WE’RE A BUNCH OF WEIRDOS

by Ron Riekki

Protest #1, base of Pentacrest, Iowa City, IO, July 10, 2026 (approximate number of protestors: 1)

"And it was striking, how much less alone that could make you feel, because of course to be peopled at all was a high-order gift, but to find people beyond your people was nothing short of miraculous.”

—Claire Lombardo

The Most Fun We Ever Had

“No.” “We’re a bunch of weirdos”—

the response I get when asking if

the group of huddled people are

veterans. There’s another group,

also not veterans. And I realize,

no one showed up for the protest.

It’s hard to interview nobody.

It’s hard to get a quote about

the value of protesting when

the total number of protestors

is 0. Iowa has become I0wa.

In front of me is a wonderful

park, as if it was made solely

for protesting. It has a base-

ball field feel, but with no base-

balls. There’s even a sign that

says, YOU HAVE THE RIGHT

TO express yourself ON CAMPUS

and there’s this beautiful campus

and this absence of expression.

The sign is placed on the ground,

like home plate. I imagine this

field filled with the ghosts of

protestors. There’s The Ghost of

Protestors Past, and of Protestors

Future. I’d left a U Iowa lecture

about writing hybrid fiction/non-

fiction, Emily White talking about

her love of The Armies of the Night,

heteronormative male Norman Mailer

recounting the March on the Pentagon

in 1967… This is History as a Poem,

The Poem as History… In honor of

Mailer’s “Ultimately a hero is a man

who would argue with the gods.”

Although it’s 2026 and Mailer’s

“Ultimately a hero is a man” is dead.

I’d argue with the god of Mailer…

I rush back to the lecture, missing

the pissing break, to only catch

the tail end, but, luck, there’s a vet

in the audience, an infamous one—

Jimbo Gillchrist, an active activist

writer who, when I start asking him

about the value of protests quickly

points out the fairly obvious, stating,

“I’m white.” He says this inside of

a building with a prominent BLACK

LIVES MATTER sign tucked, very

appropriately, on the far left side

of the building, problematically no

black lives in the sole class I’m taking

this summer at U Iowa, a fiction class,

the kind instructor talking of her Chicago

homelessness social work background,

class conscious, the room more than

three-quarters women, but race an issue

where we discuss the namelessness and

facelessness of the indigenous characters

in one of the stories and no one has any

problem with it, which I’m not expecting

in 2026 woke culture, but woke culture

tends to be whatever is represented in

the room and what is absent is absent.

Jimbo’s a combat vet who introduced

himself to the class quickly pointing out

his PTSD. In the lecture, I’m surprised

he sits up front, not a cliché of being in

the back of the room, in a corner, hyper-

vigilant. His breath, a Jim Jarmusch mix of

coffee and cigarettes. His beard, a mix of

casual and casualties-of-war where he

wants to distance himself from Army

cadet hairlessness. I ask him about

the hopelessness of protests where no

one shows, but first ask him how many

were at today’s protest. He guesstimates

“6,000.”  I tell him 0. Only the last

digit of 6,000. He tells me he doesn’t

have time for an interview, needs to

see a friend, but then he gives me

the interview, talks about how hard

it is to assemble humans. He tells me

that, from experience, if you get 6,000

people to attend a protest, only about

“5” will actually stay on to do consistent

work on a daily/weekly basis of what

it takes to do true community change.

I ask him the hard questions—a Black

Lives Matter’s DeRay McKesson inter-

view I saw where he talked about violence

against blacks increasing—not decreasing—

after protests, and Radley Balko’s book

Rise of the Warrior Cop, how protests

Fund the Police (not De-), how post-protest,

police put together policies to promote

more violence, more police, more pepper

spray, more weaponry, more SWAT teams,

more cops with AR-15s, CQBRs, M4A1s,

Colt Commandos, Sig Sauers, Hecklers,

names like diseases, how these collections

of letters kill better than previous weapons,

getting better at death. Zach Cregger-level horror.

Not comedy. I discuss indigenous protestors, if, after

arrested, they become even more disempowered,

if you’re poor and vulnerable prior to the protest,

but then poor and vulnerable and you’ve just been

incarcerated, if you’re now even more poor and

more vulnerable. I ask him if it’s better to be

involved in actually changing the system, rather

than the performativity of protest. Wearing

a purple T-shirt with bold white letters of

PEACE, Jimbo tells me protests give us

expression, give us solidarity, give us a “node”

for community change. I think of lymph nodes,

fighting for the immune system, fighting

infections, diseases of plutocracy. But I keep

bringing up the loop, how Republicans take

something like fat-shaming and fast-food

companies further the message to increase

unhealthy eating, not ¢aring about the harm$.

