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Tuesday, May 24, 2022


by Marianne Gambaro

I guess I can’t blame them
for feeling the way they do.
They weren’t there.
They didn’t see your ashen face
against the blood-soaked
laundry service sheets
on your dorm bed.
I wish I could remember your name—
Karen, I think,
or maybe Caryn—
your whitebread family
was pretentiously middle class
so would have spelled it differently,
not at all like that boy
who knocked you up.
Did he disappear fast when you told him!
You were a quiet girl, younger
than the rest of us freshmen,
smarter too,
with all your advanced placement classes.
I think it was your roommate who took you
to that bogus doctor in Pennsylvania,
who stayed with you
and finally called the RA
when she couldn’t stop the bleeding.
You never did come back to the dorm.
Did you come back to school?
Did you even live?
No one talked about you after you left,
at least not above a whisper.
I guess I can’t blame them
for feeling the way they do now.
But maybe you can.

Marianne Gambaro’s poems and essays have been published in print and online journals including Mudfish, CALYX, Oberon Poetry Magazine, Pirene's Fountain, Avocet Journal, Snowy Egret, and The Naugatuck River Review. She is the author of Do NOT Stop for Hitchhikers (Finishing Line Press). She lives in verdant Western Massachusetts, with her talented photographer-husband and two feline muses.

Monday, May 23, 2022


by Dick Altman

Jason Grostic's cows are tame and relaxed on his small Michigan farm. But after repeatedly testing his farm for PFAS chemicals in biosolids applied to his fields, state officials stopped Grostic from selling any meat or cattle from his farm. Feed grown on his farm is contaminated as well, and he's having to buy feed for the herd he can no longer sell. (DTN photo by Chris Clayton) —Progressive Farmer, May 9, 2022

After euthanizing several thousand contaminated cows, Art Schaap is losing not only a once-thriving dairy farm but a place where he and his family have lived for a quarter-century. He has no choice, he said, because the polluted runoff from Cannon Air Force Base that tainted the groundwater, soil and his livestock with cancer-causing chemicals has left Highland Dairy in Clovis [New Mexico] an empty shell… Schaap euthanized 3,665 dairy cows in phases over the past four years, when he first learned they’d become contaminated with PFAS from drinking polluted groundwater. PFAS is short for perfluoroalkyl and polyfluoroalkyl substances. Dubbed “forever chemicals” because they last indefinitely in the bloodstream, PFAS can cause increased cholesterol, reproductive problems, impaired immunity and cancer. Highland Dairy, a 3,500-acre farm, is a casualty in an ever-growing environmental and health issue as PFAS increasingly turn up in public drinking water, private wells and food. —Santa Fe New Mexican, May 19, 2022

Hey, diddle, diddle.
The cat and the fiddle.
The cow jumped over the moon.
Except the bovines,
all thirty-six hundred,
who couldn’t overcome
pollution’s deadly gravity.
Who weren’t invited
to your last barbecue.
Whose cream didn’t fortify
yesterday’s Frappuccino.
Hey, diddle, diddle.
The cat and the fiddle.
The cows who didn’t
jump over the moon,
died rife with PFAS,
“forever chemicals” etched
into their bloodstreams.
immunity all impacted.
Cancer lurking.
Hey, diddle, diddle.
The cat and the fiddle.
The cows who tanked up
on PFAS-ed groundwater.
Who drank the brew/runoff
of airbase firefighters practicing
with PFAS-laced foam.
The entire herd euthanized/
farm closed/soil toxic.
PFAS showing up
in public drinking water,
wells and food.
Hey, diddle, diddle.
The cat and the fiddle.
The cows’re all dead.
No place to rest/exit.
Oh, just this once.
change the flight plan.
Let them jump on the moon—
rather than over it.

Dick Altman writes in Santa Fe’s high, thin, magical air, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. The Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, Haunted Waters Press, and many others have published his work in the U.S. and abroad.  A poetry winner of the Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has in progress two collections of some 100 published poems, Voices in the Heart of Stones and Telling the Broken Sky.

