THE (B)OLD COIN, ALWAYS GOLDEN

by Jennifer Schneider

And so today, Americans will be able to honor 250 years of great American heritage by buying a questionably legal one-dollar coin for roughly $2.44. If you’d like to know who came up with such a brilliant plan, just look at the coin. —The Guardian, September 2, 2026

The first time I held a golden coin in my palm,
I was digging for treasures in a dusty attic.

My grandmother had recently passed
and her house was on 1-800-GOT-JUNK’s 
weekend route.

In the corner stood an ornate chest,
a trunk, short and wide: my family’s dimensions.

The trunk held nylons, faux pearls, and worn denim.
Grandmother had few secrets, but I found one of them. 

In the pocket of a pair of old Levi’s, there was a coin
with a name, date, and origin worn past recognition.

I’ve kept it, thinking it might be worth something.
After the truck took what no one claimed, I did more digging.

Beneath a microscope, the coin’s name, date, and origin
remained a mystery. I learned that American currency 
generally reserves its profiles for the dead. No golden goose 
has yet survived the press. Washington reportedly refused 
his own face on money: too much like a monarchy. 
Spencer Clark did not share his reluctance.

The story goes that in 1866 he placed
his living face where another Clark’s
was meant to go. Congress responded 
by prohibiting the portrait or likeness 
of any living person. Too bad ambiguity
outlived Clark’s defiant personality.

As Grandmother would say, nonsense 
and mischief belong in dirty handkerchiefs, 
not the Treasury or a treasure chest.

I revisit the coin and admire how little it asks to be known.

My grandmother used to talk of an embarrassment of riches.
We were never rich; I understood only the embarrassment.
Years later, holding her coin beneath a lamp, 
I finally understood the other half.

On my screen, a new golden dollar entered circulation.
This new coin has no trouble telling us who it is.

A golden goose in a suit. An eagle on the reverse. 
The birds never meet. LIBERTY curves above one.
The other carries E PLURIBUS UNUM in its mouth.

The Mint calls the coin golden.
Let the record show there is no gold.

My grandmother’s coin has kept its metals to itself.
The Mint lists his composition: copper, zinc, manganese, nickel.

Mine will not say where it came from. 
His came from Philadelphia without a mark to prove it.

One has forgotten.
One has been constructed.

Mine lay alone in a pocket.
His comes with nine million duplicates.

Mine cost an afternoon
and a truck of stuff no one wished to circulate.

His costs two dollars and forty-four cents
for every single dollar purchased.

When a retired attorney asked the court to stop the new coin, 
the court asked what harm he would suffer personally.
Nine million faces were not personal enough.

Some nights the old coin resembles my grandmother.
Legally, this would be permissible.

Tonight, beneath the lamp, my grandmother disappears.
For a moment, the face is mine. I turn it over.

Jennifer Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

WORTHLESS

by B. Fulton Jennes

ID 10587676 © trekandshoot | Dreamstime.com

 

November 12, 2025 – U.S. Mint strikes final circulating one-cent coins.

 

At 10, I culled pennies from my plastic purse, 

dropped them into the bathroom’s metal trash can,

savored each clang. Their removal made room

for worthier coins—those with a silver sheen. 

 

Did my mother scold or slap at the discovery? 

I don’t recall. But her lesson stung and stuck: 

No small thing is worthless. A penny was more 

than a piece of comic-wrapped bubble gum,

more than a fiery cinnamon ball or palmful 

of chiclets spit from a vending machine.

It was copper—the metal that cloaked 

the Statue of Liberty. It bore Lincoln’s profile. 

It had history. It had value. It should be saved. 

 

Years later, still penny-obsessed, I scanned 

city sidewalks for coppery discs, bowed before

a speeding cab on 14th Street to pry one

from hot tar, banged heads with a woman who, 

likewise possessed, bent to snatch one from

the marble floor of Grand Central at rush hour, 

beat me to the grab, glared. I chided a teen who 

dumped a handful at a Madison Avenue bus stop,

gathered their discards from the pavement, 

added them to a five-gallon water jug at home.

