Hedy Habra

Or Could There Ever Be Rainbows In Midst of a Storm?

After Syrian Migration by Helen Zughaib

Men and women

wearing rainbows 

ready to ride waves

as though they 

were clouds 

beneath 

a magic carpet

hands raised 

they look in the same

direction

there must be

a benevolent God

guiding the fragile skiff

to safety

only one face looks back

making sure

that instant is alive

oblivious to thirst

oblivious to hunger 

oblivious to sunburn 

oblivious to brine

dripping over scorched skin  

as long as the boat 

is floating they 

stick together 

forming the same 

rainbow defying 

the tall waves 

the angry scum 

only one face looks back

making sure 

the scene is recorded

First published by Riggwelter 

Or Little Do You Know How A Bird's Song Rises 

When I set out to paint a tree

a bird’s song rises 

from each branching stem 

sings its way 

into a refugee tent 

conjuring the warmth

of a mother's kiss

a song sinking into the mud

a song aching for cold hands

a song bleeding like sore soles

a song to erase the rising fumes

a song to protect from crumbling walls

a song for the comfort of an evening meal

a song bleached

a song deafened

a song for those fallen

a song for those in pain

a song ruffled by the wind

a song for those left behind 

a song muffled by baby’s cries

a song beating inside the chest

a song soothing an infant’s dry lips

a song leaking from swollen nipples 

a song bleached

a song deafened

a song for those fallen

a song for those in pain

a song lost in translation 

a song in a new alphabet 

a song to dig deep trenches 

a song calling for clean sheets 

a song to forget whistling bullets

a song to silence the voice of thunder

a song bleached

a song deafened

a song for those fallen 

a song for those in pain

First published by Slant: A Journal of Poetry

From Or Did You Ever See The Other Side? (Press 53 2023)

Or Can't You See How They All Stare At Us Even The Birds Resting On Their Hands? 

After The Immigrants' Boat by Marilene Sawaf 

Packed against one another clothed in dreams 

Upholding the flame of freedom for a mast 

See how multicolored fish leap out around the hull 

In quieted waters silvery fins quiver awaiting a net  

Upholding the flame of freedom for a mast

Past and future fit into the wooden vessel

In quieted waters silvery fins quiver awaiting a net

While they rest under the shade of pregnant trees

Past and future fit into the wooden vessel

They are wearing Sunday clothes yet to be sewn

While they rest under the shade of pregnant trees 

They sample ripened pomegranates and pink peaches 

They are wearing Sunday clothes yet to be sewn

After fighting maddened waves for so long

They sample ripened pomegranates and pink peaches

They've slipped through the eye of a needle

After fighting maddened waves for so long 

How sweet it is to be saved by the skin of one's teeth

They've slipped through the eye of a needle

Reaching a place where the wind is silent

How sweet it is to be saved by the skin of one's teeth

Future wraps itself around them in a colorful mantle

Reaching a place where the wind is silent

The cat slumbers as the restless dog rushes to the rooftop

First published by On The Seawall

From Or Did You Ever See The Other Side? (Press 53 2023)

Sherry Meehan

The Beginning

it was in the dead of summer

on a cliff bare as bone

watching waves' redundant dance

silent as stone

we left handprints quietly

on raw sunburnt skin that

made us run into the ocean

to find our relief in

rising water's endless motion

coming and going one upon the other

leaving us spent and out of breath

our arms stretched in reverence

like prayer in a pagan church

we turned our faces toward heaven

suspended between sky and earth

hearing sounds of ancient voices

singing in the surf.

Yan Sham-Shackleton

Tanka

A poem about today’s world

I must not say much 

I only hold a green card

Would like to stay for my son

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

!

World Flux

Art makes the world go round, 

At his ECF artecf.org, there's

a kaleidoscope of materials

Chris enjoys to crochet 

and paint. He too is a ceramist

freely his creations take shape. 

Food, flowers, and folks. 

Art is essential and 

is home sweet home. 

Poetry and prose writer is me.

Seasons, seashells, life experience 

takes me. With a stroke of a pen,

I am free.

Fueled by our imagination, 

neighborhood and travel ahead 

of him and me. Connections to others that 

we have never met our works at least 

have encouraged hope. 

To see our works and words is heartfelt 

and forever for the world to see. The government is responsible

 for the health of the NEA. 

