Katerina Canyon

Fragile Foundations

My body often waits

Too long to tell me

That I’m tired.

I can carry a lot,

But it is usually the

Grain of sand that gets

Stuck beneath the second toenail of my

Left foot that causes me to fall.

Inevitably, something

Breaks.

The bones never heal right.

I’m left with crooked

Scars, splotched black and

Purple.

My bones are twisted and

Jagged. It is often

Hard to find

The beauty in it.

It is impossible to learn

From the mistakes caused

By carelessness.

Intention is a path

That is easier to

Trace.

Raven-Fonted Letters

The book from the pages,

Her first love, called to her,

Each raven-fonted letter,

Singing mysteries and coition

To her virginal mind, kissing the fruit—

Sweet conversation she read

And (imagining the people were existing)

She tore through the barrier

Of fantasy, pleading for the climax

To the plot

With deluge-like desperation.

Escape the jungle gym, dear child!

Find your way to the midsummer

Verses of Shakespeare. Her fingers

Can trace the pages of our fiction,

Curing our ill-tempered restlessness,

Our readiness to be free!

Similar to a tidal wave of birds,

The words flew by, fomenting

Her love’s second arousal.

There should always be time to read,

To think about the diamond

Luminescence of the writer’s mind,

To try to grab hold of the hero,

To hope to the bitter end.

Of course, with each sharp finish,

There is a longing for more.

The Sludge We Inherit

Father, your Texas steer has fallen

To black sludge infused with 

Forever chemicals. Goldman-Sachs

Laughed at the “Don’t mess with Texas”

Bumper stickers as they spread PFAS

Fertilizer across the heartland.

At least one million acres have drunk

The muck that killed cows, caused

Cancers and developmental delays in 

Children.

Don’t worry. These chemicals only last forever.

We, of course, have a shorter life span

To think about these woes.

So far, we are not dead. There is still time

To join the class action lawsuit and maybe

Receive enough to to buy a box of microwave

Popcorn, which also contains PFAS.

When the last cow dies, I will remember

Pandora, and the box she chose to open

In the name of science.

Arthur Davenport

Commandant Grump

 

Commandant Grump got a kick in the rump

when he started a big kerfuffle.

  

It snowballed into an avalanche of conflagratory tussle.

Hoofla,  hoofla, blah, blah went the man.

  

With sympathy from sycophants,

he duped them with a scam.

  

They bought his lies, but failed to apprise

that losers never can win.

 

Commandant Grump got a kick in the pants

when the pigeons came home to rest.

 

The manure piled high from all of his rants,

and put Democracy to the test.

 

Commandant Grump was the Faux News candy date.

Righteous, contentious, baiting, lambaste.

 

He played the cards of religion and race.

Then cut off his nose to spite his face.

 

In a Fux Snooze professional news wrestling debate.

Commandant Grump said on the stump:

“I will make us great again”.

 

He bought his own lies, as truth will apprise.

Democracy is only as good as its citizens.

 

Commandant Grump had a horrible reek.

He stunk of bilious, sulfurous, bile.

 

Corrosive and caustic, he burned down the house,

trying to get rid of a scurrilous mouse.

 

Uprise, uprise!, loudly went his cries.

Make us glorious and great again!

 

The sad mistake is that we’re already great.

And losers can never win.

Modern Medical System

 

Welcome to the modern medical system.

 

Please listen closely

and make your selection from the following options.

Your call will be monitored for quality control,

and to coach our representatives.

 

Push the dollar sign on your phone after hearing the category

that best describes your needs or conditions:

 

Pill pushers, cookie-cutters?

condescending mother buggers?

Liver quiver, rave or rant?  

Something in your underpants?

 

Genetically engineer your rear?  

You would look fabulous dear!

 

Transfusions, care illusions?

contusions, confusions?

 

Fevers, aches?

rashes, cramps?

 

Maladies, remedies?

organ transplants?

 

Indescribable problems?  

Not really sure?  

 

Thanks OK!

If you have the money, we’ve got the cure.

 

Hang up if you want a doctor for free.

If someone’s dead or dying press the star key.

Twitter Is for Twits

 

Twitter is for twits, tweeting out for hits.

Twerps and Twopes, Twanks and Twomps.

Twittering in the swamp.

Like frogs and flies with twittering cries.

Like Twarks, Twinks and Twonks.

Who chomp, stomp, romp and tromp, twittering in the swamp!

Twitter is for twits.

