TREMONT, MAINE REVERSES 100-YEAR-OLD BAN ON DEER HUNTING

by Marianne Gambaro

The Maine Inland Fisheries and Wildlife Advisory Council (IFW) approved the Town of Tremont’s special deer hunt today despite one member hoping for written assurances from the Maine Attorney General’s office that the move is legal. Tremont will be the only town on Mount Desert Island where hunters can legally shoot deer. The deer hunt begins November 2026 and runs for three seasons. Any deer killed in the town will not count toward the hunter’s state bag limit. —Bar Harbor Story, August 11, 2026.

The rising sun casts a golden hue on two fawns and five does

who peacefully graze a meadow beside Blue Hill Bay unaware 

local humans deliberate their fate

with euphemisms like “balance habitat.”

 

Under July’s buck moon while male deer

grow new velvet-covered antlers

gardeners and farmers kvetch at the post office

about ornamentals leveled and crops decimated.

 

At dusk locals drive more cautiously expecting to encounter

one or more standing in the road around the next bend.

Proponents cite an increase in traffic accidents, ignoring

that it might be a function of the overall increase in traffic.

 

Seeing an upsurge at the local clinic,

the spike in Lyme disease is blamed

on the deer rather than white-footed mice,

the real culprits.

 

In August the Maine Inland Fisheries

and Wildlife Advisory Council

approved the execution order

to be carried out in November. 

Retired journalist Marianne Gambaro is a writer and cat enrichment volunteer who lives in Western Massachusetts. Her poems and essays have been published in numerous journals. She is the author of the chapbook, Do NOT Stop for Hitchhikers (Finishing Line Press), and an upcoming collection, Stuffed Monkeys (Kelsay Books).

PATH OF TOTALITY

by Pepper Trail

Eclipse Explorer from NASA

The shadow of the moon is coming to America. Prepare yourselves.

It will invade from Mexico—with no passport, no legal right—

Cross the Rio Grande at Eagle Pass and cut across Texas

Darken nineteen children’s graves in Uvalde

Fall upon Austin’s swarm of lobbyists and free-tailed bats

Pass over all the pregnant women – the happy ones and the desperate—

And cross Arkansas, over Little Rock, its history of black and white

Then Illinois, where a proud Chamber of Commerce claims

The capital of darkness: “Carbondale: Eclipse Crossroads of America”

And on to Indiana, named to commemorate the Indians (all removed by 1846)

And then—to lighten its dark mood—over carefree Cleveland

Where the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame will celebrate the moment

With “Back in Black” and “Dancing in the Dark,” until the shadow

Spreads its veil over Niagara Falls, where newlyweds will look up

At the ring of fire and share an eternal moment of totality (duration: 4 minutes)

Before it slices off the tops of Vermont and New Hampshire

Lingers over the bewildered moose and citizens of Maine

And then, finally, leaves our country behind

To make the best of our return to the light of day

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

STOPPING

by Gus Peterson

after “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost

 

Whose will this was I think I know. 

Their city high, on a high hill though. 

So I do not expect they as yet fear

what’s swept beneath the snow. 

Their little minds must think it queer, 

our talk of stopping death before death nears. 

Between lacquered lane, a slice of pie

October’s moon shone, darkest of the year. 

Can we deafen profit’s jingled, quarterly ring? 

Make ourselves anew? Cease blood’s sing?  

However passing’s bullet passes us by…  

one way, one path to changing things.

Step into these woods, lonely and deep.

Promises unkept, promises to keep. 

Oh, how many rounds before sleep?

Too much snow for me to sleep. 

Gus Peterson lives in Maine.

NO OTHER GODS BEFORE ME

by Sister Lou Ella Hickman

 

for those who were killed in lewiston, maine 

                                                            by a man with an AR style gun 

                         

Just months before this week’s mass shooting in Lewiston, Maine’s Legislature considered three major bills to tighten gun restrictions: one to require criminal background checks for gun purchases, another to create a 72-hour waiting period before someone could take possession of a gun after purchasing it and a third to outlaw modifications that make semiautomatic weapons more deadly. All three bills were defeated in the Maine Senate by sizable margins. Maine, a largely blue state where Democrats control both chambers of the State Legislature and the governorship, has a long history of resisting gun control measures. —The New York Times, October 26, 2023

we begin this celebration 

in the name of

my right  my right  my right  

amen 

                         

             our response to today’s reading 

of the second amendment  

page 6 in your hymnal 

                        hail to thee, oh AR-15 

we will sing all 25 verses 

after which we will recite 

our litany of thanksgiving  

                         

now   let us rise and say together 

 

for no background checks 

we are thankful 

 

for our mutual support 

so needed in our holy culture of guns 

against those who deny our rights

we are thankful            

 

for being called to be a member 

to this sacred society

we are thankful 

 

for being able to sleep at night 

we are thankful 

 

for all those who sell AR-15s 

for this we are truly thankful 

 

for $$$$ 

we are very thankful 

 

please join me after this service 

for coffee   donuts 

and a short meeting 

concerning future recruitment plans  

 

now let us say amen to the final blessing  

 as we go to serve AR-15 

 

