by Elizabeth S. Wolf
I am from Paris.
I am drinking café,
watching football, screaming
along with the band.
I am from Beirut, being
bombed for what I am not.
I am from Jerusalem, being
stabbed for who I am
and who I love.
I am from Abu Ghraib
and some callow American youth
has me down on all fours, wearing
a leash for a dog.
I am back from Iraq
home in Colorado Springs
gunned down at
Planned Parenthood.
I am from Bangladesh, being
hacked by an axe for blogging a story.
I am a young man from New Hampshire
beheaded for trying to understand
the story to tell.
I am from San Bernadino and I go to
a special school where today
we were having a party when
the bad men burst in.
I am from Sandy Hook Elementary School.
I am from kindergarten, learning
the belly of a ‘b’ goes this way
and the belly of a ‘d’ goes that way
and bullets go everywhere.
I am from Syria but I am
running for my life and if I
do not die along the way,
I don’t know where I will arrive.
I am the truth, fractured into
thousands of brilliant faceted carats.
I am the glare so bright that one
sliver of truth is blind to
all of the others.
I am from Paris. I am
the unnamed young man towing
a piano, by bicycle, so that I can play
John Lennon’s “Imagine”
in front of the Bataclan Theater.
I am the hope that someday you will join us
and the world will live as one.
Elizabeth S. Wolf has previously published poems in local anthologies (Merrimac Mic: Gleanings from the First Year; 30 Poems in November 2014; Amherst Storybook Project). She lives in MA and maintains a day job as a Technical Metadata Librarian.
Showing posts with label #peaceforparis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #peaceforparis. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 02, 2015
DESIGN
by Gil Hoy
In third grade, I often trekked to my best friend's home
up the street, a backpack of books
strapped to my small back.
We flipped through pages and pages then,
in a quiet little study in a corner of his red brick house.
The glow from the fireplace flames
illuminated the russet wood on cold winter days---
like a solemn Friends meeting house.
My friend’s mother sometimes would set out
milk and cookies for us to eat.
They looked like planets of dirt and black rocks
circling two white stars. She was always so kind
and so warm. The earth is a sky blue marble
with white swirls from the vantage point
of the sterile rock of the white moon,
so pretty and elegant.
The better the book, the more you didn’t
want it to end. You start with chapter one.
If there were twenty, by the time you got to ten or so,
you were tormented by the prospect of finishing.
And the pages went by so fast then, like a speeding bus
you run after but miss, and you knew that the end
was coming, like the last bite of a favorite meal.
It occurred to me on one of those quiet
unspeaking afternoons that my death
was much like my book, and that I was on chapter four.
I wasn’t deeply troubled because there was still
so far to go. But the words and the pages
seemed different then, each page a whole day nearer,
as what remained of the unread pages
grew thinner and thinner.
Today, I am sixty years old. My angst is different now.
I read about ISIS and Paris murders, Trump’s fantasies,
Ben Carson's portrayal of his younger years, and Rubio’s
foreign policy. I listen to a grayer noble black President
talk about protecting the homeland, gun control, climate change
and medical care for the poor.
I hear grievous political candidates say
what they think you want to hear because
it’s politically expedient, rather than do the country’s business.
You grow tired of hearing grown men lie,
and you come to doubt our institutions and the law---
no polish will remove that stain.
I wonder now if the world can survive its woes
and whether the grandchildren of my grandchildren
will even get here. Perhaps nuclear war
with just too many missiles and countries involved
for the world ever to recover, or a pretty colorful solar storm
much more powerful than the one in 1859.
Maybe global warming, disobedient armies
of self-preserving computers, or runaway asteroids
exploding oceans, like ruinous bombs raining down
on villages of the weak. I worry that the world
is like my old third grade book, now more worn
but still true, and I have no idea what chapter
the world may be on.
What does it mean that the Milky Way
is just one of billions of galaxies? What immortal blacksmith
or powerful imagination created infinite space?
Is the universe dying? Can we read its obituary in the stars?