Did you know the  organization 

and labor union of Washington D. C.

is 167 years old and it's dismantling 

under Trump will financially be bleeding dry?

Their funds and grants keep creation alive.

For he and Musk have turned 

a blind eye. He'll mow and destroy where 

the grass is greener on the other side.

Time Magazine on 4.30.25

Google posted that

Hispanics helped Trump

take back the White House 

and now their support is waning.

Instead of golden sun rays,

Will this mean in your life 

there will rainy? Oh what a

 mighty web we weave in

order to deceive. MAGA, in

Espanol means magical or

large not Make America 

Great Again. Was that not 

a prelude at the term of

#45? Trump fooled voters,

after all, he is a crafty felon.

He can make believe that 

 the sun will turn into a snow

blizzard. Instead of cheers

there are jeers. Oil snakeskin

salesman no doubt praying

to God that Medi-Caid, Medi-Cal,

and SNAP EBT will not be voted

out. Millions depend on the 

government assistance, legal

or undocumented and not a

handout.

Low income and below 

the poverty line exist.

exist. I've seen and DEI on

 Wilshire & Vermont

 a k a Koreatown

Selling their wares and 

 free grocery giveaways.

The elderly gray haired Asian

woman with tiredness in her

defined line face hawking 

dry beans and a no name of

California green bean can.

A Latina mother with two kids

with dry corn flakes, apples, 

and oranges. Are they fresh, 

rotten, or aged?

There's one on every corner.

One stop shopping near 

Chipotle and the Purple Line.

Varieties of bus pass holders,

lanyards, a Dodgers cap, and

Eucerin skin cream for $8.00

cheaper than CVS in 90019.

At Wells Fargo, cardboard boxes

shows the Chiquita blue writing 

banana box, aguacates, and fresa

more often than not. The hint of a

radio station en Espanol and the

 sun baking down on the sidewalk. 

The stench of a blond hair matted

hair man lying in wait. Will he hop 

on the #720 or #20 to downtown 

or Santa Monica Beach? Muttering 

to himself as he walks catti corner

southbound near Wild Wings Buffalo 

to take a leek, his bearded compadre 

in a pink hoodie is transgender, wearing 

a brunette wig, I thought I overheard,

"Let me take a peek."

Gia Civerolo

war: people vs. nature *pomo haiku

The battlefield was

                quiet.  People cheered loudly!

                                The torn meadow cried.

*pomo:  post modern

acrostic people

“Patriotarcle Ignorance” is what I hear in streets, stages & bar corners

Each story I meet, hearts bloom with fairy lights fluttering stars strings

Opening blackness sprinkling silver on flesh & sky glimmering glitter

Peeking star eyes over and over again and again star hearts

Leaking laughs, heartache, empathy, breaking love

Eyes bright with light bleeding magic souls

 

ballad of a revolution

The revolution is televised by all the wrong sides

Lies slip out of slick, silver, snake tongues

Their cries through eternity “We must conquer & divide”

Betraying morality easily, breathe through their lungs

The history of the revolution is not recorded in books

People preaching, educating, protesting in the street

They placed a king who is really just a common crook

They took away choice making women seem obsolete

Jails filled with too many colors for lesser crimes

“I still believe people are good at heart.”  said Ann Frank

My heart broken my kid’s generation only knows decline

Revolution spark by one standing in front of a moving tank

Shout from high places, believe no one does it all alone

The revolution must come from very deep veins within

Now we must topple politics melting down all gold thrones

Have Faith walls will tumble and crumble just like Berlin

Michael Lee Johnson

Turnips in Southern Tennessee Still

In Tennessee, the shadows of the southern

wooden structures stalled off the narrow

highway and came to an abrupt end.

Lost in the deep eyes of forest green,

closing in on night.

From the top of a Yellow Poplar

tree scares me looking down

at the hillbilly stills. Moonshine

and moonlight illuminate the fire stills.

Moonshine murders of the past,

dead bodies hidden behind blue walls.

Mobs lie in Chicago, bullet marks

on the right side lie dormant through plaster.

This confirms my belief that Jesus

only works part-time.

Let me look at this mirage

picture photo album.

One more time—

find the turnips in the still.

 

Steel Bars a Single Sheet 

I'm Steely Dan Seymour Butts,

South America, trust me on that.