 

Once I called in sick, boarded Amtrak south 

to the Philadelphia mint, watched behemoth

machines blank, anneal, strike pennies by the ton, 

a shimmering sea of copper, conveyed by forklifts, 

guided by back-braced men—such an earth-shaking, 

deafening to-do for something so small, so—what?—

 

worthless?

 

Today a two-century cascade of coins grows still.

Dignitaries make speeches, promise to auction the last

pennies struck on Earth. How foolish to spend 

2.7 cents to make something worth only a third as much. 

Even my mother would agree with those economies. 

Even my mother would hold her penurious hand, 

her sharp tongue, and see the wisdom of throwing 

such spendthrift things away.

The award-winning poems of B. Fulton Jennes are widely published. Her chapbook Blinded Birds received the 2022 International Book Award; another chapbook FLOWN was published by Porkbelly Press in 2024. A third chapbook Dirty Bird & Myrt will be published by Dancing Girl Press in the spring of 2026. Jennes is poet laureate emerita of Ridgefield, CT, where she directs the Poetry in the Garden festival each summer.

MORE THAN A CITY OF NUMBERS / A CITY OF NAMES

by Jen Schneider

This maps the victims of gun violence: 1,445 nonfatal and 377 fatal shooting victims as of Oct 2, 2022. —Mapping Philadelphia's Gun Violence Crisis

Philadelphia—

a city of brotherly love 

/ life

more than a city of numbers

/ a city of names

from firsts—

home to the first library, hospital & botanical garden 

            to never quenched thirsts—

grills for infinite steak shops (Pat’s, Geno’s, Tony’s, Nick’s)

a city 

of names & numbers 

/ numbers & names

on the same day the mayor signed an order

for no more guns in the city’s

indoor and outdoor recreation centers 

housed at the corner of numbered

streets, broad, & main

three teams met for a football scrimmage

dozens of players took the field

the temperature a beautiful seventy degrees. 

Autumnal air. Hundreds of passes.

Countless yards gained.

Clocks ticked. Players walked.

The 6000 block of Ridge Avenue.

The 4700 block of Pechin Street.

Zip code 19128. Latitude

and longitude measures of degree.

Suddenly

a shooting spree

Hundreds flee

five gunmen

sixty-four bullets

souls in school clothes drop

to date, in 2022

more than four hundred

Philadelphia-based lives lost

a tragic milestone man-made

a city 

of names & numbers 

/ numbers & names

all of these lives have names

Nicholas.Tiffany.Jose.Steven.Michael.Byron.Tyrell.Dominque.Quianyon.Eddie.Zachariah.Robert.Gerard.Margaret.Lauren.Kasani.Tracey.Chrichnard.Francisca.Tyjon.David.Daquan.Nafee.James.Stacy.Tyheim.Justin.Ry’Keir.Jerome.Sindrell.Tony.Michael.Melvin.Byron.Calvin.Robert.Shawn.Fernand.Daren.Hope.David.Jamal.Charles.Marc.Taion.Bertha.Abdel.Ameer.Lameer.James.Achilles.Shakuur.Irving.Jahsier.Rashed.Kelvin.Stephon.Robert.Joelil.Yusairah.Mary.Gabriel.Leanne.Damon.Rahssan.more.many more. these lives have names. a city of numbers. a city of names.

