THIS IS A TEST. THIS IS A TEST.

by Tricia Knoll

 

 

 

Today on the radio the Bach fugue in B minor stands in for the emergency alert system two-tone blast before a three-tone blurt signaling end of alert. Theme, counterpoint and fragments in the coda. While missiles explode over Tel Aviv, ignite a Dubai hotel. One got the Supreme Leader. Another pulverizes a girl’s school in Iran. Kansas declares IDs of transgender people invalid. A preacher explains intergenerational trauma within the legacy of slavery. The BBC reports 72 tigers in Thailand have died recently of distemper. If it takes a minute to open a bottle, pour out a pill and take it, I have spent 456 days of my life swallowing an antidepressant. (And I thought it was lame that I have spent more than 12 weeks celebrating Christmas Days.) This is a test. This is a test. Going forward, how sad will life be?

 

Vermont poet Tricia Knoll is writing a book of poetry about sadness, The Run-on Story. Her next poetry book Gathering Marbles about aging will come out from Fernwood Press in 2027. 

WHAT THE LIVING HAVE SEEN

by Lynne Rappaport

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How many days has it been now, since 10/7,

that those Israelis held captive in tunnels in Gaza

have been without their freedom,

separated from all of life?

 

Their faces are plastered onto giant posters

for passersby in Tel Aviv to see,

burning these hostages’ plight into memory,

their country longing for it to end.

 

What can the prisoners know of the crisis above the tunnels?

The violence, devastation, rubble, blocked aid trucks, hunger,

children’s lives cut short.

Failed attempts at a lasting ceasefire.

Instead, more retaliations, an eye for an eye,

an endless war.

 

Bring them safely home.

Let them begin healing.

 

The Palestinian family I’m sending money to in Gaza—

Home destroyed, living in a tent,

subsisting on lentils and hot salt water—

Had a moment of joy welcoming a baby boy,

Husband venturing out to buy overpriced flour

for his wife and 2-year-old son. 

She needed medication to prevent blood clots,

needs nourishment to sustain their newborn child. 

They all need superhuman strength.

 

Almost 500 online donors, sending funds for a year,

trying to keep this family going, give them some hope. 

Will they rebuild their home in Gaza someday? How will they manage until then?

Will Gaza even still exist for them? Will they be displaced again?

Will these two children who’ve survived ever know a free Palestine?

What can the Gazans know of the air raid sirens, during the night,

Families hurrying to bomb shelters and safe rooms

In Tel Aviv apartment buildings?

 

Bring all safely home. 

End the occupation,

The unholy bloodshed.

 

The ghosts of the lost ones permeate the ashen air. 

Restless dreams, nightmares, 

and oh,

what the living have seen,

have seen,

have endured.

Author’s note: This poem came out of a freewrite session to the poem “Beannacht” by John O’Donahue, in Kathryn Santana Goldman’s Your Write to Resilience OLLI class, summer 2025.

Lynne Rappaport is a 72-year-old woman originally from New York who has lived in San Francisco for over 50 years. Retired from teaching ESL to immigrant adults, she enjoys poetry, nature, music, and Tai Chi. She dedicates this poem to her late cousin, Canadian poet Bobbie Ogletree, and to our late grandfather Jacob B. Sacks, born in Palestine (Jerusalem) in 1888. He immigrated to New York in 1912. 

THE EARRING

by Heather H. Thomas

Hamas fighters stormed the Nova festival on 7 October and killed hundreds.

The evening river is gray jade, 

the tree line charred pink. 

 

Rose quartz earring

rescued from the roadside, 

shelters in my palm.

 

I remember Jerusalem—the golden

Dome of the Rock hazed out

in dust storms, random stabbings 

 

canceling my trip 

to the Temple Mount

also called Al-Aqsa Mosque. 

 

Different people worship the same places, 

sometimes under different names.

 

Red alert on D’s phone—incoming 

missile—D says she leapt

from her car into a ditch. 

 

My birthday, I sit alone in a Tel Aviv café, 

alarm shrieking—yet none move

to shelter, everyone chatting, trusting 

 

the Iron Dome to intercept.

