The Eyes of a Black Man

By Arie Walker

Art Classes taught me about the values of color.

How white signifies purity and light.

How white is the main source and reflection of all colors.

While black, absorbs all the color without an output; creating darkness

Color is my reality.

The color my skin dictates everything about my life, where I work, where I live, where i’m safe, where i’m vulnerable.

The color of my skin automatically makes me a threat.

Hood on i’m a black man, hood off…. I’m dangerous, i’m a killer.

I am you and you are me but you choose to fear me.

You choose to shield me from what could’ve been real

You choose to set your boundaries

You choose to limit your trust in me

You choose to never change, instead you settle

Settle for what is now and will stay

My eyes see color as a culture, as swag, and authenticity.

While your eyes change the perception and truth

Making me feel small

Less than

“Funky Town”

Unwelcomed

You judge me and judge me regardless if i’m your neighbor, your co-worker, your chauffeur, or even your friend.

The cycle does not end.

Red goes to orange, orange goes to yellow, yellow goes to green, and so on until it restarts, replays, and continues once again.

The color of my skin does not mean I rep gangs or sell on a corner, It doesn’t mean I’m illiterate or have no class, It doesn’t mean I steal or cheat or lie or murder

It just means I’m black, you’re white. I was born with it and I will die with it.

“Thomas”

Recipe

By Martha Slaven

The pie is my bed in winter.

The confetti left to join the circus, So it’s just us now.

Paris has nothing on us and

The air smells golden, like family. But the table smells of home and The pie is my bed in winter.

The tablecloth has a teeny tear my fingernail catches. The warmth of the air leaves a taste on the tip of my tongue.

No cloth covers the table.

Why so many chairs?

It’s just you and me because

The confetti left to join the circus

Kale’s not real and

If the soup stays, there will be an upheaval. Nobody wants an upheaval, take the soup.

The sight of melted is drawing.

She spills the nutmeg, the sound ricochets. But it’s just us now,

The confetti left to join the circus

And not my circus, not my monkeys.

Nope, I’m here, steeping tea.

Feathers as ruffled as a cat, In a sunbeam.

The pie is my bed in winter, Martha certainly won’t bother you.

Too soon everything will be my monkeys, but for now

The confetti left to join the circus. Everyone will be at the plate one day, but for now The confetti left to join the circus and The pie is my bed in winter.

The rock-hard chaos can melt, blur. And the times are changing but change runs out of time, every time.

And the air smells golden like hygge because the Pie, soup, cat, tea are my bed in winter. The blankets nestle down and the fire closes its eyes.