It gives me the snits.

 

Instagram?  

I thought that was the cocaine delivery man?

He advertises on InYourFacebook.

You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.

We’ll talk at each other all the time.

Look at all that show and tell!  

Look at all those monkey shines!

Like monkeys like to do.

InYourFacebook, all the time, hurling monkey poo!

 

I learned all that on Twitter while sitting on the snitter.

Wondering why my post got dissed by the InstaFacebookTwitterTwits?

Tweeting peters, ranting ravers, tweeked on Instagrams.

YouTube, the autonomous boob tube.

Google Plus, schmoozing, wooing, brooding, tracking what we’re doing.

Pinterest for pin-ups.  

Looky looky loo!

If you will looky me then I will looky you!

 

Tumblr, stumbling, grumbling, blogging, bumbling through.

Quora has a quorum, with lots of shticks to do.

Social media, I will plead to you, has a lot of good, and illness too.

Contagious STDs, Socially Transmitted Disorders, permeating through.

Interpolitical fractious fornication, where everyone get screwed.

Watch out for that social goo on you!

Beware of hurling monkey poo!

Oh goodness me, I must flee back to Walden Pond.

 Away from all this InstaFacebookTwittering going on.

 So Long!

Judy Barrat

The Choice

 

I’ve never been political

Or especially analytical

But today it is truly critical

To take note of what’s in store

 

With the right decision, we will rejoice

A wrong one will steal our voice

We must intelligently make a choice

Or live a life that we abhor

 

Do we want to give up all control

Of matters which relate to body and soul

Or do we want what makes us whole

Decision time is near

 

Consider the options we are given:

One who is money and power-driven

The other for justice has always striven

The preference should be clear

 

This self-obsessed man is a blight.

Who has no sense of wrong or right

For self-interests only will he fight

So flagrant is his greed

 

The other, a woman has a heart that’s true

And will do whatever she needs to do

To ensure the rights of me and you

This is what we need

 

That man has shown us once before

His plans to destroy all our country stands for

This is something we cannot ignore

Let’s send him on his way

 

The woman believes in our democracy

And will save us from intended autocracy

Without a trace of hypocrisy

VOTE KAMELA ON ELECTION DAY

Norman Molesko

I DON’T CRY OVER NOT DRIVING A CAR

Eventually, my abilities to drive seemed questionable.

Folks like me were called unsafe and high-risk drivers.

So, I decided to sell my car to CARMAX and stop driving.

It was not as difficult as it might first appear.

No more fluctuating gas prices, no more auto insurance,

no more DMV notices, no more expensive auto repairs.

Making the decision to stop driving was cost savings

No more driving a car to go for groceries,

for basic essentials, to see a doctor, to go to a bank.

Now, family members, neighbors and friends

are kind enough to drive me somewhere, sometimes.

I reach out to Uber or Go-Go or Senior Center transportation,

for some groceries, for basic essentials, for a doctor,

for a dentist, to enjoy myself at a Senior Center.

I can reach out to Instacart, Go-Go or Door Dash,

for convenient home deliveries to my very front door.

This has been another transition period in my life for adjusting,

to enable me to continue living a healthy and creative lifestyle.

Good luck to all of you when you stop driving.

Mani Suri

Wonder

Wonder how

Opposable thumbs

Progressed

From grasping

Stones,

To theorems,

Writing poetry,

With the grace of gazelles,

Gliding across the Serengeti,

Leaving footprints on lunar sands,

Flying past the sun’s fingertips.

Lee Boek

Stay in Touch

“I go nowhere I do nothing,”

He often says, with a certain finality

Although he is happy it’s not over

It’s not over for me either

Not yet

I’m still breathing.

I can form a thought

I can still go places

I can still remember my date of birth

I can still remember the little pink jacket on

Mamma on the stretcher

When they brought her home from the hospital

The bassinet with the baby

Placed on the high boy

They said he was a boy

But there was no “High Boy”

Not for me I was three

Not for him I couldn’t see him

Nobody thought to lift me up

So I could see him

Maybe that’s why we’ve kept in touch so

closely

All our lives

That and all we went through

All we were taught to value and believe

The sheer joy of being boys, brothers

Young men

Fathers, grandfathers

Great grandfathers

Next big step

Ancestors!

When I was a young man, I spent a lot of time

with the old folks.