Sister Lou Ella has a master’s in theology from St. Mary’s University in San Antonio and is a former teacher and librarian. She is a certified spiritual director as well as a poet and writer. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines such as America, US Catholic, Commonweal, The Christian Century, Presence, Prism, and several anthologies. She was a Pushcart nominee in 2017 and 2020. Five poems from her book, she: robed and words, set to music by James Lee III were performed on May 11, 2021. The soloist was the opera singer Susanna Phillips, principal clarinetist Anthony McGill of the New York Philharmonic and Grammy® nominated pianist Mayra Huang. The arrangement was part of a concert held at Y92 in New York City. The group of songs is entitled “Chavah’s Daughters Speak.” Another concert was held in Cleveland, Ohio on March 28, 2023. The soloist was Elena Perroni. 

AT THE MAINE LOBSTER FESTIVAL

by Jake Murel

Maine Lobster Festival, August 2-6, 2023

Click, clack, clock, go calling claws

Of arthropods in steel-cage cells,

Clambering en masse to escape the maw

Boiling broth, bubbling hell.

 

Snap, snip, clip, cameras click,

Twice-captured crustaceans, cowering each

Jostled and jumping, tossing kicks

Against suffering steam in seething screech.

 

Crack, crick, creek, shells break

With silent shrieks in summer sun

As tourists taste torture that makes

Lobster death-camp fun.

Jake Murel is a private individual and, as such, does not enjoy biographical statements. His own poetry has appeared in The Journal of Formal Poetry, The Lyric, and many other venues.

REALITY CHECK

by Marc Swan

for Jane Ferguson

Birds shriek, buildings fall,

body counts mount

in Beirut, Kabul, Baghdad,

parts of Africa, South Asia.

Where have all the flowers gone

I think in the quiet of my office

on a quiet road in a quiet village

along the coast of Maine. I try

to imagine reporting live 

from these hostile locales, 

most importantly staying alive. 

I think of a Special Correspondent

for PBS, an Irish-British journalist 

with long blond hair tucked 

under a head scarf, jeans 

and a military-style jacket

treading lost roads in leather boots

with another woman, camera in hand.

We never see her, but know

she’s shooting the footage

we’ll see on the nightly news.

In recent reports, the Taliban 

armed to the teeth 

seem more than willing to speak 

on camera as the journalist 

asks hard questions in Arabic, 

translated for us in the comfort 

of heated living spaces unaware 

of what is truly seen, heard, 

felt in places of unending conflict—

what does constant fear smell like?

Marc Swan’s latest collection all it would take was published in May 2020 by tall-lighthouse. Poems recently published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, The Stony Thursday Book, Queen’s Quarterly, MockingHeart Review.  He lives in coastal Maine with his wife Dd, an artist and yoga teacher.

COUNTERFACTUAL WISHING

by Sarah Dickenson Snyder





Pleated in every human minute
is the second of someone’s death—
the way a mother and daughter leap
from a warm wooden dock
into the Maine coast sea
and the mother is taken
in the sharpness of a second—
the shark’s desire to clench
what looked like seal skin. What if
she had not worn the wet suit, what if
they had decided to eat lunch before
the swim—sandwiches
& iced tea on the deck, what if
clouds obscured the sun & they hadn’t
needed relief from heat, what if
we knew the second of our leaving,
could stop ourselves
from diving in.

Sarah Dickenson Snyder has written poetry since she knew there was a form with conscious line breaks. She has three poetry collections: The Human Contract (2017), Notes from a Nomad (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2018), and With a Polaroid Camera (2019). Recently, poems appeared in Rattle, The Sewanee Review, and RHINO.

ANY FUNCTIONING ADULT 2020

by Marc Swan




On a lawn down a side street off a main drag
in Portland Maine, it catches my eye—
simple phrase in red, white and blue
with a big bang center stage
to that intact region our current leader
can’t claim—a brain that thinks, acts,
feels with compassion, caring, humanity.
A sign in a yard can’t change the world
but it can open thinking beyond
media thrum and whimper—
insult, injury, uncertainty, and help us feel
we can make a difference
as clichéd as that may be. Grab your pen,
paper, keyboard, text, phone, load up
the information highway with a message
echoing these immortal words—
Yes We Can.