Sunday, May 22, 2022


by Peter Witt

On May 20, Dmytro Kozatskyi, a soldier of the #Azov Regiment posted his photos of the defenders of #Mariupol, calling on the world media and those who can help to distribute them. "Well, that's all. Thank you for the shelter; Azovstal is the place of my death and life. See you".

I hear the drums of war banging
as recruits shoulder their weapons,
while merchants of arms pray
half-heartedly for peace knowing
money is to be made
off the mayhem and suffering.

Somewhere safe and hidden,
a barely 19 year old guides
a drone capturing images
of hospitals, schools, that
will soon smolder with
the aftermath of airborne
mechanized chaos...silently
he offers a prayer for the living
and soon to be dead.

Mother with teething child,
walker propelled grandparent,
and shivering family dog
board a train that chugs
its way to the western border,
rails singing "pray with me,
pray with me."

Someday, when bodies
are counted, refugees
and soldiers hobble home,
there'll be an annual day
of remembrance of victory
and defeat, speeches made,
loved ones honored,
as the priest asks
the assembled to bow
their heads and pray.

Peter Witt lives in Texas.  His poetry has appeared in a variety of online and print publications.


by G. R. Kramer

On May 20, Dmytro Kozatskyi, a soldier of the #Azov Regiment posted his photos of the defenders of #Mariupol, calling on the world media and those who can help to distribute them. "Well, that's all. Thank you for the shelter; Azovstal is the place of my death and life. See you".

all across the road
blood of butchered                  root in cracks
seed of black spring             bloom
below white flowers
we lie with the fray of bees
nowhere people are
mir meant peace to both
when trees leafed over laughter
now           stumps             stand    their     ground
see how the flies help
keep down             the odor of rot
old men in ditches
may the good endure
tanks missiles sunflowers plows
may the lost                    return
family        stained             red
parlor tatters                      open sky
empty sniper eyes
war machines rust out
wind blown blood loam covers steppe
lily bulbs open
when do nations live
empires feed         death to their dead
human history
for get       ting
mothers of soldiers
whose blood drains to the black sea
mothers of soldiers

G. R. Kramer grew up in Canada, Kenya and the U.S., the child of refugees from fascism and communism. A lawyer by vocation, his passion for writing poetry has rekindled in late middle-age. His first poetry chapbook is forthcoming from Finish Line Press and he has published in numerous journals. 


by Steven Croft

Polemos pater panton (War is the father of all things.)

From the internet I read about the bombardment of Barcelona
by Italians, Germans, in 1938, watch the Movietone footage
of children running, the torn arm of a father's tweed jacket dark
with blood even in the film's black and white.  Omen, prelude
of what would come.  Today Germans, Italians, the rest of us,
condemn the bombs' carnage in Kharkiv, Kyiv, Mariupol.

The UN was founded in 1945 to prevent world war and make
the world better.  A gradualism powered by hope, a world
where the center will hold, held by our civilized will, forged
from what we all want and what we know we did wrong.  But...
those bomb-melted multistorey wrecks of buildings in the gritty,
jumpy newsreel are grimly colored in today in Kharkiv, Kyiv, Mariupol.

War could never be a mother.  Not that she couldn't cradle a rifle
as easily as a baby, plant a garden of mines—but motherhood
is too likely to want the peace to nurture children, is too ready
to negotiate, to drop the aim of a final strike on the wounded,
seeing her own sons and daughters in them, their mothers' pain.

Even if it, she, starts small like an opening bud in spring, compassion
could start at a steel plant in Mariupol where bloody-bandaged men
are being stretchered out to buses today on CNN.  Negotiation
could spread to Kharkiv, Kyiv, Kherson, Luhansk, Mykolaiv, peace
could become a warm-bedded garden, now the mother of everything.

Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. He is the author of New World Poems (Alien Buddha Press, 2020).  His poems have appeared in Willawaw Journal, San Pedro River Review, The New Verse News, North of Oxford, Anti-Heroin Chic, Soul-Lit, and other places, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

Saturday, May 21, 2022


by Alejandro Escudé

The mystery at the heart of the Milky Way has finally been solved. This morning, at simultaneous press conferences around the world, the astronomers of the Event Horizon Telescope (EHT) revealed the first image of Sagittarius A*, the supermassive black hole at the center of the Milky Way. It’s not the first picture of a black hole this collaboration has given us—that was the iconic image of M87*, which they revealed on April 10, 2019. But it’s the one they wanted most. Sagittarius A* is our own private supermassive black hole, the still point around which our galaxy revolves. —Scientific American, May 12, 2022.