I can't pull up my sheet inside

these steel bars anymore. 25 to life.

No man is God in the cold or the clouds.

Isolated poets grab words anywhere

they can find them in newspaper clippings,

ripped-out Bible verses are a sin.

No one pities people like me in prison.

Spiders hang from my cell ceiling—

dance the jitterbug, "In the Mood."

Jigger bug fleas on my unpainted

cement floors.

My butt is toilet paper brown, flush.

Toxic thoughts grind on my aging

face, body, and declining health.

In this dream, I reach

for a hacksaw that is not there.

End this night & so many more

suffer in just a snore.

 

In the Sun, They All-Pass

In the bright sun in the early morning

Gordon Lightfoot sings.

When everything comes back,

to shadow thin, thunderclaps—

and drips of rain.

The coffee pot is perking again.

Even though Gordon has passed.

I experience a mix of life.

A blender of the plurality of singulars

mounting movie moving frames

all returning to memory and mind.

The echoes of insanity, a whisper

schizophrenic, Poe’s haunting verses.

The romances of Leonard Cohen

are hidden in foreign hotel rooms,

lost keys, forgotten scenarios

and forgotten places.

All silence skedaddles

away from death stolen

those leftover tears of a lifetime—

now expired on earth—

seek through

pain abstain.

Andy Palasciano

Cocoon

In one of the offices we clean,

One of the cubicles has a man

With the title, “Fisheries Biologist.”

And one of his coworkers put the

Word “Extreme” in front of his title.

So he was an “Extreme Fisheries Biologist.”

But humans are extremophiles-

Organisms that live in extreme conditions.

Even though things are extreme now,

There have always been Flowers of Algernon.

There are seeds beneath the ground

In winter.

When fruit comes in the spring,

It is our own arrogance that

Has been faced in the winter and let go of,

No one else’s.

So we should not eat seeds,

And try not to blame,

In the spring,

We will be set free

And will be free indeed.

Scott Ferry

some days i don’t know what laughter is

after a poem From Sean Thomas Dougherty "For Gaza" with words from Alejandra Pizarnik

or why someone would make a donut

or a white-frilled cake with a name 

curled in fleshy letters

there are so many dark endings

in a maze that they should be the norm

why normalize twine and light and white sails?

i hold a gun in my dream and i shoot someone 

in the intestines as if it is mundane and now need 

to get rid of the blood and my fingerprints

after i read a friend’s poem i realize 

not saying anything about gaza is just as murderous 

my silence being the color of a coffin 

i have a voice and enough money 

for many thousands of donuts and birthday cakes

but i am saying nothing buying nothing

for fear of being called antisemitic 

as thousands of people die blasted apart 

their fleshy names scripted on the white streets

words that will no longer be on anyone’s lips

much less on any cake or paper 

we are told to burn these killings in our minds 

wash the intestines off the walls

wipe the human fingerprints off the triggers

and allow the fallen to be lost in that crumbling maze 

between martyred and desecrated between numb

and numb until entire families entire lineages 

are erased buried in hospitals and schools

and we hold the guns and we are disemboweled

and we lose our imprints as humans

and we are as faceless and mute as the dead

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

My First Car and All that Jazz

At the age of 31, I bought my first car—

a fading blue ’53 Chevy which I called 

the Blue Blazer for $125

What a bargain!

When I saw Thelonious Monk on the cover of Time 

and heard he was featured at Shelley’s Manne Hole on 

North Cahuenga Blvd in Hollywood, me and Blue Blazer 

took off to hear him and his band perform

“Round Midnight” driving on Hollywood and Pasadena

Freeways, “Straight, No Chaser” “Reflections” of 

a “Blue Monk” “Epistrophy” did "Rhythm-A-Ning" me 

all the way home

Blue Blazer also took me to Shelley’s Manne Hole 

to hear and watch the Modern Jazz Quartet, Charles

Lloyd. Carmen McRae, Miles Davis and Bill Evans who 

was one of the pianists on the greatest jazz albums 

ever recorded, Miles’ maga-classic, Kind of Blue

One year after the riots or uprising

depending on your point of view

I attend the Watts Jazz Festival

In the afternoon under the junk sculpted tower of Simon Rodia, 

the drumming is like a flower power fiesta at a love-in

and DEEP in my heart I do believe that 

ONE DAY

WE

BLACK AND WHITE TOGETHER 

SHALL OVERCOME

But as Hugh Masekela trumpet fanfares West Coast 

sundown, majority of minority Euro-Americans leave festival 

and l am left  with a few other white skins engulfed 

in a Joseph Conrad Heart of Darkness night  

War beat takes over drums

Flash backs to year ago unrest follow

“BURN, BABY, BURN.”