Marc Swan has poems forthcoming in Stonecoast Review, The Nashwaak Review, Channel Magazine, Floyd County Moonshine, among others. His latest collection today can take your breath away was published by Sheila-na-gig Editions in 2018. He lives in coastal Maine with his wife Dd, an artist, clothing designer and maker.

I CELEBRATE MYSELF

by Jim Gustafson

CALAIS, Maine — A local man was killed instantly Saturday when he set off a fireworks mortar tube on his head, despite efforts his friends made to stop him, state police said Sunday. —Bangor Daily News July 5, 2015. Editor's note: The file photograph is NOT that of the victim in Maine, but of someone else deserving at least a Darwin Award Honorable Mention.

with apologies to Walt Whitman

I will place a rocket on my head, in a few moments I’ll be dead.
To celebrate myself, I’ll place a rocket on my head. I’ll strike a
match, light its fuse and let the sizzle climb my face. The rocket
will explode my brain and l spread my wisdom around the place.
People will scream as every atom which once belonged to me
will now belong to them. They will drip from their bottles, stick
in their hair. They will be sick because I took the dare. And when
they return to work, the holiday past, the smoke of my own breath
shall whisper.


Jim Gustafson’s most recent book, Driving Home, was published by Aldrich Press in 2013 and is a 2013 Pushcart Prize Nominee. He holds an MFA from University of Tampa and a M. Div., from Garrett Theological Seminary. He teaches at Florida Gulf Coast University and Florida Southwestern State College.  His work has most recently appeared in Prick of the Spindle, Foliate Oak, Poetry Quarterly. He lives in Fort Myers, Florida, where he reads, writes, and pulls weeds.

SCARED S#!TLESS IN MAINE

by Paul Dickey

They say you may get Ebola

if in public you sip a Coca Cola,

or just being in Maine,

or in Dallas deplane.

They don’t know s#!t from Shinola.

She just went for a ride on her bike,
but was followed by folks with a mike.
They wanted to know
she’d stay home with her beau,
but her answer the Guv did not like.

The reporters were terribly scared,
but it was for our safety they cared.
They got near her so close
with their questions so gross
to warn it’s our air she has shared.

But soon, 21 days will pass
though the Guv won’t admit he’s an ass:
“I just did what’s right
though it caused quite a fright,
but next time, I won’t mess with this lass.”


Paul Dickey’s most recent volume of poetry is Wires Over the Homeplace from Pinyon Publishing.  He published They Say This is How Death Came Into the World with Mayapple Press in 2011. Dickey’s poetry has appeared in Verse Daily, Rattle, Potomac Review, Prairie Schooner, Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics, Mid-American Review, Midwest Quarterly, Pleaides, Bellevue Literary Review and many other journals, both print and online.  Additionally, Dickey daily posts humorous political limericks such as these at his Facebook site, The Liberal Limerick and has published an e-book of his witty verse Liberal Limericks of 2012 (available free at Amazon.)

PROMETHEUS' OFFERING

by Anne Graue

A woman found an unusual reptile near her home in Hudson, Maine this week - a two-headed baby snapping turtle. Kathleen Talbot said she went to watch turtle hatchlings cross the road to make sure they each arrived at the other side safely. She noticed one of the turtles had been left behind. "I thought he had two feet in the front. I thought he was deformed. I didn't realize it was two heads until I got him home and washed him. Then he came to life-- and was just starving," she said. She has named the turtle Frank and Stein. Talbot said she doesn't plan to have the dynamic duo as a pet, but does want to make sure Frank and Stein survives. --Kacie Yearout, WLBZ September 25, 2014 Image source: NEWS CENTER

Born as if he knew
there would be difficulty
in deciding the path to take
and needed help
in choosing the way to go
and thus was created

a new perspective a new
argument, modern,
attached to one turtle body
inside a shell protecting

all but his two brains working
against and adjacent
to the matter of his choice.

Or perhaps he didn't know
and this fluke of snapping
turtle DNA would haunt him
throughout his days

of living in a push
and pull world weaker
from having to decide

on the simplest things
which leaf is tastier
which path is greener
which road is safer

which mind to sacrifice.


Anne Graue lives, writes, and teaches writing in New York's Hudson Valley. Her poems have appeared in Compass Rose, Ginosko Literary Journal, The New Verse News, and The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly. 