It’s an engine, 
the scientists say,
a black Mustang
parked at the curb
in front of our house,
the Milky Way,

I’ve been there, 
lightless, eating up stars,
surrounded by fire
that cannot reach me,

speed of light,
the scientists say,
why the image is blurry
yet crisp
as can be,

such are the rules
we live by, the movie
inside the maelstrom,
the Papi
and the Mami,

a solitary mitt laying 
centerfield, a baseball 
tucked inside 

as the cradle
of life in the universe spins 
26,000 light years away,

humans beings, Lucy
to the aliens, biological
Big Bang, Adam
and Eve to the bug-eyed

and the lizard man
who staggers out of an oval door
of a saucer-metallic
flying saucer,
time falling into time,
a spot on a boy’s foot,
beach tar, sound of waves,
salty air.

Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

Friday, May 20, 2022


by Cecil Morris

A counselor attends to a grieving woman outside Geneva Presbyterian Church in Laguna Woods, Calif., site of a "politically-motivated hate incident" shooting which left a prominent doctor dead and another five people injured, on May 15. (Leonard Ortiz/MediaNews Group/Orange County Register/Getty Images) Photo illustrating “A weekend of violence punctuates generations of hate.” —The Washington Post, May 18, 2022

I am thinking that more people need more guns, many, many more guns in the hands of many more people, even young people, people too young to be trusted with books or ideas or facts or contraception or health care. If everyone has guns—both long and short and semi-automatic, bump-stopped and rapid-fire, with magazines large and small—then those bad guys with bad aims will be outnumbered and outgunned and no amount of metal-clad body armor will protect them. How else can we be prepared for the communists invading from Russia or Mexico or Cuba or Venezuela? How else stop the socialists spilling out from Blue States, flooding out from urban centers to America the Beautiful home of brave and unalienable rights. I am thinking Kid Rock or Ted Nugent or Lauren Opal Boebert or MTG needs to follow Dolly’s baby-book give-away example: a gun for every real American at birth and a new bullet for every month. I am thinking of growing libraries of arms borne and bared, of personal catalogs of destruction carefully curated and cleaned and oiled and mounted with laser-targeting sights so red dot marks the spot and shows us the way to heaven. I am thinking about teachers with guns and the indoctrination of students. I am thinking about ghost guns haunting America with our forefathers. I am thinking about women’s shelters handing out guns and incorporating target practice in their services, about Guns for Graduation, about CPS with guns and black plastic trash bags, about beaming girls at quinceañeras armed to the nines, about pistols in pews and a line of shopping carts with bullet-proof fairing and guns, about fortune cookie fortunes with guns in bed.

Cecil Morris taught high school English for 37 years. In his retirement, he has turned his attention to writing what he once taught students to understand and (maybe) enjoy. He has poems appearing in Cobalt Review, English Journal, Evening Street Review, Hiram Review, Hole in the Head Review, Midwest Quarterly, Poem, Talking River Review, and other literary magazines.

Thursday, May 19, 2022


by Paula J. Lambert

Most nights this week, there will be more birds in the air above
this country than people in beds down below.” —Josh Sokol

Just as the birds, distracted by light
that splits the star they follow into sparks
and mirrors so they never see the towers
that reach out to kill them, just as the birds,
so entranced by needs they cannot explain
that they propel themselves steadfastly
forward through all the wildfires we set 
for them (if they recognize their own 

plummeting numbers when they emerge 
from the smoke, they don’t show it, 
they keep flying) just as the birds 
soar even through their own sleep as, 

one by one by one, they die of thirst 
or starvation or exhaustion, falling into fields 
and ditches and sidewalks, mountain peaks
and seldom-seen valleys, just as they 

keep going, season after season, year after 
year, eon after unfathomable eon, so we 
sleep through it all in our beds below, 
writhing maybe through tangles of sheets 

and the existential threat we’ve made
of our lives—we who’ve lived long enough 
to multiply every problem we inherited, 
who’ve ignored or angrily explained away 

the desperate patterns of our own migration—
but sleeping, blithely unwilling to do more
than worry while, awake, we grab our keys 
and cameras and binoculars and go,
to the marshes, waterways and wild places
still left, still untrampled, still—unbeknownst
to us—part of the twisted dreams and difficult
truths we rarely remember, come morning. 