“GET WHITEY!”

“BLACK POWER!”

Suddenly blonde Euro in bare midriff stands up 

in spotlight and shakes blue jean booty to 

roar and laughter of jazz aficionado assembly 

A jazz brother needs a ride

and in my ’53 Chevy, I drive him to his ghetto home

My pale blue clunker could have broken down there

but it didn’t

And even if it did

as Miles Davis might have “kind of blued” with 

muted horn to Bill Evan’s piano introduction, 

“SO WHAT”

Hanh Chau

The Lost City

The night comes

in a dark shadow

through a scene

of a battlefield

enfold with a

shattered dream

comes a legacy

of a story to tell

the streets remain in a

silent echo on stage

whisper of wind

murmur in shed tears

in every breath of life

is at a state of crisis

with a convey message

by a death sentence

from the disaster war

bring a sense of fear

from the witness

of the atomic bomb

consume the soul

with despair

sending a chill down

to the spine

haunted by the

pass ghostly spirit

through the breeze

of dancing thick air

scattered mask fright

infuse the atmosphere

with terror

memory imprinted

with heartbreak

of a sorrow

in the lost land

that it calls home

In Peace, We Stand Together

In the shadow of night

beneath the struggle

surface hide

of heavyweight

from the burden state

Echo of pain

resonant in the siren

lost in an emotional wave

whisper wind found

submerge in a voice

trapped in agony

where silence resides

for freedom of right

seeking justice

Let the voice soar

from relentless fear

of conveying a message

guiding through words

in the spreading wings

to find strength

with love harmony

showcase from the

giving kindness through

the uplifting spirit

of guiding light

at the solace state

of solidarity stand

from unwavering

commitment and

continuous support

A generosity seed

bring to spread

the enlightenment of

inspirational goal

that forms peace

for a better place

to live

So, in peace,

We stand together 

The World

The world that

comes to display

is falling apart with

crisis of anger flame

filled the scenery

with a battle view

words have no

forms are falling

from the lips

to witness the

senseless act

remain in a silent tone

through a broken

heart and devastating mind

to confide in the untold story

from the tragic play

of suffering pain

with an awakening call

to remind us of the innocent loss

that peace needs to take place

With the call for unity

to define justice

to stop the chaos of all

Together we will rise to see

Prosperity comes to a place

From all the hatred go free

For the sake of humanity 

To maintain harmony

Karen Pierce Gonzalez

 

Jack G Bowman

Flight of Anesthesia 

He swims in a collage of gasse high in the air is wrapped in misshapen tunic that covers and

