ONE IN FOUR

by Deborah Kennedy

A study in the journal PLOS ONE found that extreme temperatures resulting from climate change could cause one in four steel bridges in the United States to collapse by 2050. By 2040, failures caused by extreme heat could require widespread bridge repairs and closures, the researchers found. Photo: A bridge connecting North Sioux City, S.D., and Sioux City, Iowa, collapsed in June after flooding. Credit: KC McGinnis —The New York Times, September 2, 2024

Squire Whipple's careful pen strokes flickered in the candlelight. A self-taught engineer, he drew his new design, the bowstring truss bridge built of iron, not unreliable wood. From the 1870s to the 1930s, his bridges arched across rural and urban American rivers knitting together a growing nation. 

(Houu-hou-wit. Mourning doves mate for life. All the tiny parts, unseen, unnamed, unloved, holding together whole worlds. Houu-hou-wit.)

Bowstring truss bridges feature sturdy arches and bracing studded with innumerable round-headed rivets set by teams of three men. A good team could set fifteen rivets a minute, all day long. The first man heated each bolt in portable coal forges cranking the fan and setting the bolts in the white-hot coals. When a bolt glowed cherry-red, he tossed it up to the next man who caught it in a tin cup, grabbed it with long-handled tongs, and set it against the milled holes. The last man formed the head with the ringing blows of a ball-peen hammer.

(Kraa-kraa. Ravens remember the faces of their enemies and teach their young. Did the ravens scold the men who brought rank smoke and sharp sounds to quiet rivers? Kraa-kraa.)

For decades, dutiful communities painted these bridges a patient flat grey, fending off creeping rust. Now, these bridges strain under the weight of modern cars and trucks delivering our endless needs and whims. Through the winter the metal freezes, draped in icicles. In our scorching days, triple-digit weather silently heats each rivet and expands each joint and slab. Rivets shear, expansion joints twist, concrete buckles, and bridges collapse.

(Tchew, tchip, tchup. In one day, hummingbirds can eat up to 2,000 small bugs and mosquitos. They are slowly disappearing. All the tiny parts, unseen, unnamed, unloved, once weaving our world together. Tchew, tchip, tchup.)

A writer and artist, Deborah Kennedy’s work has been presented in the United States and Europe. Her recent book Nature Speaks: Art and Poetry for the Earth (White Cloud Press) combines poetry and illustrations to capture the bond between ourselves and the larger natural world. Nature Speaks won several national awards including the 2017 Eric Hoffer Poetry Book Award and Silver Nautilus Poetry Book Award. Her writing has recently appeared in great weather for MEDIA, First Literary Review-East,  and Canary: A Literary Journal of the Environmental Crisis. Kennedy lives in San Jose, California where she teaches college classes and poetry workshops. She presents poetry readings with multimedia slide lectures to poetry, ecology and spiritual groups. Kennedy lives in San José, California, and is a Creative Ambassador for the City of San José working to advance creativity in her community with her innovative Broadside Art and Poetry Project. 

PINK ROLLERBLADES

by Brian Forehand

Wounded people, including nine-year-old Tala Abu Ajwan, who died of the injuries she sustained as she skated near a park, are seen in the Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital in Gaza City after an Israeli army attack on a residential building, Sept. 3, 2024. Credit: DAWOUD ABO ALKAS/ANADOLU/GETTY via CBS News.

Didn't they see her there

gliding like an angel

pink wheels on her feet

wheels spinning so fast

in these head spinning times?

perfectly pink

like the walls of her bedroom

sweet wishes fulfilled

for a sweet young girl

here where wishes seem so fleeting

sweet dreams

carried away too swiftly

wings on their feet

resigned now to angels

fleeing en masse from this hellscape

pink wings replacing

pink wheels

no longer spinning

not fast enough to save her

from this frightful nightmare

pink wheels that roll no more

still and lifeless now as small feet they entomb

another angelic victim

no winged victory found

in this senseless, ceaseless war.

Brian Forehand is a creative polymath with too many interests and too little time. A late bloomer, he only recently embarked upon the cathartic practice of writing poetry. He lives in Washington, DC with his husband and their stripy cat.

JUST ANOTHER DAY AT SCHOOL

by Peter Witt

At least four people were killed and multiple people injured after a shooting Wednesday at a Barrow County high school, near Atlanta, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation announced, adding that a suspect was in custody. Photo: Women embrace following the shooting. (Elijah Nouvelage/Reuters)—The Washington Post, September 4, 2024

A fourteen year old killed two innocent children Wednesday,
along with two teachers, somebody's sons or daughters,
partners or parents, people who will be saddened,
no devasted, as the police call asking
a relative to come to the morgue, the death house,
to identify the body of a child or an adult who rose this morning,
dressed, said goodbye to their loved ones, forever,
and headed out the door to school, where they waited 
for a 14 year old with access to a gun to shoot them, 
dead, dead, dead. dead.

And the best we'll be able to do is thoughts and prayers,
as the gun lobby mounts another round of efforts
to suppress any reasonable action, as talking heads
are paraded across the TV screen with the same tired
rhetoric, while anti-reform legislators collect 1000s
of dollars to stand pat, do nothing 
again, and again, and again, and again.

