMBER 2015 A Note From the Editor Welcome to this fourth issue of UrbanKore magazine. My purpose in this journal is to help promote the urban art scene in Kansas City.
There are no advertisements, just the art. Enjoy and consider supporting the artists in this journal.
- Harold Smith - 9/15/2015 All material is property of the artist. All rights are reserved by the artist. Reproduction or duplication by any means is prohibited.
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AVAILABLE NOW WWW.NATASHARIA.COM/
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MAHRYN BARRON MAHRYNBARRON@GMAIL.COM 4
Tragic Heroes
They took all our salvation in one hand, Blew it to the wind like tumbleweed seeds. They ripped our hearts out like the roots of weeds, They tried to make it that we could not stand, Pried us open and forced us to disband.
We had to find each other with no leads While we were kept from going at great speeds. They thought they left us hanging on a strand; We don’t have to be the tragic heroes When we are not the stars of film noirs; Light is spreading underneath the nighttime, Heat is warming the absolute zeroes. There is time to handle and heal our scars, And we can listen to the birds’ bright chime.
(This is an Italian sonnet with its characteristic rhyme scheme and use of a contextual turning point.)
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DENEAN WINSLETT JONES WWW.EMBONPOINTPOETRY.COM
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DO YOU SEE ME? Thick chocolate lips separate Anticipating the release of I love you!
Hearts beat rapidly Prophesying action that will solidify All that we tried to deny Temperatures rise When lovers collide In a sweet embrace Body to body Face to face Sharing one love
Illusive of time or space Making wholes out of fractions Releasing chemical reactions Brought on by intense passions That run so deep
They prevent sleep Keeps lovers weak As they attempt to maintain Normal functions within a love-sick brain Omitting constant waves of love’s daze Circulating thoughts of when Lips meet Hands intertwine Bodies interlock
In a slow grind Two hearts beating unto a grove as one Sharing a love that must have begun
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Centuries ago For its depth and its soul Lie immeasurable Within the anticipation of every desire becoming tangible
In the here and now …. There is a heightened inflection Exuding the sweetest affection Like that magnetic connection Interfering with the body’s electronic transfers Leaving us able to feel only pleasures This love be like morphine pumped into the main vein …..super vena cava Releasing all pain
The mind The body The juices Flow like hot lava Within an existence that is both spiritual and carnal
Sharing a bond that rings affinity eternal A love that evolves, defiant of convention Not a completion of one But of two, an extension Baby, did I fail to mention That I see you! Yes Luv I’m not caught up In what others say or do Because that thing I love in me
I see in you That spark
….that spark of divinity
That which makes you kin to me
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I see So as I open my heart wide Preparing to take you into me Promising to love you
Passionately Intently Within divinity For all eternity I have but one question..... DO YOU SEE ME?
By
DeNean Winslett Jones
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Real Men Cry . August 31, 2010 at 12:42pm
with a sense of urgency he called out to me rushed towards me collapsed into my arms
his weight threatening to buckle my knees I stood strong for him as he has done for me trembling lips
palms glistening with sweat the look in his eyes I will never forget as they begged and pleaded for me to be all that he needed in that moment his pride and ego lie dormant his heart filled with ach his soul filled with torment he clung to me fingers clinching me so tightly I could FEEL his pain murmuring words I could not comprehend
as he attempted to explain that which could not be explained the magnitude and layers of emotion 10
he had been taught to deny within the notion that men don’t feel pressure building up so high it could kill or force one to like the guy who came up the block pulled out his glock commencing to pop, pop, pop into the crowd
the voices in his head had become so loud he viciously, senselessly, and effortlessly took the life of another a friend
a son a brother GONE he had done nothing wrong living every day to spin a song encouraging others to dance along within the spin of the record he’s gone
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leaving his brotha to grieve so as he came to me I prayed to God that in that moment I would be all he needed
me to be
as in my arms … this MAN cried
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Loving Him To Death . November 10, 2010 at 4:44pm
by DeNean Winslett Jones
The pressure and pain of loving him took over Her heart felt like it would explode Tears stream from her eyes, she whimpers
Curled up in a ball of regret releasing a waling cry
With a bold blade of reality she pierces her aching heart Turning slowly to bleed out the pain
Glancing at the tarnished band upon her finger She feels her heart sink even further
All the sacrifices of a rib unto her Adam Yet of his love not one token In oblivion she stares at the bright red streams As life drains from her pointless existence<p> </p> She lies there lightheaded, weak Bleeding from every realm of her existence Then out the corner of her weeping window She sees him coming towards her
Is he coming to save her from herself?
