Poetry & Prose
I have enough on my hands,
married to just one man,
and now Mariposa
is marrying her homeland.
Faith (the substance of things Hoped for)
should flow like a river
anticipating a breeze
And then one day that thing which weighed the most
Slips off the neck like a linen scarf and blows down the beach
You are no longer concerned with the shards of shell beneath your feet
The horizon has always been as far and will not come any closer
The sea takes more sand with no intention of giving it back
It was always your choice to stay here (Saint Kilda never existed)
The only one canonized on this hot boardwalk is you.
movement without moment — is not
revolution — it's just
I can’t write on medication
stretch out on planks
keep them I punch it
I used to be the executive assistant to the vice president of Chanel
I worked my way up from Estée Lauder
Early evening in Firenze. The day’s main events have passed.
Paint spread across canvases, lovers embraced, gelato devoured.
Have the clouds begun to shift into their twilight stance? That distinct Florentine merging of gold, yellow, pink?
Sometimes the sun rises North of East. Sometimes the moon hangs above our heads like an orphaned jewel and when I reach out it hides in your breast.
Society attempted to box me in, in an attempt to make me
one of them, telling me I must live, must speak their way,
but if don’t; I’ll be punished for being different, for being
extreme. A menace to society. When I was chasing a
dream. I will stand for the destruction of mankind not
another day! Soon is the time to break down the walls of
The mariachi musicians in TJ stumbled into the church bleary eyed
Dragging their instruments with them
Preparing to serenade the Virgin of Guadalupe
Whose day it was
Would the benevolent virgin bless them
skip the irony of the laboratory
and the four hundred bucks.
As I was sayin papichulo
My pussy’s got a name
But you don’t know it / never bothered to ask
In the living room between separated couches,
Sun beaming on the wall while suspense arouses.
Barreling like gut born love songs
Your ancestors are smiling
As we pass the time
When we ride
Tribes' fearless leader, "Blind Guy," Steve Cannon penned this poem to accompany David Hammons' exhibit on Charles White and Leonardo DaVinci at the Museum of Modern Art. Dig it!
My hands are hardened to the springtime task
Of ripping out dead wildflower stalks
Leftover from last fall.
I watch you
Vince, the teenager with ''exuberance'', was on the verge of plunging into the waters of decadence-----being friends with Oasis, his agemate and a juvenile with questionable character---until his parents sat him down to tell him their teenage stories---how they grew---experiencing the bad and ugly sides of life but became responsible as young adults and parents. Several years later, Vince's tuned-new-leaf situation inspired him to write ''Family Tells A Story'', In Family Matters and Home Magazines.
I saw a play the other night
on Broadway and I learned
that the stage is within me
not in front of me
I cannot bring it to the international food fest
at the middle school; it will be returned
like the tea eggs after orchestra practice.
He calls out to all seated in silk and florals
Another life we have
Far greater and bigger than here
Beau Sia, Bob Holman and Steve during a recent visit at Tribes.
Check out Beau's 37 Poems for Steve Cannon on his YouTube Channel!
Meet Luciann Berrios - Astoria native and Tribes Poet.
The author of Negrophobia has run off
with my Marxist roommate, but it's fine.
I'm trying to
recapture the feel
of my body as silk
Some say a sad poem is slightly better than a bad poem. I had the habit of writing both.
You are being led to yourself
putting things down and picking things up.