Given the big bang, like an explosion of planets
from the head of a ruderal species,
futures of finite and infinite duration are both possible
depending upon physical properties and the expansion rate.
Some scientists say that the universe is flat like a silver dollar
and will expand forever, contingent on its shape
and the role dark energy plays as the universe ages.
Otherwise, the big rip tears the earth away,
like a murderous albino spider on a white flower carrying away a dead moth,
or a lion’s fearsome symmetry in a death spiral with a spent zebra.
The ephemeral perfection of goldilocks planet has always been
that it is not too hot and not too cold, with just
the right amount of water.
When I got to my friend’s home on that rainy afternoon,
I learned that his mother had died that morning.
The house was so cold and so dark. I didn’t know what to do.
But I knew there was no time to waste.
Had she played a part in stopping her heart from beating at such
an early age? How many oceans and mountains had she never seen?
And in what directions? What had I to do with being at her red brick house,
at that time and on that day? I didn’t know.
But I filled up my backpack and started the long trudge
back home. For I knew there was no time to waste.
Gil Hoy is a Boston trial lawyer, writer and poet. He studied poetry at Boston University, while receiving a BA in Philosophy and Political Science. Gil received an MA in Government from Georgetown University and a JD from the University of Virginia School of Law. He served as a Brookline, Massachusetts Selectman for four terms. His poetry has appeared most recently in Third Wednesday, The Write Room, The Eclectic Muse, Clark Street Review and TheNewVerse.News.
 |
| Climate change demonstrations are expected to take place worldwide in the lead up to the Paris summit [File: AP via ALJAZEERA] |
In third grade, I often trekked to my best friend's home
up the street, a backpack of books
strapped to my small back.
We flipped through pages and pages then,
in a quiet little study in a corner of his red brick house.
The glow from the fireplace flames
illuminated the russet wood on cold winter days---
like a solemn Friends meeting house.
My friend’s mother sometimes would set out
milk and cookies for us to eat.
They looked like planets of dirt and black rocks
circling two white stars. She was always so kind
and so warm. The earth is a sky blue marble
with white swirls from the vantage point
of the sterile rock of the white moon,
so pretty and elegant.
The better the book, the more you didn’t
want it to end. You start with chapter one.
If there were twenty, by the time you got to ten or so,
you were tormented by the prospect of finishing.
And the pages went by so fast then, like a speeding bus
you run after but miss, and you knew that the end
was coming, like the last bite of a favorite meal.
It occurred to me on one of those quiet
unspeaking afternoons that my death
was much like my book, and that I was on chapter four.
I wasn’t deeply troubled because there was still
so far to go. But the words and the pages
seemed different then, each page a whole day nearer,
as what remained of the unread pages
grew thinner and thinner.
Today, I am sixty years old. My angst is different now.
I read about ISIS and Paris murders, Trump’s fantasies,
Ben Carson's portrayal of his younger years, and Rubio’s
foreign policy. I listen to a grayer noble black President
talk about protecting the homeland, gun control, climate change
and medical care for the poor.
I hear grievous political candidates say
what they think you want to hear because
it’s politically expedient, rather than do the country’s business.
You grow tired of hearing grown men lie,
and you come to doubt our institutions and the law---
no polish will remove that stain.
I wonder now if the world can survive its woes
and whether the grandchildren of my grandchildren
will even get here. Perhaps nuclear war
with just too many missiles and countries involved
for the world ever to recover, or a pretty colorful solar storm
much more powerful than the one in 1859.
Maybe global warming, disobedient armies
of self-preserving computers, or runaway asteroids
exploding oceans, like ruinous bombs raining down
on villages of the weak. I worry that the world
is like my old third grade book, now more worn
but still true, and I have no idea what chapter
the world may be on.
What does it mean that the Milky Way
is just one of billions of galaxies? What immortal blacksmith
or powerful imagination created infinite space?
Is the universe dying? Can we read its obituary in the stars?
Given the big bang, like an explosion of planets
from the head of a ruderal species,
futures of finite and infinite duration are both possible
depending upon physical properties and the expansion rate.