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

NO BAD DAYS AT THE FOOD PANTRY

by Deb Freedman

for Lucille Clifton’s “Good Times”

The poet and colleague volunteer at the food pantry.

people drive up

and we put food in their cars

we run hauling bags

meat produce bread desserts

food for dogs and cats

sundry items people choose from the cart

we welcome everyone

greeting people we know like old friends

 

James and Ava have a corner store and a new granddaughter

2 months old

i bought 5 onesies cool for the summer with my friend’s donated $20 kohls cash

and gave Ava a pretty one with a fish on it

for her namesake

she was so excited

she promised she’d take a picture of Baby Ava in it to show me

 

and a woman with a 2-year-old

who just had a baby girl

came for food and diapers

so i gave her a yellow striped onesie

i think she cried behind her glamorous dark sunglasses

 

Jesse said he couldn’t drive himself today

because the surgeon sawed him in half

so we finally met his wife Dina

he brought us a little cardboard bakery box

of his delicious homemade mini cupcakes

like always

and thanked us for helping his family

 

the Steelers fans with rattly truck and 3 cats

got extra cat food

we joked we like them

even though they aren’t Eagles fans

 

there were these 2 guys on bikes

who pedaled over the Calhoun Street Bridge from Trenton

trying to figure out how much stuff they could carry

in their ragged backpacks

even with our reusable bags

they ruefully left a few pounds of their food on the table

and told us to give it to people who needed it

 

after 3 hours I'm sweaty tired

my face sore from smiling at folks

and that was just today

Deb Freedman finds joy in volunteering at a local food pantry as well as writing poetry and hopes to spark recognition, compassion and solutions to the increasing food insecurity of both people and pets in this country.

UP UP AND AWAY

by  Judy Juanita

Billionaires space race published July 12, 2021 by Dave Whamond.

Billionaires millionaires the amerikkkan dream

Up, up and away onto the edge of space

Horatio Alger wins again

Rags-to-riches

Poor boy sandwiches

Raggedy Ann dolls

Immigrants in shacks 

Children in cages

We love it all, eh?

Up, up and away

The bigger the better

The farther from the crime scene 

The better. And the edge of space is

The Mall of America.

Opportunity our national anthem

Except except Tulsa in 1920-when? 1921

Black people black dynasties

Black millionaires buying and flying

Their own airplanes

Black businesses black prosperity

And we prostrate ourselves

For a black face on the $20 bill

   Eh?

Ask the black Okies

About the grand downtown they built

Especially for the bombs

Dropped especially on Tulsa

Listen to the sound of bombs

The bombs bursting in air

That Francis Scott Keys conjured

Ask the black Oakies

Then forward to Philly in 1990-what? 

1990-when? 1990-why?

Because a black mayor dropped bombs

On wild haired Ramona Africa 

An American millionaire, no?

Rags to riches, no?

Horatio Alger, no?

MOVE the antithesis of progress

Cleanliness

We, the clean, deodorant-rich country

Watching  televised spectacles 

Little blue-and-white suited people

Blast past the boundary of space as

The richest man in the world

Thanks his wage slaves and customers

For paying for it all

And all is forgiven because why? Because

When the land ran into the Pacific Ocean

Manifest destiny shot into space

Judy Juanita's latest book is Manhattan My Ass, You’re In Oakland,  a collection of poetry. Her semi-autobiographical novel Virgin Soul chronicled a black female coming of age in the 60s who joins the Black Panther Party. Her collection of essays DeFacto Feminism: Essays Straight Outta Oakland examines the intersectionality of race, gender, politics, economics and spirituality as experienced by a black activist and self-described "feminist foot soldier." The collection was a distinguished finalist in Ohio State University's 2016 Non/Fiction Collection Prize. Her seventeenth play, “Theodicy,” about two black men who accidentally fall into the river of death, won first runner-up of 186 plays in the Eileen Heckart 2008 Senior Drama Competition at Ohio State University.