Paula J. Lambert has authored several collections of poetry including The Ghost of Every Feathered Thing (FutureCycle 2022) and How to See the World (Bottom Dog 2020). Awarded PEN America's L'Engle-Rahman Prize for Mentorship, Lambert's poetry and prose has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council, the Greater Columbus Arts Council and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts. Her work has been nominated for several Pushcart and Best of the Net prizes.


by Earl J. Wilcox

If our baby worm formula is not available—
Backup plans with day-old bugs will do.
If the five-year old birdie-boy wants
To be a girlie bird, let him dress as he will.
If the teen robins won’t sing or play—or fly
Let them consult Papa Owl, not take codeine.
If old lady robin’s days are done, do not
Push her out of the nest where foxes await.
Find old bird a comfy hole in an elder oak,
There let Sister Robin live out her days in love.

Earl Wilcox has learned from many birds over many years.

Wednesday, May 18, 2022


by Darrell Petska

Republican Gov. Pete Ricketts of Nebraska said Sunday that he will call a special session of his state's legislature to pass a total ban on abortion if the Supreme Court overturns Roe v. Wade this term. "Nebraska is a pro-life state. I believe life begins at conception, and those are babies too," Ricketts told CNN's Dana Bash on "State of the Union" when asked if he thought the state should require a young girl who was raped to carry the pregnancy to term. —CNN, May 15, 2022

Of course rape is evil,
but evil left to proliferate in a woman
tends to strike again and again in all its
suffocating helplessness, trauma, chronic
anxiety and nightmarish violation,
with all its attendant heartache.

Political one-upmanship and pietisms
that insist on allowing rape's evil to live on
by citing "directives" of god or bandying
emotionally fraught trigger words—
manipulating evil to sell one's agenda—
are beneath a purported man of god
and the yea-saying cadres of men sharing
narrow perceptions of a woman's uterus,
including its role in shaping cognitive
and emotional well-being and the drive
for self-determination—the latter a right
not reserved for men alone.

The shelf-life of your brand of religiosity
is short. We who espouse a more merciful,
compassionate religion pray that your efforts
to be both judge and executioner will fall
to the light, lest "Nebraska Nice" succumbs
to the politics clouding your heart and soul.

Darrell Petska lives and writes in Wisconsin, but part of his heart remains in his birth state of Nebraska.


 by Mary K O’Melveny

Cyndi Lauper and Laura Dern

Women have no rights required to be respected

say five jurists whose words hurl us back to ancient time.

What actions are required to see this travesty corrected?


This outcome—undesired by most—was not unexpected.

Women have been told for centuries that men’s role is prime,

that women have no rights required to be respected.


Some say our decisions must be made by men, elected

but clueless, whose laws transform our choices into crime.

What actions shall we take to see such travesty corrected?  


Once a woman’s bodily autonomy has been rejected

by folks who’ve no idea the mountains we must climb,

how can we ensure that anyone’s liberty will be respected?


Diminishments of human rights are always quite connected.

Misogyny, like slavery, depends on whose lives we define

as worth the actions needed to see such travesties corrected. 


Look in the mirror—do you see the person you expected?

No matter age or circumstance, the time has come for rage sublime.

If women have no rights required to be respected,

revolution is what we need to see this travesty corrected.

Mary K O'Melveny is a recently retired labor rights attorney who lives in Washington DC and Woodstock NY.  Her work has appeared in various print and on-line journals. Her most recent poetry collection is Dispatches From the Memory Care Museum, just out from Kelsay Books. Her first poetry chapbook A Woman of a Certain Age is available from Finishing Line Press. Mary’s poetry collection Merging Star Hypotheses was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2020.

