Uksep2015

URBANKORE 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

®

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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

[email protected]

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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

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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 …

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 ?

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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

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BARRY MARCUS

WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/BARRY.P.MARCUS

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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




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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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




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




It's entertainment

But Brutiful

But Brutiful

Just the same

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TONY NAPONIC

WWW.TONYNAPONIC.NET

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CHRIS ODAM

WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/CHRIS.ODAM

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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

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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

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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

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Please consider supporting the artists in this journal.

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UrbanKore is a journal dedicated to Kansas City’s urban arts scene.

Published by Harold Smith Jr.

[email protected]

Next Issue: November—December 2015

Uksep2015

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