GOOD THINGS HAPPEN IN PHILADELPHIA

by Jen Schneider

President Donald T***p closed out his first presidential debate with Democratic nominee Joe Biden on Tuesday night by repeating on national television his false claim that poll watchers had been blocked from observing the first day of in-person early voting in Philadelphia. “Today there was a big problem,” T***p said in the closing moments of the debate. “In Philadelphia they went in to watch. They’re called poll watchers. A very safe, very nice thing. They were thrown out. They weren’t allowed to watch. You know why? Because bad things happen in Philadelphia, bad things.” —The Philadelphia Inquirer, September 29, 2020

Opinions simmer. Warm, savory, inviting. Nonna’s pork and cheese meatballs, fresh of tomatoes, garlic, and onions. Tossed in Italian market spices. Sidewalk chalk and porch stoop chatter inspire debates on Pat’s versus Geno’s and rails that carry hundreds of years and thousands of stories. Cobblestone streets where 200-year old trinities and 100-year old row homes rub shoulders with brothers, sisters, Quakers, and strangers turned family. Generations nestle among soaring metal, as Betsy Ross, Ben Franklin and Independence Mall beckon. Welcome, America. Stair wells heat, bagels boil, and scallion flavored cream cheese fuels. Reading Terminal bakers, Convention Center makers, and Didone type LOVE serve pride of place, Always. Cannoli’s, cheesesteaks – extra onions, thank you – and scrapple, a double. Plenty to share, as Philadelphia’s city limits - and pride - extend for Rocky miles. In a quickly evolving world, farewell Franklin Press, each neighborhood block is Distinct. Unique. Proud. Gritty.

Our City. Our Place. Always Good. 

as voice pebbles rise and fall.

Feet crunch on asphalt

Good will overcome

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Her work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, unstamatic, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.

SPOTTED

by Kelley White





The State tells us to kill them on sight.
Even the juveniles, for they will only mature
and breed in their hidden nests. They are
invasive. Not native to our country. They are
a threat to our Environment, our Agriculture,
our food supply, our Way of Life. Even our
trees! They will change the landscape of our
towns and cities forever if we fail to eliminate
them now. This Asian threat. And their noxious
secretions.

Some counties are in quarantine because of them.
I know the bridge where they congregate
in the sun between our two cities. I watched
a young woman walk there with her children,
striking out in all directions. They offered
no resistance. The small blond daughter held
her mother’s hand while in the other she brandished
her own weapon. And the blue-eyed baby
in the stroller chortled.

My own granddaughter has learned at preschool
that they are Bad. She screamed when one tapped
on the car window. I assured her we were safe.
If I simply drove away it would fall behind;
it could not cling to us at even moderate speed.
And later, when one tapped against the windows
of the house I showed her that it could not creep in
even as it searched for cracks and crevices
and the dog kept up his fearful sentinel alarm.

Later, I through their encampment myself.
They silently avoided me, sidestepping me and
the red and crushed bodies of their fellows. I realized
that I could easily kill dozens, hundreds, depending
on my choice of weapon. I was annoyed by their skitting
hunched walk on narrow feet and the skinny knees
beneath their drab gray armor. I knew how satisfying
it would be to strike them down, but I did not want
to be a killer. They did not harm me directly.

After meeting for worship even the Quaker elders
debated the best ways to destroy them. Fire, poison,
suffocation; someone has spotted a preying
mantis devouring one alive. Some applaud,
but I have seen their vulnerable red bellies,
seen the beauty when they spread their wings
into their clumsy hopping flight. Pretty as any butterfly.
Lycorma delicatula. Spotted. Lantern. Fly.

Pediatrician Kelley White has worked in inner city Philadelphia and rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her recent books are Toxic Environment (Boston Poet Press) and Two Birds in Flame (Beech River Books.) She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.

SUMMER THUNDERSTORMS

by Earl J. Wilcox

Dark clouds hover, hover, hover.
Some are totally nasty. Others phony.
A few are pretty, fluffy, frilly... like
suburban housewives in Philly.

How lovely the sun shines in
Milwaukee—beautiful, spacious
skies, amber waves of grain
brewing an early November tsunami.


Earl J. Wilcox keeps an eye on the weather from South Carolina where storms are predicted.