How Republicans profit off mass shootings,

where gun sales increase afterwards. How

Republicans profit off of cancel culture, where

liberals are hardest hit by it, how Al Franken

is no longer a senator but Trump’s re-elected,

and how protests just expand police militarization.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Jimbo says.

I ask if there’s anything he wants to say

to New Verse News readers. He does.

He says, “I want to tell people, like, tap into your

local community and find ways you can to get

involved,” that “there’s all these ways to get

involved that aren’t protests.” He talks of

medic training, housing assistance, community

aid centers. I’m surprised how logical he is,

was expecting more of an emotional response.

Online, I viewed his arrest at a protest the week-

end after George Floyd’s death. Jimbo says he’s

processed what happened, his arrest. I’ve seen

him taking routine smoke breaks, alone, little

self-harm rituals. He’s a combat vet, a person

who risked his life in the George Floyd protests,

a grounded interviewee for the National Catholic

Reporter, speaking about how “none of us had

grasped that what we were doing was obviously

unjust,” referring to the war, his face shot alone,

a disembodied voice interviewing him. I have

a strong visual of Jimbo smoking by himself outside,

as if it represents combat veterans as a whole,

alone, outside, fresh air, yet breathing in smoke,

taking in a stimulant to relax, how jolts of

adrenaline feel normal, this male who comes

to class, his shirt ripped, my wondering if he

knows… I go to the library to write this history,

but it’s closing—both history and the library—

them turning the lights off in a slow sequence,

but I keep writing, trying, wanting to describe

the Pentacrest. Such an odd name. Conjuring

up Rage Against the Machine’s “five-sided

Fistagon,” the pentagram, pent-up frustration,

Penthouse and penthouses, repenting, the state

pen, the need to take pen to paper, the Pentagon.

I stumble on the Pentacrest webcam online, view it,

studying the buildings. How would I describe it?

An online description of its “diagonal axes,”

its “nineteenth-century brick,” touches of Italian

Renaissance, aims at “prestige.” And there,

in the corner, on the screen, I see a man, waving

a flag, like he’s on a desert island, a plea of SOS.

I rush there. It’s hours after the posted start time.

I see all of the protestors. All one, yes, one, of them.

He marches, slowly, in the heat, humidity,

where I’m sweating just from the short walk over.

He carries two flags, a miniature Palestinian

flag, and a massive white Veteransforpeace

flag, that he’s not waving, but, rather, the wind is,

for him. He has no energy, walks like a senior,

not a U of Iowa senior, but a citizen, and he is

a citizen, proudly protesting, but I’m not sure what.

I ask him. He’s not enthusiastic to talk, quickly

hands me a pamphlet, a petite piece of paper

the size of my palm, a Statement of Purpose

that he is here “1. To increase public aware-

ness of the causes and costs of war.” So I ask

him to increase public awareness by sharing

his story with me, wondering if he’s a vet.

He asks why I’d want to know that. I tell him

that he’s carrying a flag that says both ‘Veterans’

and ‘peace,’ so I figured I’d ask him about both.

He accepts this answer. He’s a Vietnam vet,

there, 1966-1967, a “radio op,” says, “What

we did in Vietnam,” says, “things that transpired

were horrific and insane.” I ask what happened,

but he doesn’t want to tell me. He was drafted

at 19. In the 1980s, diagnosed through the V.A.

with “10%” disability for “PTSD and some

physical” symptoms. I ask him what those are,

which angers him. He tells me he’ll “end this

right now” if I don’t start asking him the right

questions. He wants to know why I’d want to

know if he’s a vet, if I’m an “investigative

reporter,” that others “come around asking

questions.” He tells me he’s “tired of this

whole thing.” I wonder if he means this

interview, but he means “what’s happening

in the world.” He tells me he marches from

“a half hour to an hour,” going back and forth,

this prestigious building paired with this man

who looks so tired, a Santa Claus without joy,

a Vietnam vet Saint Nick, this feeling that

Christmas has been cancelled this century.

He tells me his disability rating was upped

to “60%,” later, after going back to the V.A.