Soon there will be funerals, with tearful parents,
loved ones, a community of people holding candles,
perhaps a politician speaking truth about killing machines 
in the hands of children, young people hugging each other, 
while hallways and classrooms are cleaned,
students and community members are offered counseling, 
so in a short period of time school can resume,
funds can be raised for a permanent memorial,
and the issue can disappear from the news
until the next young person gains access to a gun,
access to a school and puts out the light
again and again and again and again
in another group of young people
and dedicated teachers’ eyes.

Peter Witt is a Texas poet who is repulsed by the argument that people kill people not guns...it's obviously both...he has published his poetry in a wide-variety of outlets.  When he's not writing he's out birding and reinforcing his understanding of the human connection to the natural world. He and his wife also travel extensively, having just returned from Iceland/Greenland, where the witnessed first hand the impacts of climate change.

THE CON MAN AND THE DEVIL

by Scott Talbot Evans

Graphic via Red Bubble

There once was a con man of ill-gotten wealth.

Many counterfeit trophies cluttered his shelf.

He prided himself on his great mental health,

And made known to the world he’d done well for himself.

 

He built monuments, palaces, and towers so high,

That they threatened to poke God Himself in the eye.

The man was so crooked, unscrupulous, and sly,

That Satan decided to give him a try.

 

“Nice to meet you. I’m the Prince of Perdition.

I can see you’re a man of blinding ambition.

If it’s not too much of an imposition,

I offer a once in a life proposition.”

 

“What are you bothering a busy man for?

Can’t you see I have houses and women galore?

What could you possibly add to my score?”

The devil grinned widely and simply said, “More.”

 

“You will boast and brag. Your horn will be tooted.

The masses will fall for you as if struck by Cupid.

They won’t even notice their pockets you looted.

They will believe every word you say, no matter how stupid.”

 

“You will split the world in chaotic division.

Your critics will charge you with crimes and derision,

But my lawyers will twist every fact and decision,

So you won’t spend a single minute in prison.”

 

“I need more. I want banners to herald my name,

In bold proclamation of my unequaled fame.

The public must shower me with so much acclaim,

That it puts Alexander and Caesar to shame.”

 

“You drive a hard bargain. I find you quite droll.

In return for all that, you must pay a small toll,

A possession you won’t even miss on the whole,

A little thing commonly known as your soul.”

 

“Is that all?” The cheater started to squeal.

His eager excitement he tried to conceal.

“Looks like I found myself quite a steal.

Okay, buddy, you’ve got yourself a deal!”

 

They smiled and squinted. Their slimy hands shook.

Lucifer wrote the fool’s name in his book.

And that little scribble was all that it took,

For somewhere in hell an ember started to cook.

 

The man’s fame suddenly started to rise.

Half the world believed all his terrible lies.

His power and ego increased to king-size.

He was hailed as a savior in his followers’ eyes.

 

He invented false dangers to control people’s fears

And inflamed their angers to arouse their cheers.

His empire grew on prejudice and smears,

And contempt from his critics was music to his ears.

 

He hobnobbed with hoodlums, gangsters, and whores.

Tyrants and despots were his secret mentors.

He suppressed opposition with threatening roars,

And brought discord and riots to once peaceful shores.

 

He had unholy power to swindle and cheat.

Honesty and integrity took a back seat.

In no time he rose to the world’s highest seat.

But he could not rest ‘til his gluttony was complete.

 

Every ruler and judge was under his heel.

At his feet, the world’s nations were obligated to kneel.

All the lands and possessions were marked with his seal.

And then he sighed, because there was nothing left to steal.

 

He heard a crack, and there was a puff of smoke.

The demon stood before him in a long flowing cloak.

From the heart of darkness a raspy voice spoke.

“The dream is over. Time for you to get woke.”

 

Beelzebub grinned like a fiend and he said,

“The clock has run out, now. Guess what. You are dead.

Forget all the dreams in your silly head.

Fall to your knees and fill yourself with dread.”

  

“I have kept my bargain to the final dot.

The whole world and everything in it is what you got.

You had your fill, and that is saying a lot.

And now I shall take what is mine on this very spot.”

 

The snake’s eyes glowed and he sounded a gong.

A choir of demons sang a tormented song,

But the whole thing went on for a little too long.

“What is happening here? Something is wrong.”

 

The serpent looked for the man’s pain to begin.

But there wasn’t any, to his great chagrin.

From the corpse’s eyes arose a sparkle from within,

And his wrinkled lips curled into a wicked grin.

 

“I told you I was the best dealmaker bar none.

You shoulda read the fine print when you first begun.

I agreed to give you my soul when all was done,

But the joke’s on you, Satan, because I never had one.”

 

The cheat convulsed with laughter to the point of tears.

The joyful sound burned like acid on the devil’s ears.

“This is the first time I’ve been swindled in all my years.

He bowed. “From one con artist to another, cheers!”