Tuesday, May 17, 2022


Sari Grandstaff is a high school librarian in the Catskill Mountains/Mid-Hudson Valley of New York State. Her work has appeared in many print and online journals including The New Verse News, The Mainichi's Daily Haiku, the Nick Virgilio Haiku Association's Haiku in Action, and Prune Juice


by Susan Cossette

Image credit: Tayfun Coskun/Anadolu Agency via Getty Images

Blood moon rises over the horizon,

over Minneapolis, Auckland, Buffalo,

over blood spilled in schools and supermarkets,

hot orb, hatred splayed on the pavement.


In Minnesota you know you’re dead to the world

if you see your obituary in the Star Tribune a week before you die.

The loons’ eerie tremolos and yodels call to you—

outsider, peculiar threat, excised one, unwelcome.


Strange bugs come calling each spring.

They crawl up your walls in curious unison,

fleeing, seeking escape.

You find them on the kitchen floor,

dead in the window wells,

silent and withered.

Susan Cossette lives and writes in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The author of Peggy Sue Messed Up, she is a recipient of the University of Connecticut’s Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Vita Brevis, ONE ART, As it Ought to Be, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Amethyst Review, Crow & Cross Keys, Loch Raven Review, and in the anthologies Fast Fallen Women (Woodhall Press), Tuesdays at Curley’s (Yuganta Press), and After the Equinox.

Monday, May 16, 2022


by Shirani Rajapakse

The Sri Lankan state is descending into a full blown political and economic crisis, as more people contend with starvation, death and severe disruptions. Now they are also facing the brutal violence of the state. The BBC reports at least nine people died and more than 200 were injured as vehicles and houses were set alight during fighting between government supporters and critics this week. The island is facing its worst economic crisis since independence, and the responses of the state indicate it is incapable of protecting its citizens. The deployment of military force, however, is unlikely to quell unrest. The anger and frustration displayed by the public, aggravated by pro-government protesters, is only likely to grow – fuelling further distrust in the ruling government. —The Conversation, May 12, 2022

Watch the blazing 
snarls of flames 
spitting disgust. 
Bodies stand outside arms raised 
fists wrapped round 
poles ready to beat up dissent 
silence with one stroke 
anyone, anyone who protests 
opposes the wrong 
howling jackals laughing condoning 
acts of violence. 
Wrong is the new right. 
No one understands where 
we stand. 
Who are we? How did we 
come to this? 
Thirty-five years ago 
I cowered in fear 
of red guerillas stalking streets 
vengeance running in veins 
bloodthirsty hyenas 
A new generation that 
                    doesn’t remember 
the knock on doors dragging 
life out pleading screaming begging, 
                    never saw 
bloated corpses floating in waterways 
or have to step over 
roasting moaning bodies unrecognizable 
piled up on the side of roads, 
                    through fear 
wondering if they will be next. 
heard about those days 
through history’s sieve. 
the norm to get what 
cannot be 
through the ballot. 
Is power so blinding we 
gorge on our own? 
Brother against brother, the same 
kind, flesh and blood 
stripping bare to kill for a different 
cause or 
for promises of treats? 
The future sheds tears eaten 
up greedily by cackling flames 
silently through swirling 
fumes roaring hatred 
and what is left 
to moan for—cinders that were 
once homes now 
kicked to the side 
as vultures from foreign shores 
                    line up behind clouds looming 
                    at the periphery of the island  
to step in and devour the land. 

Shirani Rajapakse is a Sri Lankan poet and short story writer. She is the author of five books including the award-winning Chant of a Million Women as well as I Exist. Therefore I Am. Rajapakse’s work appears in many journals and anthologies including Dove Tales, Buddhist Poetry, Litro, Linnet’s Wings, Berfrois, Flash Fiction International, Voices Israel, About Place, Mascara, Counterpunch, Deep Water, Silver Birch, International Times, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, Spark, The Write-In, Asian Signature, Moving Worlds, Harbinger Asylum.