“multiple times.” I ask about his PTSD;

this triggers him. Asking about his PTSD

triggers his PTSD. In the last year for

New Verse News I went, frequently, into

gang territory in Detroit, Flint, and, oddly,

I’m actually the most on-guard with this vet,

a feeling he could explode at any second,

but this knowledge that the danger with veterans

is largely exaggerated in the media. I see the Vietnam

vet in him, but I also see the Santa Claus. I keep

talking. He wants to know if I’m conservative,

if I’m “ABC, NBC,” warns of “all the networks bought

out by billionaires, right-wingers.” I laugh,

telling him New Verse News would not exactly be

labeled right wing, not even close, rather on the far

other side of the pendulum. He relaxes a bit.

I ask his name. At this, he’s done. For some

reason, this angers him the most. I tell him

it can just be his first name. Or a nickname.

But he’s done. He tells me the interview is “over.”

He stands under “Devonian limestone” building,

“Beaux-Arts architecture.” The elite and impolite,

the ruling and the unruly. I go to the other side

of the street, distant, watching him, walking,

back and forth, so slowly, families with sons

and daughters walking by, orientation week,

like they don’t even see him, and he pauses,

stands there, alone, so incredibly alone, this

strange sadness I didn’t expect, again, having

gone to multiple mass shooting sites and, yet,

yes, this moment, where—am I the saddest

yet? The lack of energy to his motions. This

sheer repetitiveness. And, then, for a moment,

a student, I believe, dressed all in black, such

contrast, talks to this man, walks with him,

across the circular opening area in front of

the Pentacrest, a car blocking my view,

where I actually hope he’ll stay and talk

to this nameless vet, a vet who refuses

to be named, and the car moves, and I see

he’s left, that this man is alone, his white

flag, his white skin, ghost-like, the flag

waving, like the signal for surrender, this

feel as if he himself is a surrendering ghost.

Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice. 

A RECOLLECTION ON PEARL HARBOR DAY

by Katherine Leonard

It's blotchy the past

the silent man

in his uniforms

 

the child knows his withdrawn presence

but sometimes he would play

with her    for short bursts       when she was very little

 

he lived in a world of diesel and flame

oil and water mixed on the destroyer deck

bomb dropped where he stood 5 minutes before

 

gun turret melted metal and pieces of arm

face blood leg and black smoke

his men faceless except in his memory

 

daily    weekly            yearly the men lay 

submerged in his South Pacific 

they were with him through his submarine assignment

 

in the mouth of the River Kwai          bands of broken brothers

breaks the hearts of the survivors

breaking broken like metal shards 

 

until one day

that fragile plank holding those shiny dress

officer shoes broke

 

And he with that plank and metal splinters

sank too

consumed by the black rolling sea

 

of his mind now in command

of his hand

on the rope

 

Author's Note: Poem for my father, Commander Robert E. Leonard, USN Ret. who served in the South Pacific in WWII at a time when PTSD was unknown and silent men and women were numerous and all rejoiced mightily at the fall of fascism in Germany, in Japan and in Italy.

Katherine Leonard is the author of the chapbook Requiem for the Beekeeper (Bottlecap Press 2024). Her poems have been published in Sonora Review, Querencia Press Anthologies, Hole in the Head Review, Speckled Trout Review, FERAL, Allium and Stone Canoe among other journals and anthologies. She is a graduate of the Syracuse YMCA Writer's Voice (formerly Downtown Writers Center) Pro Program in poetry. She has been a chemist, a geologist and an oncology nurse/nurse practitioner. Her writing has been deeply influenced by time spent in New Mexico, Texas and Colorado for space and heat and Vermont and Maine for ice and clarity and by living in Washington, DC for lies and redemption. She is married to the woman with fire in her guitar.

WE'RE FLOATING DOWN A RIVER AND IT'S 106 DEGREES IN MICHIGAN

by Ron Riekki

AI-generated gif by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

and she’s in a burkini swimsuit, hijab, with

a Rage Against the Machine-style hat/visor,

and we’re trying to relax, but we talk about

war, and when the tariffs started, I said, then,

We’re going to war.  She asked what I meant,

and I said, This is isolationism.  He doesn’t

want us dealing with other countries, because

the more we can supply everything on our

own, the more we’re setting up war economy.

And then time went by and we’re on a river,

and I’d said we’d go to war at the end of

his presidency, because going to war will

increase the odds we stick with the same

political party, the war party.  But she says,

No, I don’t think he’s going to wait.  I think

he’ll go to war soon.  We disagreed.  She’s

from Iraq.  She sensed it.  She told me her

PTSD is so strong, her hypervigilance is so

extreme that she reads rooms, feels when

there’s tension.  But it’s the same with our

world with her, how she can sense a war

coming, told me about the attacks on Iran

before the attacks on Iran.  And we’re on

a river.  And we’re floating.  Inner tubes.