LISTENING TO THE NEWS AT MY FARM TABLE IN MAINE, OR SOWETO SAYING SO

by Patricia Smith Ranzoni

This morning’s bread is a recipe and a half to make full use
of yesterday’s ricotta whey. I mix and think, the drop leaf
of my old oak work table crying in rhythm with my kneading,
Mandela’s death on the radio turning into a living ingredient.

It comes to me, making this week’s oatmeal-molasses
this enriched way, that I need to look up Soweto Bread
and invent an outback Maine version, in honor, the way
our Obama Bread rose from the joy we elders earned.

Wondering at my work, I knead. And drizzle Nebali tree olive oil 
all the way from the Canaan Fair Trade route from Palestinian
farmers to brother Schaibles’ caravan downeast, its bittersweet
anointing a clear film consecrating the overcoming of apartheid
in South Africa and how, once we knew, we wrote, petitioned,
and marched, the way, after television made it this far north,
showing us, we did over our own country’s shame.

Wondering at my work, I gaze into this dough lifting
by this fire here in this north, for hope, asking, if, as we
keep hearing, people who plant trees in whose shade they know 
they will not live to sit have begun to know the meaning of life,
what can be said of those who uproot, ax, chainsaw, burn,
rip out by thousands ancient trees of others, the ancestral
food and means trees of others? The very identifying
and sacramental trees of others? The olive trees of neighbors?

Do separation barriers make them not neighbors anymore
or neighbors held apart in a less than human way? Wondering
at my work.
              
     Do not the Mandelas of the world foretell
     that the writing on the walls of the oppressed
     proves other Freedom Days are rising?
     That making bread with Palestinian oil in Maine,
     we must make up our own minds and, like Soweto,
                                        say so?


Health troubles keep Patricia Smith Ranzoni from public participation so she relies on joining her voice this way. Her unschooled work documenting the Canadian-American, mixed-blood Yankee cultures of her people has been published across the country and abroad, including past issues of The New Verse News and most recently in Parallel Uni-Verse, Tuesday Anthology of the Oregon Coast, and Bedding Vows, Love Poems from Outback Maine (North Country Press), her 9th collection. She participates electronically with the Blue Hill Peninsula Peace & Justice group.

RACE

by Howard Winn

Micah Kogo of Kenya captures first place in the Beach to Beacon 10K road race in Cape Elizabeth Saturday. Kogo won his second Beach to Beacon race in three years with a time of 28 minutes, 3.2 seconds. --Ernie Clark, Bangor Daily News, Aug. 03, 2013. Image source: http://www.beach2beacon.org/

There are no black faces in my town
in the suburbs of Portland, Maine,
except when they run the marathon
from Crescent Beach to the Portland Head
lighthouse where usually vacationers leave
the tour buses to admire the wild waves
whitening  the Atlantic water
against the splintering rocks of our
craggy Casco Bay.
On our street of young couples
with the requisite two small children,
the portable basketball hoops and backboards,
scooters and skateboards,
it is tricky to tell them apart
which is what is overheard when
they speak of the black faces
that appear once a year.
The hard young men who bicycle
in spandex and stream-lined helmets
after work and on week-ends,
leave for labor in similar SUVs
at about the same time each work day.
Young toned wives with careful hair
watch the exuberant toddlers
and run together in packs
on Shore Road during their nap time
or when the Granny is in charge.
But never that one time of year
when the Africans from Kenya,
Ethiopia, Ghana, Congo or South Africa,
male and female, race the road
from Beach to Beacon and
win for the money to send home
to hungry villagers who export
their beloved sons and daughters
world-wide to run the marathons
for white Western money.
Afterwards what is left
is the newspaper reports,
in paper and on the Internet,
the signs along the roads announcing
the mileage covered and to come,
the washable paint on the highways
that make beginning and end
of our world famous race
until it is rained away,
the bleachers in the park
and the portable potties for
observer and participant.
The signs, white and red,
announcing the event
and warning of street closings
will come down eventually, detached
and stored by the Town of Cape Elizabeth
for the competition next year
when black faces will appear
to run and win that race again.


Most recently Howard Winn had poems and fiction published in The Dalhousie Review, Descant (Canada), Cactus Heart, Main Street Rag, Caduceus, Burning Word,  Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Southern Humanities Review, Cutting Edgz and Borderlands. His B. A. is from Vassar College. His graduate degree is from the Writing Program at Stanford University. His doctoral work was done at New York University. He is a State University of New York faculty member.