ELEGY FOR KOBE BRYANT

by Mark Danowsky

Soon after Romeire Brown heard the news of Kobe Bryant’s death in a helicopter crash Sunday, he made a beeline for a spot he passes often: Lower Merion High School. Brown, 29, laid a bouquet of daisies in Lakers purple and gold in honor of the 41-year-old basketball superstar, a native son and 1996 Lower Merion High grad. The gym at his alma mater is named Bryant Gymnasium. Photo credit: ELIZABETH ROBERTSON / STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER —The Philadelphia Inquirer, January 26, 2020

I get a scheduled pickup for Wanda
at 5:05pm, the end of her shift

I pull up to the long driveway that leads
to a Lower Merion mansion
& Wanda says, as she gets in the car,
“Thank God you're here, there's a fox”
& I turn & sure enough there's a fox
in the yard skulking about 50 feet away
I say, "Don't worry
foxes are afraid of people"
She says, "The young children play in the yard"
& I concede children are not safe from a fox

I cannot help but ask if Wanda has heard
the sad news—
She says, "I'm trying to forget"
& I pretend I understand

I ask Wanda if she plans to watch the Grammy's tonight
She says, "Maybe”
Maybe, because she's "up to date with her other shows"
I ask about these other shows
& Wanda tells me she watches
"The Haves and The Have Nots"

I reflect on this as I drive Wanda
to West Philadelphia where
I was not born & raised
& so I do not share where I was—
that Kobe & I went to the same high school
that that's my life
—even though this tragedy has made me
want to express my connection to place—
the bubble that is The Main Line
—a world apart

We sit in quiet awhile
again, I return to last night
watching King James unseat Kobe
& the good love shown in response

What crazy coincidence
this next day
& yet that is the awful reminder
this game has no rules
& cares not for sportsmanship

Driving down 52nd
we pass a homeless man standing
in the road holding a cup

Wanda says, "I mind my business"
"Keep my mouth zipped"
"People are too crazy now"

I say, "I know, I try to do the same"

So I try for gratitude after dropping off Wanda
at 52nd & Race
at nightfall, a tourist
I return to the felt safety of Lower Merion
where nothing is supposed to happen


Mark Danowsky is a poet / writer from Philadelphia and author of the poetry collection As Falls Trees (NightBallet Press, 2018). He’s Managing Editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal.

AS THE WORLD SLEEPS

by Jen Schneider





A man has been left seriously injured after the tent he was sleeping in was removed by an industrial vehicle in Dublin. The man, who is believed to be homeless, was taken to St Vincent's Hospital, where he is reportedly being treated for "life-changing" injuries and remains in a serious condition. The incident, which took place at Wilton Terrace near the city centre of the Irish capital, happened on Tuesday afternoon. —ITV News, January 15, 2020

The Toronto Homeless Memorial now includes the names of more than 1,000 people who died while homeless; a grim milestone that some advocates say underscores the extent of Toronto’s poverty crisis. —CP24, January 14, 2020

In my dreams, the Butterflies dance – 

Monarchs, Swallowtails, and Brush-Footed Beauties.  

Flittering specks of crimson, pale pinks, warm yellows – 

like the cotton patchwork quilt I use to warm myself

as Night falls.

In my dreams, the Radio sings – 

Ellington, Bach, Armstrong

Sweet, sometimes off-beat tunes of jazz, hip-hop, classical notes – 

like the lyrics of childhood verse I sing to calm myself

as Night falls.

Sleep is a Noun, much like any other

until it’s Not:

Regenerative blocks of eight hours, cycles

of REM, light, and deep slumber.

Wakefulness, too.

Sleep is a Verb, much like any other

Until it’s Not:

Engagement in a nightly ritual

of rejuvenation. Eyes close. Muscles relax.

Consciousness suspends, too.

Sleep is a Basic Necessity, much like any other

Until it’s Not:

The lowest, most fundamental tier

of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs turned Off.

Out of reach - a victim of city regulations, zoning boards,

and inked signs informing us of our camps’ demise.

What happens when the steps—Maslow’s, City Halls, 

Bus Terminals—turn off. The music stops playing. 