I was always fascinated with the way people

are

How we are

We were taught to revere the older folks

Show them respect and even deference

When I became a young preacher one of my

jobs was to go around and visit the old, the sick

and infirm, to offer comfort

Sit with them,

Listen to them,

Make them smile,

Pray with them.

Many have a great confidence in prayer, so I

would try to hand craft a prayer that would bring

comfort and support their hope that things will

get better with a little faith.

These thoughts and meditations seem to settle

and satisfy many people.

Others prefer being read to…in my preaching

days they loved to hear bible stories In later

years working with more secular seniors they love novels,

history and poetry

My younger brother and I

Still talk daily on the phone

Both in our early eighties

We usually talk at 4-4:20 in the afternoon

Nearly every day

Yes, it is harder to hear each other

Words slur a bit

But the enjoyment of our communication is still

“High Boy!” 

Marvinlouis Dorsey

Felt

as if

there

was

a

shakin

was 

bakin 

in-

side

of this 

stove 

drove 

then 

star-

ted 

walkin

real-

ized 

i 

wasn't 

talkin

ta

my-

self

it

was 

the

no-

thing

spea-

king 

out

loud

Jack G Bowman

Fall Nature

His mind shits on to October thoughts;

dying, hibernation, death, sacrifice

he watches the sky for the returning comet,

misses the northern lights

chastises himself for his sluggish nature,

then remembers,

this is no longer his time,

he is simply an observer,

an elder, who remembers a few things

to pass on.

Marieta Maglas

Senbon Zakura Mirror Dance

I had closed the cracked window.

The first gust of wind, flute, drums, and

fleeting movements—

explosions and distortions—

vanished into the approaching rain.

 

It was like slowly dancing with

the image in the mirror, or

fragmenting memories of love

to clear the mind of emotions

consumed by the summer heat.

 

I sat next to a neighbor

whose husband had been

a soldier in Asia until

he was shot in half.

He had always been

among the best.

 

The movement accelerated

without music,

creating tension and

evoking feelings of

euphoria and chills,

similar to a movie sequence.

 

The dancers wore white sashes

around their heads and

pirouetted at a high tempo

to create a lively movement.

 

The window opened,

bringing the noise of the metropolis and

the smell of the wind.

It didn't bring a fatal infection

like those found in polls or

left by lost civilizations.

It was only a rainy wind.

These bacteria are real and

can transform into weapons,

unlike in Disney animations.

 

Life is not an illusion in and of itself.

When life becomes a hallucination,

something else must be real.

Hail hit the roof of silence.

 

The dancers expressed God's numbers

by waving their arms above their heads,

clapping wildly, and

swaying their bodies.

The dance did not appear to

be pre-choreographed.

 

Ancestral emotions cleared

the mind's clutter.

Crawled quickly within the suffering souls

and began to peacefully disappear.

  

 

Blind Reality (Quintuple Etheree Poem)

Hollow-eyed shades

of human beings,

 

human beings

cogitating on jazz music,

 

jazz penetrates the deep silence

of the bleeding angels,

 

angels in a fight for

the awakening of this blind reality,

 

wars,

racism,

asylums,

prostitution,

anxious women,

terrorist attacks,

public executions,

illegal immigration,

dengue fever, songs, low wages,

Zika and Chikungunya viruses,

 

human cells combined with mammal fetuses,

monetization of the objects

emblazoned clothes & precious stones,

Islamist militancy,

meteorite impacts,

vegetation fires,

crucifixions,

kidnappings,

sphinxes,

crimes,

drugs,

cocktails,

birth defects,

huge ocean waves,

ISIS strategies,

sexual harassments,

sales of stolen artifacts,

multiple vortex tornadoes,

quakes striking near the plate boundaries,

children murdered in egregious crackdowns,

 

food securities for starving people,

changes in refugee policies,

landslides, Monsoon rains, new flash floods,

seasonal unemployment,

nuclear disasters,

smiling volcanoes,

price increases,

naked bodies,

hairstyles,

dreams,

cubes,

glasses,

gas stations,

interim work,

glacier calving,

protests blocking the roads,

new theatrical triumphs,

ill kids not displaying symptoms,

macroeconomic policies,

silent strategies of democracies,

different drivers having

different styles to run their cars,

 

cars blinking their headlights

while their motors scream,

screaming trees and revolvers

that shoot up walls to write lyrics,

lyrics of jazz penetrating the silence

of the bleeding angels,

 

angels in a fight for

the awakening of this new reality.