Trying to relax.  But we talk about wars.

She says, I’d like to speak out and say every-

thing I think about what’s going on, but I can’t.

I ask why.  Because, she says, They’d kill me.

I ask who would.  She lowers her voice.

We’re on a river.  We’re trying to relax.

It’s 106 degrees.  What are we doing to

the earth?  What are we doing to each

other?  She whispers.  She tells me her

fears.  I tell her she needs to write it in

a poem, in nonfiction.  I can’t, she says.

Then in fiction, I tell her.  I can’t, she says,

They’d kill me.  We talk about Malala

Yousafzai.  We talk about the hijab, how

she loves to put it on, makes her feel

closer to Allah.  We talk about the view,

stunning, the shimmering on the water,

hypnotic.  We talk about the awe sounds

in God and Buddha and Yahweh and

Allah.  And even in her name.  A name

that is tied to God.  And we float and

we talk about war.  Surviving.  The heat.

Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice.

MY IMPROV TEACHER CANCELS CLASS TO JOIN THE PICKET LINES

by Ron Riekki

“I’m against picketing, but I don’t know how to show it.”

—Mitch Hedberg

 

“A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore.”

—Yogi Berra

 

“Mary Barra makes twenty-nine million a year,” he says.

He’s sitting in front of the class.  He sits, because of his back.

He says he won’t be back for possibly infinity, that this

strike might put his family out, have to leave.  “And I’m from

Waterford too,” he says, “Where she was born.”  A student says,

“They put Ford into everything here—Ford River, Waterford.”

“Yeah, they put it right in the drinking water,” says another

student, “Trust me, I’m from Flint.”  The first day of class

he had us go around and say our names, what we do for

a living—roofer, firefighter, truck driver.  He stopped us,

said, “You guys have the hardest jobs.  What, is one of you

an oil rig worker?”  “I used to be,” said one of the students.

“What’re you all doing here?”  “We need some comedy

in our lives.”  I don’t tell the class this, but my PTSD

counselor recommended improv, said social connection

is better than counseling.  So I came.  One day, the teacher

asked for a suggestion, and someone shouted, “War!”

I froze up, couldn’t talk.  The teacher stood up, said,

“And this here’s the old town statue, unfortunately,

we’re gonna have to tear it down.  Bye, Robert E. Lee.”

And then a bunch of the class entered into the scene

as townspeople and they picked me up and hauled me

in the air across the stage.  Everybody was dying

laughing.  After, a student said, “You make a really

good Bobby E. Lee.”  More laughter.  I had started

to have a panic attack, but they brought me back, tore

it down.  And now we’re worried class is going to be

canceled.  An EMT in the class said COVID’s coming

back.  A guy who’s unemployed told us he was jealous

of our having work—and now our teacher doesn’t, says

it might go on forever, the strike, says he has to be out

on the line at 6 a.m., “but there’s no parking,” said he’s out

there in the rain.  “That sucks.”  “No,” he explains, “It’s

what I’ve been doing at GM my whole life.  We work

outside, every day.  Winter too.”  We sit there and stare,

silent, at the stage.  It’s empty.  Totally empty.  Black-

box theater.  But not even black boxes.  Nothing.  Just us.

Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (Michigan State University Press).

TWENTY YEARS IN & OUT

by Art Goodtimes

For the first ten years after 9/11

a band of us peaceniks marched our

San Miguel County Seat’s main street

in protest & remembrance

Once a month. Every eleventh

Doves preaching to the peacocks

 

No permits. Just commish & citizen kin

remembering those who held hands

falling from the Towers like shot duck

 

Remembering those eagles in uniforms

racing up stairwells intent on rescue

as the crushing hate of true believers

came crashing down on their heads

 

Remembering America’s lashing out

without true purpose. Invading Iraq

Afghanistan. Predator strikes. Collateral

damage. A nation bent on inflicting

endless terror on endless terrorists

 

After decades of foreign wars

we peace-marchers kind of lost heart

Chickadees with PTSD. Crows

becoming accustomed to carrion

So industrial Telluride’s unreal

estate bubbles on undisturbed

 

Now, explains

Capt. Barefoot

lives of peace

our only protest

 

Parade-master & poet-in-residence at the annual Telluride Mushroom Festival, Art Goodtimes served fives terms as Colorado’s only Green county commissioner. He is currently represented in Congress by U.S. Rep. Lauren Boebert (R-Rifle).