flows outward 

his eyes open and close only half believing

pain brings him back to the

operation the medical professionals in their light blue paper garments

calling his name 

a hand touches his left shoulder 

brings him into the reason

for his visit 

he has survived 

Antoinette Vella Payne

Contagious Courage

Prehistoric people built sound

Soaring singing communities

In the age of dinosaurs

Shrieks &  slaps

Warnings to crescendo

Falling into unknown realms

Dangerous beautiful giants

Walked along side

All of them stepped into eternity

Grunt Growl Grow

Into a new colony of

Imagined dangers

To extinction to civilization

Prompting re-creation to

Unimagined human evolution

We stand at a new precipice

Brought about by fear

Illusions of dangerous freedoms

Controlled authoritarianism says

The People can’t handle love 

Inclusion  and  self determination

But we can

We will

We shall overcome their control

Brothers and sisters

Evolution of human 

Consciousness springs from this chaos

Together we resist

Together we change the course

We the people can

Some Woolley History    

Our woven wills taken by trillions

We the great care

Together we wear

Democracy

Our historical garment

Now a torn commitment

Mended in seventeen eight eight

Persevering more than a hundred years

Of freedom

A broken test by our own will

Raining authoritarian reign

Human of no being

Ruthless and stained

Signaled to a collective destiny

Mended by another will

That is and is not of choice

Washed through a steady optimism

That keeps taking sunny dreams

Tested torn and interwoven

As we remember history

Happening to that good hope

That right and important care 

Alternating from our own mothers

And the silencing of our forefathers

Sanity Calling

We are our own saviour

Mergers of cultural eth-ni-cities

America’s diversity and inclusion is real

Retreat from this American cartel

Take what matters most to you

Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid

For the first time in my life

I have a stable income

What a joy to work

In real property sales

Without commission as my goal

Just do a good job because I can

Take back what matters most to you

Broken and thrashed public agencies

Detained immigrants shouting S.O.S.

Defied constitution & courts

Help was on its way to Gaza when

We supported humanitarian aide

American complicity in starving

Two million people found guilty

In war crimes, Palestinian children die

Stop dumbing down America

Leave public radio

And free press alone

Laws to curb climate upheaval

Scientists & lifesaving research

Unfunded

Stifled law firms

Far right religious christianity

Sexual singularity

LGBTQ my people’s freedom

International tariffed turmoil

USA leaders gain from inside trading

What’s your biggest heart ache

In the midst of this corruption?

Silence or intelligent action will prevail

Let us take a radical stance against

power, domination & meanness

Poetry’s portal to truth & kindness

Can shed abundant light 

on fascist states of affairs everywhere

Poets prerequisites for reason

Mike Turner

What Nation?

What makes a nation?

Is it the borders surrounding it?

Mythical lines on a grid map?

Invisible in the real world

Except for the fences and walls we erect

And the guards we post to keep people out

Is it the political force motivating it?

The ethereal “will of the people”?

Herded by the power elite

Shunted to their ends like lemmings to the cliff

The “haves” and “have nots;” a conspiracy of privilege 

Or is it rather the soul of compassion?

The desire, the drive, to improve the lot of all?

Freedom, Equality, Opportunity

Justice, Security and Inclusion

Talismans of what we as a united people stand for 

Let us tear down our walls

Set aside our factionalism 

Extend our hands and hearts

So that each may attain their fullest potential

Together forming the Nation of Humanity

Absence, Of Choice

Violence will not give us peace

Peace is the absence of violence

Lies will not give us truth

Truth is absence of lies

Threats will not give us security

Security is the absence of threats

Greed will not give us worth

Worth is the absence of greed

Bigotry will not give us equality

Equality is the absence of bigotry

Inequity will not give us justice

Justice is the absence of inequity

Oppression will not give us freedom

Freedom is the absence of oppression

Hate will not give us love

Love is the absence of hate

To absent from our world

Violence, lies, threats, greed, bigotry, inequity, oppression, hate

We need only live our lives

In peace, truth, security, worth, equality, justice, freedom and love

Absence, of choice

Let us so choose

Today

May We Know…

May we know Joy

To sustain us through sorrow

Beauty 

To see past ugliness

Laughter 

To endure tragedy

Calm

To quell anxiety

Hope

To ease despair

Faith

To leaven doubt

Courage

To overcome our fears

Unity

To banish division

And through it all

May we know Love

Given and received

To bind us in our common Humanity

Dig Wayne

Mist on the Hudson 

how many rivers does it take to make an ocean

how many boulders does it take to make a railroad 

how many clouds does it take to make a shadow 

how many bridges does it take to make a subtext 

how many fishing boats does it take to make a shanty 

how many wild flowers does it take to make a shroud 

how many ossinings does it take to make a sing sing 

how many smoking cars did it take to make a tumor 

Bruce Niedt

De Stijl (The Style)

It was the best of art,

it was the worst of art.

It was nature reduced to 

Its barest simplicity—

perpendiculars, straight lines,

intersecting, primary colors,

composition distilled

to its most basic elements.

It is the best of times, 

It is the worst of times,

depending on who you ask.

I suggest a new flag 

that resembles Mondrian’s 

Composition No. II,

with Red and Blue,

white with bold black lines

describing five quadrilaterals, 

a square and a rectangle filled in—

one red, one blue, 

corner to corner, no overlap,

to represent what we feel to be 

the thick borders of our beliefs,

the irreconcilable compartments

of our ideologies.