Some scientists say that the universe is flat like a silver dollar
and will expand forever, contingent on its shape
and the role dark energy plays as the universe ages.
Otherwise, the big rip tears the earth away,
like a murderous albino spider on a white flower carrying away a dead moth,
or a lion’s fearsome symmetry in a death spiral with a spent zebra.
The ephemeral perfection of goldilocks planet has always been
that it is not too hot and not too cold, with just
the right amount of water.
When I got to my friend’s home on that rainy afternoon,
I learned that his mother had died that morning.
The house was so cold and so dark. I didn’t know what to do.
But I knew there was no time to waste.
Had she played a part in stopping her heart from beating at such
an early age? How many oceans and mountains had she never seen?
And in what directions? What had I to do with being at her red brick house,
at that time and on that day? I didn’t know.
But I filled up my backpack and started the long trudge
back home. For I knew there was no time to waste.
Gil Hoy is a Boston trial lawyer, writer and poet. He studied poetry at Boston University, while receiving a BA in Philosophy and Political Science. Gil received an MA in Government from Georgetown University and a JD from the University of Virginia School of Law. He served as a Brookline, Massachusetts Selectman for four terms. His poetry has appeared most recently in Third Wednesday, The Write Room, The Eclectic Muse, Clark Street Review and TheNewVerse.News.
Sunday, November 29, 2015
EXTREMIS
by Carol Alexander
Your voice in Saint-Germain-de-Prés is pastis
in a glass of fog, held by an invisible hand.
How phrase this in a nomenclature vivid
as a lipstick smeared at the bar?
In the hotel lobby, Arab girls and boys
praise a wine never to be served
and potted palms are sleeping, curled and dry.
That great beast, the wind, noses pavements
soaked in blood that dries before the world's eyes.
Raised on every bridge are unwavering lights
where once smoked oil lamps strung on narrow streets.
My camera pinches off lanterns and loaves,
a pink dress hung in the galleries
while your meeting, not to be postponed,
is soup and cigarettes under martial law.
Dogs off-leash bare teeth and wheel
at the unfamiliar smells of men.
Muted leaves that missed their moment
when September made an oven of the streets
mostly now have fallen into loam.
I've a little forgotten disaster in these months;
it could be the sound of wind through husks
or a tremulous breath breaking in mid-song.
Carol Alexander's poems have appeared in such journals as Bluestem, Caesura, Canary, The Common, Chiron Review, Illya's Honey, Mad Hatter's Review, Mobius, TheNewVerse.News, Poetry Quarterly, Poetrybay, Red River Review, The San Pedro River Review, Sugar Mule, THEMA and Zymbol, as well as in various anthologies including Through a Distant Lens (WriteWing Publishing) for which she received the award for best poem, and Proud to Be, for which she was a poetry finalist. Alexander's chapbook, Bridal Veil Falls, was published by Flutter Press (2013). Recent work appears in Split Rock Review and Clementine Poetry Journal.
Your voice in Saint-Germain-de-Prés is pastis
in a glass of fog, held by an invisible hand.
How phrase this in a nomenclature vivid
as a lipstick smeared at the bar?
In the hotel lobby, Arab girls and boys
praise a wine never to be served
and potted palms are sleeping, curled and dry.
That great beast, the wind, noses pavements
soaked in blood that dries before the world's eyes.
Raised on every bridge are unwavering lights
where once smoked oil lamps strung on narrow streets.
My camera pinches off lanterns and loaves,
a pink dress hung in the galleries
while your meeting, not to be postponed,
is soup and cigarettes under martial law.
Dogs off-leash bare teeth and wheel
at the unfamiliar smells of men.
Muted leaves that missed their moment
when September made an oven of the streets
mostly now have fallen into loam.
I've a little forgotten disaster in these months;
it could be the sound of wind through husks
or a tremulous breath breaking in mid-song.