To declare his regret? Wrap her in the warmth of his passion? Drench her in cascades of his love ? 12
His is so handsome, his eyes shine so bright at his image Even as she lies dying, he stands selfish Angered that she takes her own life For he longs to continue killing her slowly
Within the threshold of death she still seeks to please him Her lips tremble in an attempt to smile for him He turns away in a grand gesture of disgust
The whip of his pride stiffened cape slapping her in the face
On the cold, hard pebble ground She lie, eyes wide open
Watching him walk away Loving him to death
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ANTHONY “TREY” LOOMIS WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/ORANGEL.BALLMADES 14
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BARRY MARCUS WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/BARRY.P.MARCUS 20
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But Brutiful He slings his guitar 'cross his chest And round his back
Dressed in ebony from head to toe He is the man in black The auditorium's filled with fans Attention is not a thing he lacks All the cable news shows cover him Though it's just the fringe that he attracts Sing a song of hatred
Sing a song of blame Stir the audience to joyous rage It's entertainment But Brutiful
But Brutiful Just the same He looks a bit like Hitler Especially with that mustache And his Fourth Reich Band Dances with a goose-step And talk of racial clash
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They sell records in the millions The radio plays most every track Some folks say this is the new music
Some folks say that it's an attack Sing a song of hatred Sing a song of blame Stir the audience to joyous rage It's entertainment But Brutiful But Brutiful Just the same
Can I have your autograph Says the fanboy to the star I really love your music Though I'm not sure who you are
The singer seems quite amused He has a slight twinkle in his eye Then he scribbles just one name Adolph The last name was implied
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Sing a song of hatred Sing a song of blame Stir the audience to joyous rage It's entertainment
But Brutiful But Brutiful Just the same There's always a stage for the provocateur Like a train he'll find his track Where he'll separate The bad from the good It's his talent he has the knack There'll always be target Be it Muslim, Jew or Black Sometimes we dispose of this phantom force But don't worry He'll be back
Sing a song of hatred Sing a song of blame Stir the audience to joyous rage It's entertainment But Brutiful
But Brutiful Just the same Adolf packs his instrument backstage He lights up a cigarette He tries to remember how it all started But that just makes him all upset
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Then in a flash the band is out the door On to their next set
Leaving the oder of stale smoke behind And the shadow of an uncertain silhouette
Sing a song of hatred
Sing a song of blame Stir the audience to joyous rage It's entertainment But Brutiful
But Brutiful Just the same
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TONY NAPONIC WWW.TONYNAPONIC.NET 27
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CHRIS ODAM WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/CHRIS.ODAM 33
On Hoarding Chris Odam Down in the basement where the trash pile grows, lives all the old stuff that we used to know.
One white drumset under a pile of aluminum pans, old wooden things from distant lands. An old couch resting home to bags upon bags, once saved for cleaning, but now just dusty rags. Clothes for a baby I still don’t have. Old styles and colors that make others laugh.
But there is a pathway right down the center, so Mom and Dad wade through as they enter. I know they rub the past as they walk by, the path ever smaller, their legs won’t lie. I once the messy one and them the clean, but when I call a mess a mess, now I’m the one who’s mean. So down in the basement where the trash pile grows, reasons are piled on reasons that nobody knows. Must be purpose to keep stuff, like somebody in Haiti, a man down the street, or a newborn baby. But c’mon Mom, take this solemn vow, let’s find the floor again. Soon, maybe, now.
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THE END TIME SCRIBE WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/DAVARTHEPOET 35
Because your words are the reflection of your fruit and the world needs to hear your seeds. Be poet. Because the cruel harvest of politicians has failed to yield life due to their corrupted fields that should have nurtured the roots of truth to produce righteous youth for which the world hungers but instead is starving from eating all the genetically modified oppression offered by outlaws in office who conspire to off us. Be. Because to not be is to violate your calling and Jonah's 36
example should well suffice. Be poet. Because preachers are no longer concerned about repentance or redemption but pimping and living luxuriously off the sheep not to mention digging deep in the wombs of women and rectums of children who offer their forsaken souls as living sacrifices at pastor's pagan altar for Satan. Be. Not still but educate. Be. Not still but agitate. Be. Not still but organize.
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Be. Be poet. Compose nuclear verses to destroy Babel's twin towers of injustice and hate. Be poet. Write with love & indignation then spill the blood of the pen on word torn sheets that have collected metaphorical bodies which fall fresh on open mics.
Be poet. Drop poetic bombs in buildings where it's occupants
repudiate human rights. Be poet. Swing your tongue to decapitate serpents
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Be poet. Unload your artistic arsenal on any insurgent who has the audacity to portray activists as terrorists. Be poet. Punctuate the way to freedom. Be poet. Indent paragraphs
to expand the marginalization of social engineers.
Be poet. CAPITALIZE ALL LETTERS TO BRING EMPHASIS TO THE EXPLOITATION OF THE INTERNATIONAL MONEY FRAUDS ROBBING THE PEOPLE OF THEIR SUBSTANCE
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Be poet. Grammatically restructure the dysfunctional system of government. Be poet. Edit the ignorance of the people into enlightment. Be poet. Cast righteous spells to correct society's behavior
with your verses. Be poet. Promote your propaganda to win the ears hearts and minds of the people. Be poet. Swear allegiance to heaven's Kingdom & humanity alone & then encourage the masses to be
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Be. Be poet. Be bold. Be courage. Be real. Be truth. Be. Be poet. Be firm. Be life. Be light. Be you. Be. Be poet. Be now. Be then. Be change. Be free.
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Be. Be poet. Be poet. Be poet. Be poet. Be.
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JOHN ISIAH WALTON WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/JOHN.ISIAH 43
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Please consider supporting the artists in this journal.
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UrbanKore is a journal dedicated to Kansas Cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s urban arts scene.
Published by Harold Smith Jr. haroldsmithart@gmail.com
Next Issue: Novemberâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;December 2015
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