The dreams turn sour. Strips of yellow and black

ribbon turn bedtime into a nightly scavenger hunt. 

With no treasure or prize.

I’m told we’ve made the News.

Sometimes dreams do come true. Childhood fantasies 

of my name on Billboard Lights.

Arms sway as I belt out verse of the Masters, 

dance with the Monarchs, and look Up to the Heavens.

My focus, now – Down – to the Concrete - for a place to rest.

Down by the Rec Center. 

Down near the Church. 

Down under the Bridge.

A folksong gone wrong, with lyrics all my own.

Sleep is Talk Show Filler, much like any other

Until it’s Not.

Tips, Tricks, and Strategies in the form 

of downloads, software applications and endless talk

of background noise and strict schedules.

What happens when the background noise –

Roaring Interstates, Tree Lined Highways, Dark Tunnels 

is the Bedroom?

What happens when the schedules – 

City Collection Trucks, Patrolling Officers, Slow Moving Vans 

are the Nightmares?

Sleep is…

Shivers turned to blankets of fuzzy warmth.

Arms wrapped around tired bones.

Lights off on social experiments gone wrong.

Until it’s Not. When the lights stay on and the arms arrest.

Sleep simply Ceases to Exist.

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Her work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, unstamatic, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.

SEVENTH NIGHT

by Judith Terzi

A fleeing suspect was arrested
with blood spilling over his clothing
smelling of bleach. Candle wax
dripping down my silver-plated
menorah. Multi-colored wax
clinging to its round base, clogging
its candle holders that we clean
each festival night. My family
closed blinds when we lit the candles
just after the war in Philly. This
same menorah with a star of David
in the middle guarded by the claws
of a lion on either side. The suspect
could have stabbed my grandfather
and my great-grandfather––Hasids
like the five he stabbed on the seventh
night of Chanukah. My grandfather
could have given me a check for $5,
written Chanukah gelt in the lower
left-hand corner with a hand unused
to writing English letters. My parents
could have given me another pair
of pajamas on the seventh night,
or a jigsaw puzzle, or a Toni doll,
or a dress my mother would have
sewn on her Singer. We closed
blinds when we lit the menorah.
The suspect wielded a large knife.
The children stopped singing, and
the dreidel stopped spinning, and
the rabbi prayed for his congregants
and for his son who were stabbed.
And for the victims of the twelve
other acts of violence against
Hasids in the past three weeks.
And the people are terrified.
And the country stays divided.

Judith Terzi is the author of Museum of Rearranged Objects (Kelsay Books) as well as of five chapbooks including If You Spot Your Brother Floating By and Casbah (Kattywompus). Her poetry appears widely in literary journals and anthologies, has been nominated for Best of the Net and Web and a Pushcart, and read on Radio 3 of the BBC. She holds an M.A. in French Literature and taught high school French for many years as well as English at California State University, Los Angeles, and in Algiers, Algeria.

WHEN NAPTIME GOES PRIMETIME IN THE USA

by Jen Schneider

The holes left by 14 bullets that tore through their house during the nearly 8-hour police standoff in North Philly on August 15, 2019—which saw six officers shot but no one killed—were being patched up for free. Finally, their home would no longer serve as an unwanted reminder of the terror and trauma he felt after being trapped inside while more than 100 rounds were fired from directly across the street. Photo: Mayor Jim Kenney talks to Cynthia Muse, block captain on the 3700 block of N. 15th Street, and other neighbors LAYLA A. JONES / BILLY PENN November 7, 2019.