Carol Alexander's poems have appeared in such journals as Bluestem, Caesura, Canary, The Common, Chiron Review, Illya's Honey, Mad Hatter's Review, Mobius, TheNewVerse.News, Poetry Quarterly, Poetrybay, Red River Review, The San Pedro River Review, Sugar Mule, THEMA and Zymbol, as well as in various anthologies including Through a Distant Lens (WriteWing Publishing) for which she received the award for best poem, and Proud to Be, for which she was a poetry finalist. Alexander's chapbook, Bridal Veil Falls, was published by Flutter Press (2013). Recent work appears in Split Rock Review and Clementine Poetry Journal.
DOWN IN THE GRIT OF MUSIC NOTES
by Anna Hawthorne
Down in the grit of music notes, a drop of blood lay drying
though soon another concert would flow, becoming more than a tide
why did they shoot the messenger here
when all we wanted was to dance
a pitterpatter firecracker they thought, while glancing at their cell phones for news
of an impending storm . . . low pressure was sensed yet not obeyed
and they ran for the nearest door with a ringing sound delayed, a resonating hover over the empty stage
Anna Hawthorne is a conservationist, birder, and a painter working on a book about the extinction of birds.
Down in the grit of music notes, a drop of blood lay drying
though soon another concert would flow, becoming more than a tide
why did they shoot the messenger here
when all we wanted was to dance
a pitterpatter firecracker they thought, while glancing at their cell phones for news
of an impending storm . . . low pressure was sensed yet not obeyed
and they ran for the nearest door with a ringing sound delayed, a resonating hover over the empty stage
Anna Hawthorne is a conservationist, birder, and a painter working on a book about the extinction of birds.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
SCOURING
by Elizabeth Kerlikowske
I cannot leave while the wind sings in its cold November voice, exercising spruce limbs above the roof, full of spirits and souls perfecting their escapes: my husband’s colleague, the Paris dead,
unmourned strangers caught up, baffled.
Wind is not what they imagined. Always alive, it blows songbirds from the sills. Smashes streetlights and scatters the shards like leaves.
Below in the ugly solid house, cats sleep on quilts, still, while limbs thrash, cross themselves. Wind is the terrorist with no intention: unequal heating of the earth’s surface, dared by anemometers to blow harder.
Spider webs inside the window and the window tremble. Ghosts of people I once loved make room for the freshly dead. The sound of a train with the force of a bomb lifts our jackets then our bodies and snatches flesh from our faces.
Unsaid fury and unspoken endearments, wind is the thunder of my body breaking up like river ice and letting go. Lost souls from anywhere on the globe pluck at the sleeves of the living. I am what you will be. This whirlwind tears boats from their slips, clothes from the line, hope from the future.
Today’s gale prefaces snow with no regard for our journeys; it smoothes our problems into a dull continuous roar and cleanses them of impurities. They return to us, still problems but smoother, speaking a language we don’t understand.
Elizabeth Kerlikowske reports here from time to time on the news here and there.
 |
| COLORADO SPRINGS — A gun battle erupted inside a Planned Parenthood center here on Friday when a man armed with an assault-style rifle opened fire and began shooting at officers as they rushed to the scene. The authorities reported that three people were killed, a police officer and two civilians, and nine were wounded before the suspect finally surrendered more than five hours after the first shots were fired. —NY Times, Nov. 27, 2015. Photo by ISAIAH J. DOWNING/REUTERS via NY Times |
I cannot leave while the wind sings in its cold November voice, exercising spruce limbs above the roof, full of spirits and souls perfecting their escapes: my husband’s colleague, the Paris dead,
unmourned strangers caught up, baffled.
Wind is not what they imagined. Always alive, it blows songbirds from the sills. Smashes streetlights and scatters the shards like leaves.
Below in the ugly solid house, cats sleep on quilts, still, while limbs thrash, cross themselves. Wind is the terrorist with no intention: unequal heating of the earth’s surface, dared by anemometers to blow harder.
Spider webs inside the window and the window tremble. Ghosts of people I once loved make room for the freshly dead. The sound of a train with the force of a bomb lifts our jackets then our bodies and snatches flesh from our faces.
