Michelle Smith

He's Not My President

God help America

for it will become hell in a handbasket

under the United States of Amerikka.

under his felonious and fascist leadership.

Troubled, Tyrannical

Racist, Repugnant

Unintelligible

Misogynist

Pig

He is a buffoon.

In a navy blue size too small suit

rotund white shirt belly

and MAGA red necktie

dressed up for that

McDonald's Big Mac meal

don't forget that blond haystack

toupee hairdo.

It seems to be pasted on.

What a Looney tune!

The Commander- in -Thief

pontificates conversation

with that Big Apple accent

that one day I will again visit

all five Burroughs and take a bite.

Does he even know the three branches

of the government?

Can he even pass a U.S.

citizenship civics test?

With his narcissistic ways

to circumvent the

patriotic red, white, and blue

His winning is Trump's hangover

Amerikka under his leadership

will need more than a four leaf clover.

President 45-47 and MAGA part 2

Supporters are the sheep

and voted in

the worst Gemini on the planet.

Sheep don't complain when Trump

pens into law

a life

comfort

cause

change

you had and

"is now slaughtered,

especially the voting apathetic

that chose not to bother.

" Oh what a mighty web we weave in order to deceive."

Time and Trump will tell and

the USA shall see

the dystonian nations flag waving.

Red won the battle.

Blue will win the war.

Democrats are the donkey,

Republicans are the elephants,

but Trump is the true jackass!

For he is Not My President

and is a

Troubled, Tyrannical

Racist, Repugnant

Unintelligible

Misogynistic

Pig

!

Profanity

Can you cuss like a sailor?

Are your words sharp as a razor?

And do they sting like a bee

Or a gun of a Taser?

Profanity,

A well done, 

thickly layered sandwich

Popping like hot Flaming Cheetos 

In your mouth.

Full of flavor,

Maybe unwavered,

And a habit unsavored.

Profanity,

Profanity,

Excessive 

or

Expressive,

But

Full

Of 

Labor.

Fentanyl

Fronting fiends sell it laced in weed illicitly

Epidemic kills the unsuspected buyer in seconds

National red flag waves, covers the USA fulfills the drug need

Toddler died from a babysitters selfish habit and carelessness

Another life record to put and play on the Victrola

Narcan needed now save him or her, child, teen and adult

Youth and users pass away in their sleep, lessons learned with a grain of salt

Loss of life over a drug of their choice &  permanently has shut their voice.

neil vincent scott

IN THE GARDEN OF TIME 

turn the news off

turn the music up

        let us once again

tend to the garden of goodness and light

rejecting

   rebuilding

      renewing

as darkness descends

on the trampled flowers of promise

morning will surely follow

morning

      after the mourning

together we must

              breath the breath of beauty

                                           of kindness

                                           of resilience

knowing it’s ok

               not to be ok

and for the love of god

               i am not ok

my soul is scorched

my heart is bruised and battered

it’s happened before

     the death of a dream

another will likely follow

as we weed the garden

in the dirt that is now

realizing

            with real eyes

that singers must continue to sing

artists need to again lovingly create

poets must exude passion and truth

dreamers must once again dream

and fighters

        all of us in the fight for decency

must continue to fight

all in the order of now

     in the garden of time

 

Mary Mayer Shapiro

TRAVELING 

A journey 

Without any destination 

Take your RV 

Tear up your maps 

Circumnavigate on roads 

Going no where 

And any where 

Voyage all over 

Carve your name in a tree 

Add the year also 

Explore a cave 

Climb a small mountain 

Smell the flowers 

Enjoy the sun on your face 

Leave food for the hungry 

Buy shoes for a homeless person 

Make a difference 

Leave the world a better place 

One person at 

A time 

Hope 

There is a world to be saved 

REPEATING YEARS

A journey back

In time

Years past quickly

Finding yourself

Defining who you are

Your ten-year reunion

Did they change?

Children acting

As grown ups

Thinking they were

All that

Hay day for

Popular students

Cheer leaders, jocks

Troublemakers, bullies

Spread rumors, gossip

Sweethearts forever

Stagnant, grow together

Grow apart

Extension of High School

Eight to five jobs, never ending

Few break the cycle

Town did not change

People did not change

I did

Chad Parenteau

Chomsky Flinched

It’s just like 

“The Emperor’s

New Clothes”

except that

you can’t tell

if The Emperor

knows whether

he’s naked or not

but his legion

of followers

know he is

but get mad

if you point

that out

or that 

their pants

are down

halfway as 

each one

masturbates

to thoughts

of his bare

unwashed foot

on their face.

J Martin Strangeweather

𝗔 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝗺 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗶𝗱𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗛𝗼𝘂𝗿

It’s only a poem

hastily written 

before the demons creep back,

and I wish it were better, 

stronger, 

healthier, 

wiser, 

kinder, 

more patient, 

more forgiving.

I wish it could take all your pain 

and turn it to inspiration.

I wish it could take all your doubt 

and turn it to hope.

But it’s only a poem.