YOU DON'T

by Laura Rodley

The roll call of deceased unit members, which included 10 men killed in action, was an emotional time for Vietnam veterans who reunited in Berea, Ohio on August 9, 2019. "Even though we have had some sleepless nights, some dreams we want to forget, the remembrance of PTSD, and Agent Orange that just won't let go, we continue to be grateful and to stand for our flag," said the Chaplain. Photo credit: Beth Mlady/Special to cleveland.com, August 17, 2019

You don’t know him, he doesn’t
ask to be known, he won
a bronze star for valor
in Vietnam, he shops
on senior discount Tuesdays
at Big Y, at least he used to.
He doesn’t go out anymore,
even outside. You wouldn’t
recognize him, he’s just an
average Joe in a linen shirt,
rhythm of helicopters whirring
in his head. The Fourth of July,
Friday night fireworks in Ocean Park?
He’s seen enough fireworks, mortar
shell explosions, lights exploding,
himself exploding, he doesn’t want
any reminders. But ask for recognition,
no, valor of Vietnam vets unspoken,
stationed in Da Nang, ground zero for Agent Orange,
his early heart attack just a fluke
the doctor said, hearing loss due to age.
He slept next to a mortar shell field.
They blew up all the time.
He’s not asking anything
from his country that he served,
just to be left alone.

He only has to be as tall
as the ceiling of his livingroom,
where he chomps Fritos, swallows Cokes,
he doesn’t have to see behind him,
beside him, below him as the chopper
brings him base to base to allocate
and release funds, he doesn’t
have to see through forests, they
were denuded by Agent Orange,
someone could drop down on him
from above, but not while
he’s in front of the T.V. The front
door is locked, a cheap remedy
against machine gun fire.
He only has to manage the space
of the couch, the clicker, even
the screened-in porch reveals
too much green, someone could
be hiding in those maples, oaks,
kudzu, and that’s not paranoia,
it was real for him for two tours,
someone hiding to do him harm,
annihilate him and nothing but
his dog tags to know his name.
He would not call this being afraid,
nor is he: he is aware, hyper-aware
of leave rustle, door closing, pop-top
of the can breaking open, the fizzle
of foam. Everything he does saves
his life and those of the men he
served with- not one of them taught
to act alone but as a unit, always
aware of his buddy, aware of combat
boots squishing in the mud of rice paddies
beside him. Hyper-aware of
everything outside of him to save
them all, but nothing but his finessed reaction
for shooting or readiness to bail out of the chopper
of his own internal life. He
lived outside himself, his body, and
having survived when so many
he knew did not, he brought
it all home with him, where
it breathes in the livingroom
with him, he can’t close his eyes,
it’s inside him now, it won’t get out,
won’t let him go.

Laura Rodley, Pushcart Prize winner is a quintuple Pushcart Prize nominee, and quintuple Best of Net nominee. Publisher Finishing Line Press nominated her Your Left Front Wheel Is Coming Loose for a PEN L.L.Winship Award and Mass Book Award. FLP also nominated her Rappelling Blue Light for a Mass Book Award. Former co-curator of the Collected Poets Series, Rodley teaches the As You Write It memoir class and has edited and published As You Write It, A Franklin County Anthology volumes I-VI, also nominated for a Mass Book Award. She was accepted at Martha’s Vineyard’s NOEPC and has been a participant in the 30 poems in November fundraiser for the Literacy Project of the Center for New Americans. Latest books: Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Publishing and Counter Point by Prolific Press.

AT THE FUNERAL OF A VIETNAM VETERAN

by Jimmy Pappas

Image source: Wounded Times

They did a study about veterans' suicides you know,
counted them and came up with an average: 22 per day.

Something like how many clowns can fit into a Volkswagen,
or how many hot dogs a person can eat without throwing up.

That's like saying, After you finish watching football today,
one veteran's going to blow his brains out, another one's going

to hang herself from the rafters if she can figure out
if she has any rafters to hang from in the first place.

The formality makes me want to put out a call for
the wailing women to gnash their teeth and tug at their hair.

The minister stands out from the crowd of leather-jacketed vets
with his tailor-made suit and conservatively perfect tie.

He quotes St. Paul, If God is for us, who can be against us?
to a group of men who have felt the whole world is against them.