Portrait of Trump in the Colorado Statehouse

Of course, he complains about it —

he may have preferred the pumped-up superhero

from one of his digital trading cards.

But he has a point.

There’s the feathery hair, the flag lapel pin,

and the trademark long red tie,

but it’s too warm and fuzzy, too soft-focused,

like a blurred-edge pastel, and that makes

his portly image even more rounded.

Sir, with all due respect,

you could have done so much worse.

Shall we review your gallery of caricatures?

Or perhaps your mug shot, which looks like

a Gotham villain about to blow up City Hall?

There is one detail of the painting I like,

and that’s the mouth, an almost perfect

horizontal line, lipless, that one could call

Resting Despot Face. It’s a precious moment,

one in which you are not shouting, grimacing,

lying, pontificating, whining or insulting,

but perfectly neutral, silent, as though someone

has just told you to shut the hell up.

List for Surviving These Times: A Sonnet

One: Stop harping that this world’s gone to hell.

Two: Find a good cause. Join it. Send money.

Three: Mail a card to Congress. Say, “Get well!”

Four: Be nice. You catch more flies with honey…

Five: Try to get others to see your side.

Six: Paint a sign with a pithy slogan.

Seven: Join a march and protest with pride.

Eight: Start a podcast. (Not like Joe Rogan!)

Nine: Play some music that inspires you.

Ten: Take a break from social media.

Eleven: Lose the funk that mires you.

Twelve: Get facts. (Not just Wikipedia.)

Thirteen: Seek shelter. There might be a storm.

Fourteen: Build a fire. Keep yourself warm.

Joseph D. Milosch

Last Word on the Election

Yes, on the day after the election,

everything seemed to be slipping

to the brink. We are on the edge

of destruction, not by fire, water,

starvation, invasion by foreign powers,

COVID-19, plague, cancer,

heart failure, or stroke.

Yes, we seem to stand on the lip

of an abyss, and instead of finding

the beautiful architecture of the body

or love, we expose ourselves

to malicious behavior.

We hope everything will be all right

because we think others are better.

But in retrospect,

we should have prayed

to be spared that one quick moment

when what we suspected

about our country

but were unwilling to face

was revealed.

 

Hard Not to Fear the Weight of the Earth

It would have been better for this poet

to have been born in a doorless room

than to see his country reinstall segregation.

It would have been better

to squander his childhood in corners,

filled with dreams of roses

pinned in long silky hair —

better for him to chop his childhood memories

into slivers of wood and start

a fire beneath the white cylinder

used to heat water in the room

of his recuring dream —

the one with images of knotted ropes

dangling from cliff trees.

It would have been better to find himself

in another dream, wandering the streets

and writing his poems behind the faces,

painted on the undersides of bridges;

then to see the unmasking of

in-your-face hatred.

Today, no one can pretend

to be above it all anymore,

and our poems need trapdoors,

leading to underground tunnels —

identified by skeletons nailed upright

with mouths full of worms.

Today he writes of rivers and creeks,

because he can hardly bear to think

of the new fascism that is heavy

like the mountains, and makes

it hard not to fear the earth’s weight.

Did the Dao say, everywhere man

is dust and death, and his groaning

is wind in a seashell?’

It doesn’t matter for in this time

of the new red and black

there is no way to know

if his country will survive

or if the doors of poetry are closing.

 

A Dark Sky Over the White-Capped Pacific

I stopped at an overlook along the Oregon coast.

In the sky, puffins and cormorants dipped and darted.

Further out, the rain clouds ballooned.

The wind kept knocking the top off waves,

and I saw the sea struggling while birds

dived behind a rocky cliff.

I slept deeply that night, and beyond my room,

clouds hid the stars like a squadron following fog

across the border.

Rain on the roof became footsteps of sorrow

that entered my sleep and called itself by another name.

In my dream, the waves of memory rippled;

and a man didn’t dare show his face as he glided

in the shadows of a fence. Then, an elevator

opened its door invitingly,

and I crashed through charcoal depths, feeling someone

behind me. Who was bigger than my shadow, and

his face was a kaleidoscope of troops and their fears.

Some dreams fulfill desires, but the rush

of fascistic-patriotism fills the seas with blood.