Unsaid fury and unspoken endearments, wind is the thunder of my body breaking up like river ice and letting go. Lost souls from anywhere on the globe pluck at the sleeves of the living. I am what you will be. This whirlwind tears boats from their slips, clothes from the line, hope from the future.
Today’s gale prefaces snow with no regard for our journeys; it smoothes our problems into a dull continuous roar and cleanses them of impurities. They return to us, still problems but smoother, speaking a language we don’t understand.
Elizabeth Kerlikowske reports here from time to time on the news here and there.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
THE MOURNING AFTER 11/13/15
by Don Hogle
On the bus to Lambertville this morning,
and the sadness and anger at 129 dead in Paris
hang over a stunning fall day
like the last note of the piano
concerto I heard last night,
Trifonov's delicate finger
barely grazing the key,
the lightest vibration, and then
the lingering silence…
What does it sound like
when a life dissolves?
Boucler Votre Ceinture
Abroche Su Cinturón de Seguridad
Fasten Your Seatbelt
the seat in front of me advises.
Bataclan, Charlie Hebdo
Atocha Station
Tower One Tower Two
No strap of nylon web will protect
us against the Promise of Paradise
and a Kalishnikov, the explosive
strapped to the heart, the Pilot
of the Terrible Belief.
What to do
is not a question
but a dilemma
set down in an open field
not for contemplation
nor consideration
nor inspection
but for interrogation.
For now,
three pieces of construction paper
one blue one white one red
taped to the window
of my living room
facing out onto our world,
and a black rectangle
posted on Facebook
pour la France,
for all of us,
but only
for three days.
Most of the trees are already stripped
here, but the green grass of central Jersey
rolls on, as the bus proceeds
toward Frenchtown.
Don Hogle is a poet, blogger and brand and communications strategist living in Manhattan. Poems have appeared recently in Mud Season Review, Minetta Review, Blast Furnace, Shooter, Bethlehem Writers Roundtable and TheNewVerse.News among others. He was a finalist in the Northern Colorado Writers’ 2015 Poetry Contest.
 |
| Image source: The Hip Paris Blog by Carin Olsson |
On the bus to Lambertville this morning,
and the sadness and anger at 129 dead in Paris
hang over a stunning fall day
like the last note of the piano
concerto I heard last night,
Trifonov's delicate finger
barely grazing the key,
the lightest vibration, and then
the lingering silence…
What does it sound like
when a life dissolves?
Boucler Votre Ceinture
Abroche Su Cinturón de Seguridad
Fasten Your Seatbelt
the seat in front of me advises.
Bataclan, Charlie Hebdo
Atocha Station
Tower One Tower Two
No strap of nylon web will protect
us against the Promise of Paradise
and a Kalishnikov, the explosive
strapped to the heart, the Pilot
of the Terrible Belief.
What to do
is not a question
but a dilemma
set down in an open field
not for contemplation
nor consideration
nor inspection
but for interrogation.
For now,
three pieces of construction paper
one blue one white one red
taped to the window
of my living room
facing out onto our world,
and a black rectangle
posted on Facebook
pour la France,
for all of us,
but only
for three days.
Most of the trees are already stripped
here, but the green grass of central Jersey
rolls on, as the bus proceeds
toward Frenchtown.
Don Hogle is a poet, blogger and brand and communications strategist living in Manhattan. Poems have appeared recently in Mud Season Review, Minetta Review, Blast Furnace, Shooter, Bethlehem Writers Roundtable and TheNewVerse.News among others. He was a finalist in the Northern Colorado Writers’ 2015 Poetry Contest.
PARIS/BEIRUT
by Leslie Prosterman
all afternoon I defined massacre shambles abbatoir
then resorted to the binary
the they did we did the done to will do
the right the wrong the dark the light the lash the gun the bomb
contracted to one straight line:
fear to rage to hate to kill to make a them that isn't me.
but by the night I was reminded
of the spaciousness
of the unclosed curve
of the infinite horizon
May we live with uncovered hearts
May that which binds our hearts be dissolved
into the widest possible compass of us
Author’s note: Thanks to John Travis for the lovingkindness meditation.