Sunday, May 15, 2022


by Indran Amirthanayagam

The Palestinian Authority on Thursday declined a request to let Israeli officials examine the bullet that killed Shireen Abu Akleh, a prominent reporter for Al Jazeera who was killed in the occupied West Bank during an Israeli raid. Palestinian officials and witnesses accused Israeli soldiers of killing Ms. Abu Akleh, dismissing Israeli claims that the journalist may have been hit by Palestinian fire during a shootout in Jenin, a city in the northern West Bank. —The New York Times, May 12, 2022. Photo: The day after she was killed, Palestinian artists were already at work painting a mural of Shireen Abu Akleh in Jenin, a city in the northern West Bank. Credit: Mohammed Saber/EPA, via Shutterstock via The New York Times)

Who killed Shireen Abu Akleh? Who fired the bullet
into her head? Who raided the neighborhood? Who
has the right to bear arms? Who has the right

to desecrate the dead? Who is crying for justice
where justice has not been served, not for
Rachel Corrie, who stood before a bulldozer. Not

for Shireen who wrote of people how they live
and cook, wash and teach, how they live and die
in an occupied land as second class subjects. Meanwhile

the murderer walks. Meanwhile the struggle continues
between lord and subject. And the girl who loved holding
her bottle before the mirror as a microphone saying

one day I will grow to be Shireen Abu Akleh: what
shall we tell her now? Where can she bury her tears?

Indran Amirthanayagam's newest book is Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (BroadstoneBooks). Recently published is Blue Window (Ventana Azul), translated by Jennifer Rathbun.(Dialogos Books). In 2020, Indran produced a “world" record by publishing three new poetry books written in three languages: The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, New York), Sur l'île nostalgique (L’Harmattan, Paris) and Lírica a tiempo (Mesa Redonda, Lima). He writes in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese, Haitian Creole and has twenty poetry books as well as a music album Rankont Dout. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly and helps curate Ablucionistas. He won the Paterson Prize and received fellowships from The Foundation for the Contemporary Arts, New York Foundation for the Arts, US/Mexico Fund For Culture, and the MacDowell Colony. He hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube.

Saturday, May 14, 2022


by George Salamon

US billionaires' demand for 'golden passport' schemes that sell citizenships to 'safe' countries for up to $6.5m including New Zealand and Portugal rockets by 337% in three years as fears of civil unrest spike. —Mail Online, May 7, 2022

Good riddance, and safe trip,
but before abandoning our ship,
make them sign a promissory note
forbidding return to their original boat.

George Salamon looks forward to the inevitable movie version, "Ship of Wealthy Fools," starring celebrities who appear in ads for beachwear.


by Emmie Christie

Sphecius speciosus, often simply referred to as the cicada killer or the cicada hawk, is a large digger wasp species. —iNaturalist

The cicada killers drone in the park
Small rockets,
A display of gold in the sky.
I glare. I stare them down,
But billionaire buoyancy keeps them
Flying. A confidence fueled by concepts,
On stinger stock options,
Keeping me inside my cardboard home
But even that’s Prime real estate,
This box someone threw out.
And I shouldn’t be sleeping here, no,
Because that nearby bush has a plaque.
Where can I go to sleep?
I guess it’s a crime to have bad luck,
To lose my savings to a fire truck.
Where can I go
When the wealthy claim even the sky,
And I am not allowed to dream?
The cicada killers drone in the park.

Emmie Christie’s work tends to hover around the topics of feminism, mental health, cats, and the speculative such as unicorns and affordable healthcare. She has been published in Flash Fiction Online and Three-Lobed Burning Eye, and she graduated from the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2013. She also enjoys narrating audiobooks for Audible. You can find her on Twitter @EmmieChristie33.

Friday, May 13, 2022


by Timothy Kercher

The Soviet monument symbolising historic ties between ex-Soviet Ukraine and Russia being dismantled in Kyiv on April 26, 2022.

Today I read that Russian
casualties are colossal, Latin
for larger than life,
the Romans using the word
to describe the statue of Helios
in the harbor at Rhodes,
a term now used to describe
abounding death, the day before
a colossal eight meter-tall Soviet
-era statue of two men
representing Russia and Ukraine
holding a banner of friendship
was taken down, the heads
rolling right off in the middle 
of Kyiv, where, in the surrounding
towns, colossal losses
were suffered, larger than life
numbers of dead civilians
strewn in the streets, add 
to this the soldiers on
both sides, the mass 
casualties on the eastern 
front in the cities, apartments, 
theaters, schools, hospitals eclipsed 
by heavy artillery, the war's
collective losses larger
than a toppled statue depicting
friendship, larger still
than a statue of the sun god.

