You alienate and demean people to
something less than human
but they have blood in their veins, and experiences you can’t fathom.
From Ableist by Power Poet grogers2014

Two fragile cake cookbooks from the 1920s. (at Open Books)


Two fragile cake cookbooks from the 1920s. (at Open Books)

Accourding to them we weren’t worth saving, so instead we chose to save ourselves. We didn’t have a choice, and still don’t. But we made it out the other end, because we knew. We knew our worth even if no one else did.
From What Would I Change? by Power Poet almost honest.


15-year-old photographer Zev Hoover creates a wonderfully imaginative world by photographing regular-sized backgrounds and scenes and then shrinking his subjects down to miniature sizes.

Remember that wherever your heart is, there you will find your treasure.


I use acrostics to get laid
Then pulp to pay my rent
And ballads to buy off the Christians
Sonnets to learn counterfeit
Chant to reverse black circles
Cantos trigger insanity and worse
Terza Rima when I feel like swimming laps
Odes for luck in blackjack
Index for sedative
A prayer to form searchlights
Haiku to throw a shadow and tear it in half
A diary to become more gay
Pantoums to pace the cave paintings
Limerick to lock a private room
Blues to light my face in a fedora
Rap to have my postures blown out
Lyric to form my shaving mirror
Sestinas to map my double lives

Cedar Sigo 9-15-14

I go to a small school,
Where one day the teacher asked
About the meaning of “solidarity.”
Blank stares from the class.
From One big change by Power Poet girlyouknow


Postcards For Ants, Lorraine Loots

Felix Felicis


I have always admired pen and paper.

It allowed me a freedom to express my thoughts in a way I couldn’t with my voice.

Quivering, frightened, small, I could never bark my words with the dripping implication allowed by ink.

I could never order my throat to unclench as it strangled the meaning and convoluted my words.

I was forced to sit in silence, betrayed by my tongue as my thoughts screamed to be released from my mind, clawing at my lips from the inside of my timid mouth.

Ink was my liquid luck, as I could confidently scribble remarks and declarations of hope and joy and happiness without the fear for mistakes and failures as my voice refused to obey my brain, a disconnect that fueled my departure from spoken words and statements.

I write to be heard,

because without my pen and paper, my courage evaporates, erased and discarded, thrown haphazardly away as I then utter and dismember each syllable and pronunciation.

When I write, my words flow smoothly from my pen, water following a familiar and friendly stream, carrying the connotation and the curvature of my words across the creek bed and to the paper.

Yet, when I open my mouth,

my words became mangled and muddied by mispronunciation and anxiety fueled shyness and self-loathing.

Before I speak, I painstakingly practice and carefully construct each and every syllable, as to communicate my thoughts correctly.

But, when I open my mouth,

my thoughts are stopped short and transformed into hopeless, meaningless utterances

and once more my words are

cut, cursed, chopped.

I write to be heard.

I cannot seem to raise my voice in the face of an unexpected and unwelcome remark but on paper I can raise hell.

My voice cannot fathom the infinite volume and emotion that pounds inside my skull as my words accumulate like clouds, forming profound messages that can only storm down and drown me as my teeth continue to clench and water collects inside my mouth and fills my lungs with an aching disdain.

My ink, my pen, my paper,

my liquid luck.

I write to be heard, as my voice cracks under the monumental weight of my words and falls silent under the deafening screams that saunter

just behind my lips.


(This is a poem I did for the Power Poetry To Be Heard Scholarship Slam!)