Police remained on the scene after a gunman was apprehended following the standoff on August 15, 2019, in Philadelphia. —WHYY

Late afternoon, right before naptime, the troubled marksman paced in a first-floor apartment. On the second floor, baby’s dog-eared picture book dropped, then bounced, on the hardwood floor. Fan whirrs stifled ground floor hollers. Gunshots sliced heavy air.  Bang. Crack. Thud. Momentary silence. More fire. Help. First-floor situation. Second-floor fear. Voices drifting through vents roused all. Four pairs of eyes, arms, legs, and sweat-drenched ears hid under freshly laundered-cotton sheets. Specks of yellow daffodils sprinkled among confetti bursts of green, red, and turquoise streamers shielded bodies that retreated into each other. Silence, then creaks in the back window.  Tap. Crink. Clank. Glass pane rose. “Police. This way. It’s okay. Baby first.”  Drops of tears, questions, and relief pooled on the hardwood floor. Four pairs of eyes, arms, legs, and sweat-drenched ears slid to safety, down freshly laundered cotton sheets. Bare soles—and souls—touched searing concrete. Block on lockdown.

Prayers for police. Salvation. No more guns. Questions. Unanswered. Sirens continued to roar.

Hours later, right before bedtime, we returned home. The television flickered. New nightmares. Naptime. On primetime. Our prayers. Our faces. Recorded. Replayed. All in 10-second clips.

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Her work appears in The Coil, The Popular Culture Studies Journal, unstamatic, Zingara Poetry Review, 42 Stories Anthology (forthcoming), Voices on the Move (forthcoming), Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.

GHOST LIGHT

by Kelley White

We settle into worship. Is it better to pray—
or to listen for the voice of God?

Is it better to wait on God
with eyes closed, cast down, or open to light?

I seek light in the meetinghouse’s tall
windows, the faces of gathered friends—

when Jondhi breaks Quaker silence to speak
of the Nicetown shootings we all know

it is too real—his, our, Healing and Transformation
Center, the Center for Returning Citizens

is a block from the crime scene.
He heard the sirens, he saw the masses

of police, the stunned neighbors, children
evacuated from day care centers.

He asks about community. About
the roots of drug crime. Fear. Economics.

Unemployment. I close my eyes. The ghost
light of the windows a negative beneath my lids. Then

D., who like Jondhi has done serious time, lifts his
walking stick to his lips: I see it

decorated with feathers and red paint, a line of holes
punched along its shaft—

and it is actually a flute, with a voice so pure and deep
it returns me to silence, to my lit darkness, truce.


Author’s Note: J. Jondhi Harrell is the Founder and Executive Director of The Center for Returning Citizens (TCRC) in Philadelphia. Twitter: @JondhiTCRC . “D.” is a pseudonym.

Kelley White, a member of Germantown Friends Meeting is a pediatrician working about 2 miles from the ‘active shooter incident’ this past Wednesday, August 14, in Philadelphia’s Nicetown neighborhood.

THE SLIGHT DIFFERENCE OF THINGS

by Dale Ritterbusch





Cloudy and a few drops of rain—
not unusual for November
in Philadelphia; sometimes
the row houses go on forever
in that hazy, particulate light, and no one
walking pays much attention, eyes focused
on the patterning ground.   So when
a young woman stops a couple
on the street and asks Where’s the veterans’
hospital? The man replies, Over there,
three blocks, turn right, the clinic
is right there, can’t miss it; you can
take your pet there any time
during the day or make an appointment.
The woman turns away, says thanks,
a look in her eyes of misunderstanding,
misdirection, maybe traffic noise,
street music, inattention carried
in the air like ash or smoke,
or maybe veterinary hospital
and veterans’ hospital sound so much alike
in the spin of the moment, the way
we want to hear, thinking the decent
thing about everyone, goodness
flowing like a rainbow of oil
in the rainy streets:  just so
careless distractions order the day
as everyone walks apart, rain
chilling even the best intentions,
collars turned up, shoulders hunched
with casual, unconsidered, indifference.


Dale Ritterbusch is the author of two collections of poetry, Lessons Learned (1995) and Far From the Temple of Heaven (2005).  He is a Professor of Languages and Literatures at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater where he teaches creative writing and literature.  Currently he is the Distinguished Visiting Professor in the Department of English & Fine Arts at the United States Air Force Academy.