And I am just a poet 

in a world of mad god-kings.

𝗤𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀

We poke the sleeping bear

But it’s not really us who pokes the bear

We’re just a branch, broken off and brittle

In the hands of a suicidal history

What’s the use of the hammer

If we can’t see any point for the nail

Or any human endeavor, or humanity itself

The future only promises extinction

We can’t take off the mask

We can only switch it for another

We aren’t wearing the mask

We are the mask, but why

We clearly know why an eye needs light

But why does light need an eye

𝗔𝗻𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗿𝘀

 

Light made the eye

To capture its fleeting splendor

Otherwise what’s the use

It’s never been about answers

All of our answers are mansions aflame

The whole world is burning in slow motion

It’s always been about creation—

About art and its appreciation

Let the chaos be your forge

Consider the difference 

Between a solution and an answer

Jennifer Rudick Zunikoff

THE ELECTION CONTINUES 

I'll admit it

I vote early -

And I vote often

I vote late too

I vote whenever I can

Why only vote once?

I vote for nutritious delicious food 

I vote for meadows 

I vote for clean water 

I vote for the bees 

I always vote for the trees 

I vote for all neighborhoods to know 

they are good neighborhoods and 

all neighbors to be kind neighbors 

I vote for community 

I vote for twelve hugs

and one-hundred blessings

every day

I vote early 

I vote often 

I vote even past midnight 

I vote for every single star 

*dedicated to Lynnie, Judith and Mitch who I wrote and shared with this morning, and to all my "Prayer and Peace" Wednesday morning friends

Lynne Bronstein

Resistance

Hannah Senesh,

Violette Szabo,

Say their names.

They were among others

Who are remembered now 

But not when they fought.

They did not fight

To be remembered

But rather, to enable

Others to live.

They gave their lives and

All that they had to look forward to,

Not knowing if they would have

Any more pleasure.

Hannah Senesh

Under captivity,

Kept a diary.

She wrote toward the end:

“I loved the warm sunlight.”

 She refused to reveal

 The secret codes the Nazis wanted.

Violette Szabo

Had a young daughter

Whom she never saw again.

Starving in a prison camp,

She kept up her spirits,

Almost to the end.

Both women died at age 23,

From a torrent of bullets.

Not knowing if

Anything they did would count.

I don’t know if I could be

A Resistance fighter.

I want to be remembered.

I don’t want to fight in the dark.

I have the needs

Of someone who has lived in the sunlight

And refuses to give it up.

Some say just living

Under pressure is resisting.

In that case, I resist.

To the enemy, I don’t remember codes.

Remember me, remember us,

Remember freedom

And those who resist.

R A Ruadh

Oh, say can we see

It is my turn now

Sitting far from my homeland

Watching the shouting mobs

Burning breaking and killing

The lies competing for the highest rung

Of insanity oh they are so shocked

As if it sprang from nowhere

Somehow is from elsewhere

This is not our country they say

How so not?

Born bred and raised to hate

Following a Jesus I never met

And a constitution never written

Hugging a mythical freedom to rage and riot

At everyone else’s expense while

Seeking a war that will never slake this fury

Devouring life itself

While I watch the excuses

Pour from traitors’ lips

I see the tattoos on the arms

Of survivors I knew who told me

How it started

How it could have been stopped

But hey white boys will be white boys

You know what I mean

When you are so privileged

That nothing is denied to you

It is easy to twist trip turn be tricked

Falling prey to a nagging fear that everyone

Wants to strip you of what you take for granted

For all your bluff and bluster you

Suspect it is undeserved unearned unfulfilling

And only yours by theft

 

Yes, this is our country

Built on taking

Treachery and never enough

It runs in our veins and

Throttles our souls with

Mind bending weight only sated by

I can’t breathe

So long as it is another gasping

The science you would deny can tell you

That such deep sepsis can only be healed

By lancing the festering boils to drain

The wounds and expose them to the

Light

Air

Truth

We must learn and teach our children

The body politic requires

Every limb and organ

Left hand and right

Both eyes and ears

Every gender every age

Just as we cannot survive eating one plant alone

We must grow and be the entire forest field and stream

None is greater or lesser or useless

And plunder yields no sustenance

This we must know at last

It is my turn now to watch and wait

Wondering if my country

Will repeat history’s bitter lessons

Which our schools hollowed out by ignorance

Have ceased to teach

While furious white boys seeking darkness and death

Explode our legacy of infamy in plain sight

Oh, say what will we see

Steve Cohen

A poem.

There is no meaning to life. it is just a thought or maybe a smile, maybe a hug or maybe a dream. Just open your eyes, look around, tell a lover and look at the past and caress the sky. See the future, lick an ice cream cone. Eat something bitter and watch a baby smile and when the time comes remove your hate and leave something behind so the future can see the past. So, caress yourself and live for the humility of death.

jf giraffe

SONG OF JANUARY 6, 2021 

Many criticized. 

Then hypocrites changed their tune.

Evil melody. 

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.