 

 

Bioelectromagnetic Golden Temples

Holy words to drive off

raised thoughts,

to cut some meanings,

to pour down all the depths,

and to warm our winter within.

Bloom of life

to accompany old songs

hidden in new hymns-

human misery and degradation.

Sufferings to rise up

in the air of shrouded sanctums.

Self-bright sun to descend from

a symbiotic sky, every evening,

to make everything golden-

the rivers, the rivers, the rivers.

Hopes to be carried home,

to be eaten like gold.

Time to be broken,

to be danced in its armor-

by hurricanes, by eternity

towards anarchy and chaos.

Kennon B Raines

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q6XF2rzBxlM

One More Wild Ride 

You thought my days were over 

And all my adventures done

You said your goodbyes, wiped your eyes 

As clouds blocked out the sun

Like some dear old sacred hymn

Haunts you with one last refrain 

Once eulogized, one more surprise 

Followed the last Amen

You thought I’d found my final rest 

But there was more to come 

One more wild ride as waters rise 

And I am called back home

Sherry Meehan

WALLS

I came to the lake in early morning

to escape the walls of human existence.

Here nothing is homeless, but the old woman

carrying her turtle life in a van, trying to remain

hidden as a orphan among the trees.

What have we become? Our tapestry is

unraveling, our woven selves reduced

to some tattered garments thoughtlessly

left on a curb under a bridge, by the side

of a freeway.

To be without walls is the ultimate punishment

for failure.

We define ourselves by separation.

We do not move in murmuration, in a

Cooperation that would leave the sky stunned.

Long ago we gave up our wings for walls.

Michael Magee

HOLDING ON IN IRPIN, UKRAINE                                                                           

(response to April 7 photo and article by Tim Judah in NY Times Book Review)

As I watch those people

crossing the wooden plank

in Irpin trying to escape 

under the concrete bridge

catching their collective breath

egged on by soldiers to cross

The rushing river with plastic

bags and knapsacks, carrying

their food, being led like children

to cross the current, the disabled

the elderly, the lame, the weak

of heart as Russian drones

hone in to attack them as targets

I think what do I have to fear?

My neighborhood break-ins, 

homeless camps, hot-wiring 

the ignition, broken glass, but

really, no Kristallnacht to speak of

the piling up of trash and plastic

is nothing compared to continuous

shelling, missile barrages, intense

artillery all around them.

As they cross the wooden bridge

to escape while a soldier holds a

woman's hand above as though

they're dancing a minuet--

to be stopped at any moment by

a shell, a missile, a gunshot

to rip their fragile dance apart.

WILL SHEEP SAFELY GRAZE

Away from gunfire, mortar shells

Israeli bombardment--

turning meadows into headstones,

craters, churning earth into sea.

How to deliver us from assaults

on our senses as we see through

our rectangular vision the tanks

that trample our fields, the infantry

of camouflage that tries to hide

where there is no refuge, O give us

safe haven, a place to graze

far from here where the

hare is not in their cross hairs

and the earth is not a firing range

and we are not target practice for

soldiers who Netanyahu sends

to scorch our homes, tear up

our flocks who after all are here

only to protect the shepherds.  

EVENTIDE                                                                                                                 

This evening comes early

in the fog of peace

here in Tacoma, far away

from Gaza, the Middle East.

I doze on the couch

a refugee from Budapest,

a tired traveler who rests

against an embroidered pillow.

Not a Coronation Mantle 

silk restitched by Queen Zita

in its beautiful afterlife, now 

under glass beneath fingertips.

I retrace the mantle, following 

the patterns as I do the trees

this evening in this haze--

like a mantle blanketing us.  

Different worlds, linked together

into chains that bridge

Buda and Pest, we walk across

from Hungarian to English.

Where the river flows south then

east through Romania, Serbia

and on to the Black Sea, where

Russians have been bombing Kiev.

Edward Vidaurre

 

Perico on the Pavement

I peeked through the brown paper shades 

that covered our windows

He was being pummeled by another man

there was blood everywhere

Perico grunted profanities

the vato beating him was taking out all his rage 

While beating up Perico, he went 

through his pockets

Perico grunted profanities

he removed a wallet from Perico’s dirty jeans

The guy flipped through his wallet and threw 

away family photos, an ID and what looked 

like fake bills of different colors, it was Monopoly

money and I almost laughed but

Perico had blood all over his face

The man turned to look 

and saw me peeking behind the shades

he smiled

put his finger to his lips

I nodded in nervous agreement

and walked away.