Leslie Prosterman, author of the book Snapshots and Dances (Garden District Press, 2011) and other poems in various journals and collections, recently collaborated with composer Charley Gerard to set her poem FluteBone Song to music, now out on CD (Songs of Love and Passion). A former academic, she is also a sometime student of trapeze.
 |
| A relative of Samer Huhu, who was killed in a twin bombing attack that rocked a busy shopping street in the area of Burj al-Barajneh, waves his portrait as she mourns during his funeral in the southern suburb of the capital Beirut on November 13, 2015. Lebanon mourned 44 people killed in south Beirut in a twin bombing claimed by the Islamic State group, the bloodiest such attack in years, the Red Cross also said at least 239 people were also wounded, several in critical condition. —JOSEPH EID/GETTY IMAGES via TheWorldPost, Nov. 16, 2015 |
all afternoon I defined massacre shambles abbatoir
then resorted to the binary
the they did we did the done to will do
the right the wrong the dark the light the lash the gun the bomb
contracted to one straight line:
fear to rage to hate to kill to make a them that isn't me.
but by the night I was reminded
of the spaciousness
of the unclosed curve
of the infinite horizon
May we live with uncovered hearts
May that which binds our hearts be dissolved
into the widest possible compass of us
Author’s note: Thanks to John Travis for the lovingkindness meditation.
Leslie Prosterman, author of the book Snapshots and Dances (Garden District Press, 2011) and other poems in various journals and collections, recently collaborated with composer Charley Gerard to set her poem FluteBone Song to music, now out on CD (Songs of Love and Passion). A former academic, she is also a sometime student of trapeze.
WATCHING CABLE NEWS
by Alan Catlin
Watching Cable News,
Bomb victims wrapped
in trauma bags, triage
in process.
Recurring file footage,
am man still wrapped,
lately among the missing,
the injured, talking on
a cell phone, gesturing.
How odd to see a
continual man, dressed
this way, no longer part
of the medical scene
We, as watchers, are
caught in the video replay
world, must recalibrate
our thinking: this is not
some Hannibal Lechter
rewind movie but Paris,
France, today, in the midst
of a terror attack.
Alan Catlin has published numerous chapbooks and full-length books of poetry and prose, the latest of which, from March Street Press, is Alien Nation.
Watching Cable News,
Bomb victims wrapped
in trauma bags, triage
in process.
Recurring file footage,
am man still wrapped,
lately among the missing,
the injured, talking on
a cell phone, gesturing.
How odd to see a
continual man, dressed
this way, no longer part
of the medical scene
We, as watchers, are
caught in the video replay
world, must recalibrate
our thinking: this is not
some Hannibal Lechter
rewind movie but Paris,
France, today, in the midst
of a terror attack.
Alan Catlin has published numerous chapbooks and full-length books of poetry and prose, the latest of which, from March Street Press, is Alien Nation.
Monday, November 16, 2015
I WANT TO WRITE A POEM FOR PARIS
by Bayleigh Fraser
But I don’t want to hear its ragged shots
of reason, the uncertain billowing of its curtain.
No explaining an ocean rippling cracked glass,
where faces have vanished under a sun
only desiring to burn, or reflect itself
in each thing it touches. There is no poem
rising from the soundless terror of hashtags:
asking for God’s ear, an illuminated tower
searches for satellites. Prayers. Paused players.
Foot approaching the bass pedal. Gunmetal.
I want to open sounds so I can understand them.
The words only thought in my head as I read them.
Like fireworks, someone says, and he was gone
and so was she, falling into their own echoes.
And what can I say, showing up in the distance,
with only tremors in my hands, still warm with breath?