Then he informs us that the prophet Isaiah believed God's
understanding is unsearchable, but I need an explanation of

why this soldier took every pill he could get his hands on. If he
did not want to be a burden, why do my shoulders feel so heavy?

Jimmy Pappas served for the Air Force in Vietnam from 1969 to 1970 as an English language instructor. After his service, Jimmy received a Bachelor's of Arts degree from Bridgewater State University and a Master's  in English literature from Rivier University. He is a retired teacher whose poems have been published in many journals, including Yellowchair Review, New Verse News, Shot Glass Journal, Kentucky Review, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Off the Coast, Boston Literary Magazine, The Ghazal Page, and War, Literature and the Arts. He is now a member of the executive board of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire.

SOBERANES FIRE 2016

by Jennifer Lagier

#SoberanesFire #Monterey #BigSur Image source: KPCC Fire Tracker

Concours d’Conflagration: Day 15, 35% containment

Overnight, another five thousand acres vanish,
vaporized by voracious fire’s roiling run.
Dani Ridge, Jackson Camp and Post Summit are tinder,
will soon blaze into charred oblivion.

Crews doze, back burn East Molera Ridge,
protect campgrounds, cabins, cliff-side resorts
while incoming caravans of Bentleys, Rolls Royces,
Ferraris, Maseratis, clog all the roads.

Carmel Valley and Big Sur smolder as
the Concours d’Elegance, an annual car show
for arrogant millionaires and their groupies,
carelessly rolls into town.

Evacuation of Big Sur: Day 17, 45% Containment

A reverse 911 call comes at 3:11 a.m.
Fire has jumped the southern containment line.
Flames ignite ridges east of Mt. Manual,
revisit terrain devastated in 2008 by the
Basin Complex/Ventana Wilderness burn.
Consumed acreage swells.

The Monterey County Sheriff’s Office orders
a mandatory evacuation for the Big Sur Area
from Point Sur Lighthouse to Deetjen’s Inn,
Henry Miller Memorial Library and Nepenthe
in its fiery path, both sides of Highway 1.

Tourists are allowed free access
to evacuated areas while residents
are ordered to pack necessities, hit the road north.
In Carmel Valley, air tankers and helicopters
load supplies, hot shot crews, finally take flight.

Smolder: Day 19, 50% containment

By now, over 67,000 acres have burnt.
Smoke wreathes coastal ranges.
Fire runs into Big Sur Valley.
Satellite sweeps reveal heat perimeter
expanding south and east.

Rumors and second guessing abound.
Were air tankers erroneously stopped
from scooping ocean water because of
sanctuary status of Monterey Bay?
What if cell phone coverage had been available
permitting faster reporting, response?
Why didn’t crew commanders enlist assistance
from locals familiar with rugged terrain?

Hand lettered signs, commercial banners
thanking fire fighters line street shoulders.
One friend cynically posts on social media
“How could one little campfire possibly hurt?”

Firing North Coast Ridge Road: Day 23, 60% Containment

Hotshots with drip torches ignite underbrush,
work their way along rugged dirt road.
Crews labor twenty-four hour shifts, inhale ashy smoke,
backburn from containment line, deny advancing blaze
vulnerable homes, chaparral, any flammable fuel.
They focus, not on orange flames, but on green,
look for fly-away sparks.
We give thanks for morning’s drippy fog,
Ventana Double Cone’s granite face.

Officials move staging camp from Carmel Valley
to California State University, Monterey Bay,
nearly an hour north of where needed,
repurpose golf course to accommodate carriers
for upcoming Car Week’s expensive designer vehicles.
Therapists offer free PTSD counseling.
Local poets and musicians raise funds
to assist the displaced.

Combustion vs. Carmageddon: Day 26, 60% Containment

Highway 1 south reopens as CalFire continues
removing blasted redwoods, burnt vegetation.
Portions of roadway have buckled from heat.
The power company replaces destroyed poles, melted wire.
In Cachagua, crews begin restoration, evaluate charred terrain.

Twenty-six miles north, Carmel barricades side streets
and main thoroughfare to permit an all-day display
of vintage Porches and Ferraris.
Monterey erects a tent over Custom House Plaza,
Sotheby’s auction site, to prevent falling ash from
marring the paint of rare luxury cars.

Jennifer Lagier has published twelve books and in literary magazines, taught with California Poets in the Schools, co-edits the Homestead Review, helps coordinate Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium Second Sunday readings. Newest books: Scene of the Crime (Evening Street Press), Harbingers (Blue Light Press). Forthcoming chapbook: Camille Abroad (FutureCycle).