Rob Tannahill

To MAGA: Sincerely, The Radical Left

The MAGA movement

At heart

Is made up

Of chickenshits

Who know they were wrong

And can't admit it

So

Like pissed-off teenagers

They have to overcompensate

By running

That white-hot

Mouth-driven

Prefrontal lobe

All the way

To victory

Or the grave.

I saw

One of their podcasters

Misread a Jesse Welles song

I saw

One of their podcasters

Introduce

Masturbation to Prime Time

I saw

One of their podcasters

Celebrating Hitler

I saw

One of their podcasters

Arrested for SA

I saw--how can you not?

This doesn't

Bode well for you, Maga.

I saw

Their dog-murdering

Ice Queen

Used

By Chris Murphy

To mop

The floor

And I saw

Stephen Miller

Spray petrol

On the writ of habeas corpus

(he's looking for his lighter)

I see

That Jasmine Crockett

Seems aptly named

With her unflinching

definace in the face

Of Lauren Boebert's

Provincial indignance

And see

That Bernie is doing

What he's always done

This time, with AOC

She has long lusted

For your heads on a plate

And now

That you've been called out

On your obvious fascism

You're crying

About radical leftists

And their intolerance.

You!

The most foul-thinking

Plebs on the planet

Who used the internet

To flood the world with so much snark

It will take 50 years

For us to stop hating each other

Over bathrooms, cyclists

And baseball caps

And any number of other dingbatteries

That don't mean a damn thing

To the price of your bills

Like whether or not

Someone you'll never even meet

Is on food stamps

While Trump spends 10 billion

On planes that aren't even ours.

Our intolerance is

Of rising prices

Of trade wars

Of bigotry

Of genocide

Of dead kids

Of religious tyranny

Of nauseating lies

Of Neuralink

Of the police state

Of dystopia

Of cruelty

Of tribal irrationality

Of New Eugenics

Of the Little Horn

With his face and his false wound

Parading around like a man of God.

More like Randall Flagg

And the Economy's savior hasn't done squat

Except fire people,

Bully Canada,

And make it cool to beat protestors

But since we're angry

At this blanket slap in the face

Delivered happily--HAPPILY!

By the bourgeois

To everyone living in the production sphere

Which means you, too, MAGA

What once were snowflakes

Are now the New Intolerant

Radicals.

Perhaps just freer than you're ready

for--

You don't want a free country.

You want a space where it's cool for you to puff up your chest and wax blowhard for an ego-hit. You don't care about freedom, or any blood save for your own.

I posit

That you will never

Be able to admit

How foolish and naive you look

While your chosen ones

Crash helicopters

Fuck over the disenfranchised

And cut the bootstraps off

Everyone they admonished to do pullups

While they

Drunk text National Security

Secrets on a Sext App

And send upstanding citizens

To Gulag

Under the false pretense

Of a gang tattoo

(what I saw weren't gang tattoos)

They will never

Understand

That what we feel isn't intolerance

It's disgust

Which is exactly what they should be feeling

I would tell any one of them

It makes more sense to forgive you

Than fight you

Otherwise

And it will be on your hands

And in your court, MAGA

You may find

The times get quite shaking

When snowflakes become avalanches.

You were wrong, MAGA.

You didn't make anything great.

You made it shit.

Consider

All the blood you

Yes, even you

Mr. Proletarian Trump Voter

And the rest of the world would avoid

If you'd just admit

You fucked up--we've all done it!

And help us do away

With the swine who swindled you.

Kevin R Pennington

Manufactured Outrage

I.

The American Dream

used to mean something, 

or at least We the People

thought it did. It was 

a dream without kings

where anyone could 

have a good life 

if they worked 

their hands 

to the bone 

for the 

man.

II.

We stood tall

We acted like the World Police

We fought genocide

We kept the world safe for Democracy

We fought for freedom

We started wars for oil

We celebrated America

III.

This land is Our Land

and we reaffirm that

in public classrooms

with oaths said by rote

and patriotic melodies

sung at baseball games.

IV.

I write this

manufactured outrage

on social media.

I get a hundred likes,

but nothing changes.

The algorithm hides 

what I post so that

only my friends see it

and all I hear is 

echoes of alleged

truths. 

V.

We are so busy

being entertained

by technology

that our freedoms

evaporate like

water on a hot

summer day.

VI.

The homeless 

huddle on the streets

while Congressmen 

sit in ivory chambers,

passing laws that 

make it illegal 

to sleep beneath 

the stars.