Bayleigh Fraser is an American poet currently residing and writing in Canada. She attended Stetson University in Deland, Florida and plans to continue her education in Canada. Her poems have appeared in A Bad Penny Review, Artemis Journal, The Brooklyn Quarterly, Hart House Review, The Lake, One, Rattle and other publications.
 |
| A memorial at La Belle Equipe restaurant, one of the sites of the attacks in Paris on Friday night. Credit Lionel Bonaventure/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images via NY Times, November 14, 2015 |
But I don’t want to hear its ragged shots
of reason, the uncertain billowing of its curtain.
No explaining an ocean rippling cracked glass,
where faces have vanished under a sun
only desiring to burn, or reflect itself
in each thing it touches. There is no poem
rising from the soundless terror of hashtags:
asking for God’s ear, an illuminated tower
searches for satellites. Prayers. Paused players.
Foot approaching the bass pedal. Gunmetal.
I want to open sounds so I can understand them.
The words only thought in my head as I read them.
Like fireworks, someone says, and he was gone
and so was she, falling into their own echoes.
And what can I say, showing up in the distance,
with only tremors in my hands, still warm with breath?
Bayleigh Fraser is an American poet currently residing and writing in Canada. She attended Stetson University in Deland, Florida and plans to continue her education in Canada. Her poems have appeared in A Bad Penny Review, Artemis Journal, The Brooklyn Quarterly, Hart House Review, The Lake, One, Rattle and other publications.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
OBLIVIOUS
by Sarah Edwards
oblivious
to the smoke
of a thousand towers
babel to trade
oblivious
to blood-stained
family legacies
adam to al qaeda
oblivious
to tears
mothers searching
golgotha to nicaragua
oblivious
to sacrifice
of martyrs
joan to martin
we play our games
repeat the poem
change the names
oblivion
Sarah Edwards is a retired clergyperson with poetry replacing the pulpit. She has a newly released chapbook, Pandora, Let's Talk, published by Finishing Line Press, and other poems have appeared in Conclave, Minerva Rising, Slim, and TheNewVerse.News.
 |
| The relatives of one of the victims of the twin suicide attacks in Beirut mourned during a funeral procession in the city's Burj al-Barajneh neighborhood. Credit Wael Hamzeh/European Pressphoto Agency via “Beirut, Also the Site of Deadly Attacks, Feels Forgotten” by ANNE BARNARD, NY Times, Nov. 13, 2015. |
oblivious
to the smoke
of a thousand towers
babel to trade
oblivious
to blood-stained
family legacies
adam to al qaeda
oblivious
to tears
mothers searching
golgotha to nicaragua
oblivious
to sacrifice
of martyrs
joan to martin
we play our games
repeat the poem
change the names
oblivion
Sarah Edwards is a retired clergyperson with poetry replacing the pulpit. She has a newly released chapbook, Pandora, Let's Talk, published by Finishing Line Press, and other poems have appeared in Conclave, Minerva Rising, Slim, and TheNewVerse.News.
Friday, November 13, 2015
NIGHT RATS
by Carolyn Gregory
At night, they run toward each other,
biting off each other's tails.
They flagellate themselves
over an unknown God
who answers none of their prayers
for work, land or hope.
Hiding during the day,
they are aroused by the need
for meat at night,
their prayers not inspired by love
but by the drill to capture,
biting off the heads of the enemy
and spitting out their hearts.
Carolyn Gregory has published poems and music reviews in American Poetry Review, Cutthroat, Main Street Rag, Wilderness House Literary Review, Ygdrasil, Seattle Review. Her first and second books were published by Windmill Editions in Florida.
At night, they run toward each other,
biting off each other's tails.
They flagellate themselves
over an unknown God
who answers none of their prayers
for work, land or hope.
Hiding during the day,
they are aroused by the need
for meat at night,
their prayers not inspired by love
but by the drill to capture,
biting off the heads of the enemy
and spitting out their hearts.
Carolyn Gregory has published poems and music reviews in American Poetry Review, Cutthroat, Main Street Rag, Wilderness House Literary Review, Ygdrasil, Seattle Review. Her first and second books were published by Windmill Editions in Florida.
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