Timothy Kercher lives in southwestern Colorado with his family and teaches on the Navajo Nation. He has lived much of his adult life overseas, including time in Ukraine, Republic of Georgia, Bosnia, Mongolia and Mexico. His essays, poetry, and translations have appeared in many literary journals including Crazyhorse, Plume, Ruminate, Guernica, and Quiddity.

Thursday, May 12, 2022


by Gail White

Apulian Red-Figure Amphora by the Painter of the Berlin Dancing Girl ca. 430-410 BCE depicting Achilles and Briseis. Via Wikimedia Commons.

Women have few speaking parts
in the Iliad. At the beginning,
Briseis is torn away from Achilles
with never a word. But when Agamemnon
finally decides to make up the quarrel
and sends her back, Patroclus is dead
and her grief is for him, the most decent man
in the crowd, and the kindest.
You would not let me grieve, she says,
when Achilles had killed my father and brothers
and taken me captive; you always promised
Achilles would marry me.

That's what the women
have to look forward to in wartime:
with any luck, the man who murdered
your brothers will marry you. Although Achilles
did no such thing. Most likely he shunted
her off to the loom and kept her weaving
new tunics for him while he sent letters
over the wall to young Polyxena,
the bait that would lead him to his death.

Soldiers die, and the race of heroes
is gone: today there is no Achilles,
Patroclus, or angry Agamemnon.
But look at the eyes of captured women:
Briseis is there, forever dragged
away, forever and ever silent.

Gail White is a formalist poet and a contributing editor to Light. Her most recent collections are Asperity Street and Catechism. She lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, with her husband and cats. 

Wednesday, May 11, 2022


by Lynn White

Is it ghoulish
to think
that life 
is more
than a small collection of cells
in a uterus.

Is it ghoulish
to think
the life of the mother
and the spillage
of her blood
count for less
than the small collection of cells
in her uterus
that are unable to bleed.

Is it ghoulish
to think
that infant life
needs love
as it grows
and support networks
and things that cost
through life
if it does not supply them.

Is it ghoulish 
to ask
the highest court
in the land
was taken over
by ghouls.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes.

Tuesday, May 10, 2022


by Pat Snyder Hurley

Illustration by The New York Times to accompany “America, Unmasked” by Pamela Paul, May 8, 2022. Photograph by George Marks/Getty Images.

is the new undressing performed
only with those we trust no matter
how illogically
and never with strangers no matter
how perfect unless
there is indoor dining involved
and the promise of conversation
and everyone is doing it.
Grocery-shopping isn’t intimacy
worthy of risk, but dinner
parties are, even with friends
who went maskless at Costco
and carpooled with teens
who went maskless at school
because who would have the chutzpah
to ask.
And so pockets are handy
and zipper purses and
consoles in cars—
all good for mask-stashing
in case someone you know
or don’t
is wearing one
or not.

Pat Snyder Hurley is a Pushcart-nominated poet living in Columbus, Ohio, where she also writes a local humor column, “Balancing Act.”  She co-authored the chapbook Hard to Swallow with her late husband Bill Hurley (NightBallet Press 2017), and her poems have appeared in literary journals including Pudding Magazine, Poydras Review, and the Passager Journal

Monday, May 09, 2022


by Anita Pulier

Abortion rights supporters protest outside the Supreme Court on Tuesday. Credit: Valerie Plesch for NBC News.