I was a little chavalito watching cartoons

When I heard a scuffle outside. Even now,

grunting profanities and bleeding,

Perico lies in the pavement of my dreams

Mark Lipman

It’s the End of the World*

Not great

it ends with applause,

a flood and wildfire

George Carlin

rolling over in his grave.

Eye of the hurricane

North Carolina swept away

politicians pay for genocide

but not for your needs.

Tighten up your belt a notch

eat, sleep, work till you die

climb the corporate ladder

don’t listen to the clatter

as children die.

How they all conspire

never ceasing fire

with a government for hire

it’s all pay to play.

Red team, blue team

reporters all scream

whatever they’re told

to trump all day.

Look at those immigrants

and Iran.

Uh oh, here we go

entire populations

buried to preserve

the status quo

as all they do is

save themselves

serve themselves

ignoring all our needs

as the whole world bleeds.

Tell me again with all

the snark and memes

of the left gone right

you vitriolic, patriotic

sham-scam liberal

alt-far-right

feeling pretty numb.

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

and I don’t feel fine.

Round the clock TV hour

elections bought by foreign powers

all they do is lie and squirm,

listen to yourself churn out

what they want you to say,

wars just escalate

as propaganda propagates.

Red sheep. Blue Sheep

not a single peep

of accountability

from either side

just march in line.

Uh oh, this means live in fear

and act all cavalier as you stand clear

of any real debate, never contemplate

that you’ve been fed a mountain of lies.

All they offer is war.

All they offer is poverty.

Well, I decline.

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

and I don’t feel fine.

The other night I saw the screen

a cosmic shift, a silent scream

a mushroom cloud, a cheering crowd

Leonard Cohen, Leon Trotsky

Stein and West, still the best

Popcorn, peanuts, cotton candy, boom

You idiotic, patriotic, red-blue-neck

Right? Right.

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

and I don’t feel fine.

* yes, based on REM.

Ron Bremner

I am toast.

I am not a flaky, buttery croissant, ripped apart, yielding steamy scents and tasting of glory.

I am not a proud poppy seed bagel exulting in cream cheese, tasting of victory.

I am not an English muffin, with crannies pooled with melting butter, tasting of enlightenment.

I am toast.

Dry toast.

Tasing of today.

Tasting of real.

I am toast.

When the morning reminds me to,

I must confess: I’m destiny’s

manifest. Sunk like a hole-

in-one on a deserted golf course

where no one can appreciate it.

Run up a tree like a cat escaping

dogs, but now can’t get down.

My life has been a torn, stained

tapestry, that no launderers will

accept. Speaking of acceptances,

it’s time to accept the fate I’ve

refused for so long. Yes, my in-

ternal infernal clock tells me that

it’s half past a cow’s ass, and time

to cash in my chips. The problem

is, I’ve got no chips to cash in, so

it’s back to the roulette wheel for

another spin…or two, or three.

 

What’s done cannot be undone.

Years of electing fools and grubs

and sublimating our sense

have inured us to guilt

and tricked our consciences

so that we cannot even guess

the difference between

rats and snakes

and what lies between,

a mind-blowing stench.

 

David Fewster

MARSHA P. JOHNSON

wore flowers in her hair

did not go to San Francisco

had a thing about cop car 

windshields

clamored up Christopher St.

lamp post

with a bag of bricks at

Stonewall. In a dress.

photographed by Warhol

frequently homeless,

institutionalized, addicted

found in river under

suspicious circumstances

an artist, her medium; life

itself

like Rimbaud

Art: Portrait of Marsha P. Johnson (acrylic on canvas) by Hana Fewster (Instagram: 'anearwig')

Rick Lupert

You are more than welcome

to sit in my chair and read your book

or my book. You are more than welcome

to take my seat on the couch, in the car,

at the dinner table, in front of the community.

You are more than welcome to the contents

of my drawers, my bank account numbers,

my passwords, my ledger of activities.

You are more than welcome to replace

my photo with yours, wherever it appears.

I have a stash of chocolate. I think you

already know about it. It’s yours.

You are more than welcome to

my knowledge and decisions,

my youthful look, my hair (!!).

When the phone rings, going forward,

it is for you, you are more than welcome 

to whomever it is. You are more than welcome 

to the joy I feel when the animal videos play.

You can have all my collections.

Don’t even ask. I’ll sign whatever,

You are more than welcome to my signature

my hand, my whole life.