Scott Talbot Evans' poems are published in Poetry Salzburg Review, Samjoko Magazine, and Straight On Till Morning. He was twice a finalist in The New Yorker caption contest and won the GEVA Theater 2 Pages/2 Voices competition and the Script Studio Scriptitude Competition. His work appears in Amazing Stories, Weekly Humorist, Shoreline of Infinity, Creepypod, and Crimeucopia. His novel The Love Police was released last year. He is working on his sixth book.

A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE

by Shira Dentz

Source: Jacksonville Today

Red sunset interspersed with Saharan sands 

that wind carried over the Atlantic, 

red like the Creature’s ear grazed, 

up top, against its white sunlit shirt. 

Red like tycoons billowing 

buffoons flying high on greed. 

A storming sky and ocean 

are identical twins so your nostrils stir 

to take in salt spray from a lone sky. 

You want to linger in the horizonless dolphin silver 

away from what’s constructed, like time, 

stationed at this light signaling red. 

Shira Dentz is the author of five books including Sisyphusina (PANK Books), winner of the Nassar Prize 2021, and two chapbooks including Flounders (Essay Press). Her writing appears in many venues including Poetry, American Poetry Review, Cincinnati Review, Iowa Review, VOLT, New American Writing, Brooklyn Rail, Lana Turner, Gulf Coast, jubilat, Pleiades, Denver Quarterly, Black Warrior Review, Diagram, Colorado Review, Idaho Review, Allium, Court Green, New Orleans Review, Puerto del Sol, NELLE, Nat. Brut, Apartment, Annulet, Poem-a-Day, Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, Poetry Society of America, and NPR, and she’s a recipient of awards including an Academy of American Poets Prize and Poetry Society of America's Lyric Poem and Cecil Hemley Awards.

WHAT THEY DON’T KNOW

by Shelly Blankman

Kids at school were cruel. They’d call her flaky. crazy, 

space cadet, airhead. She’d forget their names or where

she was going. School bells and fire alarms would echo

in her head, and her world would blur. The mockery was 

momentary. The misery would be incessant.

The last week of school, classmates autographed her 

yearbook with the labels and comments they’d hurled

to her at school. The five-minute walk home was endless.

At home, she flopped on her bed and muffled her sobs

with pillows, bursting her dam of tears.

No one knew what she’d been through. No one knew she’d

had brain surgery as a child. No one knew she had epilepsy.

Everyone could see her big head. The boys would flick it and

tug at her hair when the teacher wasn’t looking. She would 

wince, but dared not weep. Feigning fearlessness was her

armor that would be rusted by tears. As time passed, the bullies

were gone, but some labels remain.

Gus Walz stands in full view of the nation. His dad is running

for vice-president of the United States. His son has a nonverbal

learning disorder. He has no armor. He needs no armor. His dad

starts to speak. That’s my dad! he yells to the audience. His tears

flow freely. They are borne of pride, not shame. Cameras focus on him.

His tears of pride are posted on computers coast to coast. His

joy is fodder for their jokes. 

They knew there was something wrong with him.What they don’t

know is kindness. They have much to learn from people like Gus.  

Author’s Note: Gus Walz at the DNC being bullied by adults who should know better reminded me of own experience of being bullied in school for behavior that no one understood

Shelly Blankman lives in Columbia, Maryland with her husband of 44 years. They have two sons, Richard and Joshua, who live in New York and Texas, respectively. They have filled their empty nest with four rescue cats and a dog. Richard and Joshua surprised Shelly with the publication of her first book of poetry, Pumpkinhead. Her poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Verse-Virtual, Muddy River Poetry Review, and Open Door Magazine, among others.

CRY OF A HEART IN DISTRESS

by Roodly Laurore & Bichini Laurore

“Spirits / Loas” by Payas Augustin Pierre Sylvain, 2012

Generations follow one another.

Same causes, same effects.

Chained hearts, slaves to hatred.

 

The wind of fear contaminates thought,

turns it into violence, sows mourning.

 

Anguished souls, thirsty for peace,

In the middle of a barren desert.

cry for the end of a painful pilgrimage.

 

Exhausted body, dejected mind 

find their peace

in a journey of no return.  

Roodly Laurore was born and raised in Haiti. He is an engineer and poet. His poems, widely published, are included in: Spirit Fire Review; Welter University of Baltimore; Taos Journal of Poetry; Kosmos Journal; Autism Parenting Magazine; Solstice Literary Magazine; Synchronized Chaos; The New Verse News; Jerry Jazz Musician and others.

 

Bichini Laurore, born in Haiti, is the son of Roodly Laurore. He is a lover of accounting and poetry with a passion for writing poetry in English & French. He has recently collaborated with his father Roodly Laurore in Taos Journal of Poetry. Bichini was 3rd place winner of an interschool competition in Port-au-Prince in 2020.

ALTERCATION IN ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY

by Jerome Betts

The war-time dead, thanks be, sleep sound
Where laid to rest in hallowed ground
Immune to campaign cheers and boos
Or use by self-obsessed yahoos.

Jerome Betts lives in Devon, England, where he edits the quarterly Lighten Up Online.