VII.

We are being fucked over by 

a corrupt Supreme Court,

evil MAGA zealots, 

violent Proud Boys, 

an orange-skinned Dictator 

with an endless list of 

executive actions,

and his billionaire 

masters who orchestrate 

rigged elections.

VIII.

Elon Musk dismantles 

our government,

Nazi salutes our flag,

and holds a chainsaw

to the throats of the

American people.

IX.

No amount of Apple Pie

makes this bullshit OK.

X.

‘Merica, 

You had a heart attack 

in the middle of the night

from all the cigarettes, 

opiates, and caffeine.

Goddamn it, 

the Constitution 

is an amazing document

and America was beautiful,

but all dreams end

when you wake 

the fuck up.

Jennifer Rudick Zunikoff

WE WILL CLIMB POMEGRANATE TREES

Your story is

Inconvenient for me

That does not mean it is not true

My story is

Inconvenient for you

Even so, I am not lying

And what's more

I'll never believe G-d loves me 

more than G-d loves you

I'll never unknow that your child must

Thrive upon fresh air and clean water

Peace will never arrive. Instead

We will climb pomegranate trees

And call it down from heaven 

We will pluck olives and till fields

And feel old and grow gnarled

And be pure as white doves

We will slowly rock in our chairs 

And listen to each other's stories

And cry and laugh and cry

Juliet Cook

The Egg Price Is Out of Control

He blames it on you for disrupting his convoluted flow

by not completely agreeing with him,

by not cracking and flushing your own ugly

broken shells down the drain until he decides

to pluck out the yolk, name it, batter it,

shove it wherever the hell he wants to.

 

Until then, you're a grotesque mini-chicken ejaculating gore.

Whorish bleeding as it gives birth to an even tinier chicken.

Innards aborting the itty bitty pieces of breast meat.

Distorting the doll house dining room table with oozing substances

from gross bodily orifices repeatedly gagging in his face.

Filthy bits of chicken feed are enlarging inside

the radiator while the lady stomps and smiles.

She sings about heaven and another head falls off,

lands in a giant vat filled with processed red food coloring.

Our heads sink down and drown inside a mangled portal.

Get stuck within massive monopolized membranes, soon to be human balut.

False God in a Festival of Destructive Rats 

You are a human rat

with a long narcissistic tail

streaked with feral cat shit.

Stained teeth cracking into

hollowed out rodent factories.

The next one who doesn't see it

your way will be eaten alive. Head

shoved inside your giant rat taco bell

seasoning mix. Thin bread ripped apart.

The latest firing behooves you and your

satanic hooves ablaze with hate.

Your definition of success is rat shit

crazy and not nearly as intelligent

as actual rats.  Your carpetbag rat

will rat out every so-called friend

and you will do anything to rat-a-tat-tat

your evil self into more power, money,

fame. Gain the latest rat-o-sphere of fake

rat followers.  Even though your system of poison

rat droppings is meant to infiltrate and destroy

everyone else's space, place, and freedom

as you spew rat diarrhea behind the back

then in everyone's faces. As you act more

like an angry shit-faced sex trafficker,

covering up every red light with shit.

What if it's the kind of sticky shit

that doesn't go all the way down the drain?

What if we shove your rat head in the toilet

and make you swallow your own shit?

Maybe we're all just a festival of rats

but the only false god complex carnival

leader I want to destroy is you.  

If you force yourself into the holes

in my wall, I will bite off your head,

spit it into a dirty bowl. Watch it ruin

the bathroom, the bedroom, the home,

the neighborhood, the state, the world.

Rich Ferguson

What I Said to the Genie in the Bottle Turned Therapist

I wanna throw caution to the wind, but there’s a hurricane outside. Wanna earthquake

proof my soul, but I’m already shaken. I wanna genuflect in the chapel of longed-for

happily ever afters, but my knees are broken. Wanna wipe the smirk off Hate’s face,

but don’t have a big enough wash rag. I wanna engage in rousing games of dodgeball

but the government keeps playing DOGE. Wanna turn bullets into birds, but don’t

have enough feathers. I want us to flourish in Indian summers of sweetness, but

we’ve become soul-stricken by too many winters of discontent. I wanna save the

world, but don’t know where to begin.