All of This Is Normal

I want to tell you we dropped our kid

off at camp today, but the truth is

he was driving the car.

Our kid drove himself to camp today.

This has never been written before.

We were in the car.

We experienced it. The double whammy

of our boy who used to be a toddler

with cheeks from here to eternity

operating a motor vehicle on the

freeways of Los Angeles, on his way

to eight weeks away…maybe nine –

I can’t bear to look at the calendar.

Speaking of bears, we’re going to Alaska

where we hope to see one.

Alaska has made no promises. Someday

we won’t be in the car when he drives

from place to place. Someday he won’t even

live in our house. None of this is normal.

Dinner in Vancouver

A leisurely walk down Main Street

after a vegetarian tasting menu

which can only be described as

a Caligula of flavor I determine

there are many great pizzas to try

in this part of town. My stomach

won’t allow for any of them now and

we are leaving on a large boat tomorrow 

so it may never happen. But if all

Hell breaks loose, and California

sinks into the ocean and the great

American experiment fails, I know

Vancouver is a viable option.

Ellyn Maybe

Cartography of a Symphony

I am the jukebox in Edward Hopper’s diner.

I am the violin in Chagall’s map of song.

I am the music in a turtle waiting to dance.

I am the bowl of cherries lined up in Vegas.

I am the language written in calligraphy upon the sky.

I am the river and the lighthouse and the boat.

I am the newsprint in an obituary.

I am ubiquitous like rain.

How to Stay Alive

Hold a musical note until it covers your soul.

Your memory will become blurred.

Loneliness is a verb.

Jump into a painting now and then.

Merge with an alphabet in the pages of a book.

When the world becomes too much remember,

The tin can line of all who have felt like that is infinite and eternal.

Like breath itself, reverberating on an ocean, taking in the breeze.

Deep Fatigue

500 years without sleep.

The world is tangled in nocturnal limbo

     while maps know our name by heart.

       

Insomnia brings a cup of tea and a diner.

Music plays on the ceiling and

     Michelangelo reads the tarot cards aloud.

The record player plays everything

     by Stephen Sondheim, Leonard Cohen and a

     mystery song that twirls through the sky.

At the edge of a cusp, the world holds its breath.

The Earth is always wondering who let the air out

     of the balloon and will they come back for their circus.

Beverly M. Collins

Grey Matter

…Can mistaken ready for a red light

and slide wet across dry sand without

attachment or ignite and then drown its own

spark. Grey matter can ignore roots but

dance to sound; can fall fast from the steepest

side of a mountain because it looked down.

 

It can knock inspiration back into its earliest

seed-like form.   Or pray to be grounded but float

with arms out, eyes closed and make feeling

weary the norm.

 

Grey matter forgets that new challengers

appear no matter how many have been

beheaded, that attitudes are invisible energy,

contagious, move without any official

word and can advance faster when dreaded.

 

Like the last call for closing time on

a burning building where the beams file for

divorce from themselves.

Float

Someone observing, may not

see movement. Just lie still…Breathe.

If there is a buzz of comprehension,

softly listen, hear the absolute in your

inner voices. All the programmed

perceptions, the feeling between

emotions and the rocks in the surf,

narrow with every breath.

Borrowed shells…We are like hermit crabs,

On search yet blessed while displaced.

Ever new as we fit ourselves into the

wrap of some worn, previously used

structure.

Ivan Salinas

Meet me at Union Station

 

Before I get on the red line

and I never see you again

 

I gotta go back to NoHo

where we used to make love

 

I got a call from you in the middle of the day

¿Dónde estás chulo? Ya te extraño.

 

and I was in bed

with someone else

I made her mine

and she liked it. I can tell

 

You say I think too much like a man

Y pienso que es cierto

 

she knows it's true pero le gusta

porque mi lengua es placer

que se revuelve.

 

She says I don't have nice things to say

because corny shit is for kids and

I'm too horny

to be polite.

 

Shonda Buchanan

The Alchemy of Rice (for Nina’s great-great-grandmother)

Did you love him, grandmother?

South Carolina border crosser

pokeweed puller

marryer of slaves

baby producer

corn grower, maize pounder

magician Indian woman savior

Catawba or Aniyunwiya, Tsalagi, Cherokee.

Who kissed you across the border? 