Momma taught us to hang up our coats
tidy our rooms
and so we became familiar with them

Now that gang of robed men
and one godsmocked woman
remind us of the skills

we honed in the 60s then
abandoned when Roe freed us
to seek health care

in hospitals or clinics
where decisions
about our bodies

our lives
our futures
were ours

and we could safely
refuse to carry a doomed fetus
refuse to sink into poverty
refuse to empower rape and incest


untwist the sturdy wire
from its frame
squat, push it in

scrape around

remember even 
their God still loves you
but they
don't give a damn

Anita S. Pulier’s chapbooks Perfect Diet, The Lovely Mundane, and Sounds of Morning and her books The Butcher's Diamond and Toast were published by Finishing Line Press. Anita’s poems have appeared in many journals and her work is included in nine print anthologies. Anita has been a featured poet on The Writer's Almanac.


by Mark Danowsky

“Let’s be clear about this: Roe wasn’t the beginning of women getting abortions. It was the end of women dying from unsafe abortions.” —No Dem Left Behind PAC

Blood in the streets

Blood on our hands

No Plan C

No icy nurse

No forced videos 

No waiting room

No chosen futures

Blood spilled by the broken 

Blood of a thousand splintered lives 

Mark Danowsky is Editor-in-Chief of ONE ART: a journal of poetry. He is the author of As Falls Trees (NightBallet Press) and JAWN (Moonstone Press). In 2022, his poems have appeared in Kestrel, The Broadkill Review, tiny wren lit, Anti-Heroin Chic, Otoliths, Harpy Hybrid Review, The New Verse News

Sunday, May 08, 2022


by Charles Hughes

Cover of the May 6, 1944 issue of The New Yorker.

Far from the war, days bloom—
Some gorgeously—as in
A sickroom hopes can rise,
Though death must surely come.
Spring’s lust can’t be a sin,
We think, and hide our eyes
From war. Not from the war—
Its miseries we see well:
Heroes we meet we cheer,
Barbarians we deplore, 
Shocked by the sights of this hell,
Glad it’s not happening here.
Poppies bloomed long ago
In Flanders Fields, but now
The flowers all have gone;
Now few ask where or know
The words to disavow
War’s always dawning sun.

Charles Hughes has published two books of poems, The Evening Sky (2020) and Cave Art (2014), both from Wiseblood Books. He worked for over thirty years as a lawyer and now works at writing poems.

Saturday, May 07, 2022


by Jan Harris

Valeria Hlodan, her baby daughter Kira, and Valeria’s mother Liudmila died in the missile strike on 23 April. (Picture: @myroslavapetsa; Rex via Metro.)

after seeing the photograph from Odesa
of a mother and her new baby girl
killed by a missile-strike
but lay down the bread
your throat will no longer swallow
and rest your eyes
on the bird that alights
on the sweet-smelling lilac 
by your door,
notice his glossy black cap,
yellow breast glowing
in warm April sun,
how he stays for a moment,
how swiftly
he flickers away.
Jan Harris’s poetry has appeared in various literary journals, including Acumen, Atrium, and Poetry Wales, and in anthologies, including several e-books published by Poetry Kit. She received third place in the Wales Poetry Award, 2019. Her first collection, Mute Swans on the Cam, was published by Oversteps Books in July 2020.

Friday, May 06, 2022


by Dick Altman

Source: “Abortion” by John Bartlow Martin from the May 20, 1961, issue of the Saturday Evening Post.

he’s the golden boy
of parent/teacher/friend
the boy wanted on everyone’s side
the scholarship boy
the grad school boy
the golden boy
who in that familiar moment
of uncontrolled/youthful rapture
watches his golden prospects
for the future turn to dross
the Viet Nam draft
breathes down his neck
he still hasn’t found a job
(too educated, he’s told)
he’s not married
(though one day he will
marry the woman
he impregnated)
they are neither ready to marry
nor ready to have/support children
abortion is illegal
Roe vs. Wade is nowhere in sight
he reaches out to his composer father
who reaches out to friends
in the music business
an address and phone number
in Harlem surfaces
no names/no receipts
the golden boy borrows
from his father enough cash
to pay for a semester of college
the young couple agree
this is their only alternative
they discuss their mutual anxiety
she—they agree—must make
the decision
they never talk about what exactly
took place on the fourth floor
of the Harlem walk-up
she’s bleeding profusely by bed time—
in the emergency room by next morning
a spontaneous abortion the doctor calls it
knowing it wasn’t
whatever made the embryo abort
likely ended her/their prospects
of ever having children
Roe vs. Wade would not be decided
for another nine years
Politico’s revelation the Supreme Court
may overturn the decision
shatters him to tears

Dick Altman writes from New Mexico. His work has been widely published in the United States and beyond.