CROCKPOT

by Scott C. Kaestner

Dow Jones?
More like Down Jones, right?

Tariff is just another word
for insider trading.

Wake me up when it’s time 
to eat the rich.

I’ll get my Crockpot out
of the cupboard.

Not me but history says
haves vs have-nots.

Is now, always has been
again… not me but history.

This is why powers that be
don’t want it taught in school.

Now history is screaming
haves vs. have-nots.

A white wine reduction
and garlic should do the trick.

Scott C. Kaestner is a Los Angeles poet, writer, dad, husband, and a man of few words but many syllables. Google ‘scott kaestner poetry’ to peruse his musings and doings—maybe even buy a book.

SIX SIXTY-SIX ON TWO TWO EIGHTEEN

by Jill Crainshaw

Tricolor ribbons—red, green, orange—
Zigged and zagged down
Below the horizon as the sun
Slipped and slid up a frigid February trellis.

No erratic needle and thread could mend
The widening hole; Mr. Dow Jones
Squinted into metallic light—
dove for cover, not meaning to

Stir a beast long-burrowed in down under deeps.
What devilish poetry is this? Crows spread the
Rumor: winter candlesticks cast long shadows
And the hedge-hog, startled, returns to his slumber.

Author's Note: In a peculiar confluence, the Dow Jones lost 666 points Friday (2/2/18). Friday was also Groundhog Day and Candlemas (a day when some Christian traditions bless candles they will use for light throughout the rest of the year). Other Christians associate believe the number 666 to be “the sign of the beast.” My poem emerged out of this confluence of symbols and events.


Jill Crainshaw is a professor at Wake Forest University in Winston Salem, NC.

THE TWO WORLDS

by Elizabeth Kerlikowske

The digital steel electronic world
wears an overlay of nature, a waxy
mist. If we are lucky, we choose
which world we live in.  A cat in
sunlight looks out the door while
the stock market crashes on tv.
Certainly more relaxing to look
at the cat.  A FedEx truck goes by,
three deer in the drive, the skunk
has a route and a name: Jackie O
because it’s fun to say: “Jackie O
is at the woodpile.”  I have never
felt manipulated, used or bamboozled
by raccoons.  Deer paw and nuzzle
at the lick in my trees while sirens
head toward another man-made
disaster. The Dow Jones may fall,
but I’m waiting for bright leaves
underfoot, crunching in that real
way, not like numbers.

Elizabeth Kerlikowske reports here on what is happening in the Midwest.