by Nakeya Isabell
Land of the free but home of the slaves
I just wanna be free
I don’t want the fame
These systems try to way us down
These systems they want to keep us bound
America Dear America Continue reading Sunday Stew: Dear America
by Monica Hoang
Fresh strawberries and veggies, organic
Meals for my family day and night. But yet
That is just a dream
Open doors to the reality of empty
Calories, empty vitamins, empty proteins,
And empty souls
You wonder why we’re sick and what’s
But you still continued to build more fast
Food places every block, but ask us to eat
Clean? Continue reading Sunday Stew: Dreaming of Fresh Fields
by Alvin “LA” Horn
Woke up Black
If I live to lie down I’ll go to sleep Black
When I drive down the street I’ll be Black,
And when I sit down for drink and expect good service, I’ll be Black
When I go for a job opportunity I’ll be Black
When I’m enjoying Black life, and how I have to live, Ill be Black and conscious of my surroundings Continue reading Sunday Stew: I See You America
by George Draffan
Every mile we came south the price went down. Our friends were dubious. Wasn’t it dangerous? Not really. It was fantastic — a wild, rich mixture of old and new from Europe and Asia and Africa and Latin America. A meeting place of nature and city, language and culture, wealth and poverty, history and the future. Continue reading Sunday Stew: Ghosts
by Bennett Taylor
Last night I cruised around Saturn again.
Smoke and mirrors slowed light
Enough that I could catch it.
In the haze I felt your presence.
Sharp and vivid, without image.
I spoke to silence and it listened
But unasked questions go unanswered. Continue reading Sunday Stew: Passenger
by Rell Be Free
Right fist in the sky – Revolutionary
Black Lives, Black Pride – Revolutionary
Love Yourself for Yourself – Revolutionary
Your worth aint your wealth – Revolutionary Continue reading Sunday Stew: Revolutionary
by Alex Gallo-Brown
I, too, mistake myself for a bartender
from time to time.
When I am walking through an art gallery
or private residence, like this one,
I think to myself, that fellow there,
he could use a drink.
Moscow Mule or Irish Car Bomb?
Pinot Noir or Pinot Gris?
It’s one of my true talents,
identifying other people’s beverage preferences.
I am not a professional—
I am a savant
posing as a layman—
an appreciator of art, say,
or the groom’s older brother.
But you, dear woman, saw
saw right through me!
Pasadena woman of the dangling earring
and perfectly coiffed hair,
I met my match in you.
I had thought that I was hidden,
when I was recognizable
by my face. Continue reading Sunday Stew: To The Woman Who Mistook Me For the Bar Staff at My Little Brother’s Engagement Party