Tricked you into marrying 

a man dark as the moon’s quiet eyes

a West African rice master

good laugher

big silver mud man with Middle Passage hands 

with cool sweet milk and rice breath

who, without his moist African feet

no rice kernel 

would have risen from the swamp waters 

and landed 

in any sardonic white mouth.

Or was it by the wheat broom’s choice?

Who blew you both open

great-great-grandmother and grandfather

with breath over palm kiss?

Good sense tickled 

from the red earth’s throat

and said

you and you

and you have to go first.

It’s not Eunice’s time.

A Song of Threes (for Nina Simone)

Eunice carefully 

watches and listens to the pearl sound

under the music.

Back firm, elbows up. 

She fingers bones

until something else

happens.

White and black teeth sink into her.

Melodies thread her vertebra 

like stars

imploding.

Cleaves to nostril hairs.

Deposits notes C, D, E, F, G

C, D, E, F, G

like a queen bee

delicately

prophetically

depositing calcified honey 

into the hive of her young heart.

These two Nina Simone poems excerpted from The Lost Songs of Nina Simone by Shonda Buchanan, forthcoming May 2025.

For Ralph Yarl on Earth Day (And for my grandsons)

If we loved Black boys like the earth

If we loved Black boys like trees

If we loved their hair like parks

If we loved their smiles like oceans

If we loved their hands like desert flowers

If we loved their shoulders like rainbows

If we loved their intellect, their dancing, their good grades like mountains 

If we loved them like geodesic rays of the sun

Like freshwater pearls and cotton clouds that move like ghosts across the Indian sky

If we loved them, loved them like favorite surf spots, 

like the best benches to view the moon, an eclipse, a game

If we knew we needed their laughter like rainwater

If we knew we needed their tears like spring pollen and vibrating bees

If we held their cobalt, obsidian, tangerine, toffee, mocha, 

licorice bodies as tenderly as a silk night

If we cherished them like fly fishing in cold streams, 

like picking food in your lome-slicked gardens

If we loved them like sailing, like sports, like a magic trick you could never figure out

If we loved Black boys like the earth

We wouldn't shoot them

We wouldn't shoot them on a porch for knocking on the wrong door 

We wouldn't pull them over on lonely streets 

with tragic intent

We wouldn't stalk them on bikes, in open spaces, in classrooms, in boardrooms, at liquor stores

If we loved them, death wouldn't haunt their James Baldwin dreams

We wouldn't fold them like squares in a box that we prayed over with every breath in our body.

If we loved Black boys like we love the earth

Wrapped our whole bodies around them like an atmosphere

If we coveted them like the sun, the moon, the stars we kissed under in nascent love

If, if, if we loved them

we could see them.

If we can see them

we can save them.

Black boys would be heirloom seeds we waited our entire lifetimes to find

and we could plant, re-seed the earth 

with their music. 

Watch them grow up.

If we loved Black boys like the earth

They. Would. Know. It.

Excerpt from my unpublished chapbook, America’s Bloodflowers, a Black Lives Matter collection. 

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal

Rivers Like Tears

Rivers like tears

are haulers of pain.

Taken away 

to another world,

I drift through the

rivers and the tears.

These haulers of

pain, these rivers, tears,

the tides send me

to other worlds and

I sink or swim.

Never triumphant,

the storm sends me

reeling on hard waves

that bruise my bones

and harm my good eye.

I feel my flesh 

fill with dark water

once blue. It makes 

me nauseous. Now and

then I bathe in blood.

The reddening sky seems

like a wall of

pain that will soon fall.

A Night in the City

Night fills with

helicopter sound

and flashing lights;

swallowed and regurgitated shadows,

street spotlights,

metallic cars screeching,

cops and suspects,

barred windows rattling 

from the outside ruckus.

The city never sleeps

with so much sound,

from one valley to the next,

there is a poem to be written 

about what goes on.

Put everything in, the blood,

the tears, the pain of a night like this.

Fools

Fools will be fooled

by fools promising things

They feed on lies

as if Heaven sent and their 

rebellious ways are misguided.

Why be a rebellious fool?

Why be cozy with fools?

I am wondering what is sacred

about falsehood?

The violence of sheep

who follow the word of the fool,

every word, they follow along

to a fool’s paradise.

The mind begins to fade.

It cannot reason.

They follow the voice

lost in false promises.

Head over heels, they are.

They walk through the door

and drop to the floor.

Empty promises

continue to mesmerize the fools.

They walk toward the light

after years of becoming the fool.

It is sad to see

how a fool has become their god.