 

Few can speak of it now: 

trance music, dawn cocktails, 

missile light mistaken for fireworks, 

 

then sudden noises of death—

 

After, women’s bodies mutilated, 

some missing the bottom half—

 

Survivors almost not 

here—eyes hollow, 

speechless they shake                         

                                                

with the silence of living.

 

The darkness you saw, we’re going to bring back 

the light, therapists tell them. 

 

Sometimes only a small body 

part remains, a finger, a foot, a hand, 

                                                                  

trace of mascara on eyelashes, 

an earring she put on that morning.

Author’s Note: The poem blends details, which were reported in The New York Times and BBC, of the violence at the Nova festival with memories of my 2015 visit to Israel. The detail of the earring was reported by the BBC as an example of tiny objects, along with actual body parts, which were all that remained of some victims.  

Heather H. Thomas is a poet from Reading, Pennsylvania, the author of Vortex Street(FutureCycle Press) and five other poetry collections. Recent work has been published in Barrow Street, Cutthroat, New Verse News, Pedestal Magazine, and The Wallace Stevens Journal. Her work is translated into six languages, including Arabic.

MY DEAD FRIEND’S SON POSTS FROM A BOMB SHELTER IN TEL AVIV

by Laurie Kuntz

I can remember you and your dad strolling
the beach, crab hunting.
I was close by teaching my son
not to fear waves going over his head.
You were both four—friends and schoolmates.
 
As parents, we were only 
concerned with keeping
sons safe and sane.
 
When your family immigrated to Tel Aviv,
I admonished your dad for taking you 
from a melting pot into fire.
A mensch from Boston, 
bringing up a son by the beach
would be enough for most. 
 
Three decades later,
your dad is gone and you post
ramblings of war from a bomb shelter,
numbers of the missing, injured, and dead—
 
Today your post is shorter, the news is the same
the sirens—louder, the numbers—rising
while the world becomes immune
our gasps less forceful
as we scroll down giving a thumbs up 
to  blooming gardens, exotic recipes, and all 
that is coming soon to a theater near you.
Anything to alleviate the burden of responsibility.

Laurie Kuntz  has published two poetry collections (The Moon Over My Mother’s House, Finishing Line Press and Somewhere in the Telling, Mellen Press), and three chapbooks (Talking Me Off The Roof, Kelsay Books, Simple Gestures, Texas Review Press, and Women at the Onsen, Blue Light Press). Simple Gestures, won the Texas Review Poetry Chapbook Contest, and Women at the Onsen won the Blue Light Press Chapbook Contest.  Her 6th poetry book, That Infinite Roar, will be published by Gyroscope Press at the end of 2023. She has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net Prize. Her work has been published in Gyroscope Review, Roanoke Review, Third Wednesday, One Art, Sheila Na Gig, and many other literary journals.  She currently resides in Florida, where everyday is a political poem waiting to be written.

REMEMBER THE MISSING

by Lois Marie Harrod

An installation in the form of a dinner table set for Shabbat, the Jewish sabbath, stands outside the Tel Aviv Museum of Art—with 203 empty chairs representing those taken hostage by Hamas in its surprise attack on Israel on October 7. Photo: Tamir Kalifa for The New York Times, October 21, 2023.

203 place settings, one for each hostage

believed to be in Gaza, no end, no beginning

of the guests who have not appeared—

only a plate, a napkin and a wine glass for each, 

the photo taken as the sun sets so that the wine glasses

cast their solitary shadows on the backs of folding chairs.

Up and down what seems an endless table, wine bottles

stand uncorked, apples at each guest's place, 

bread, boats of flowers as far as the camera

can frame, empty chairs for hundreds, thousands,

all those made late for dinner by the rabid angers

of a few, and there is a woman too

caught by the photographer

walking behind the empty chairs.

She wears blue jeans and cropped top.

She has with a small tattoo on her left wrist.

She is looking at her i-Phone. 

She does not seem to see the endless table of empty seats.

Editor's Note: On October 21, it was believed that Hamas had captured 203 hostages; on Monday, October 23, according to The New York Times, Israel said that Hamas holds 222 hostages.

Lois Marie Harrod’s 18^th collection Spat was published by Finishing Line Press, 2021 and her chapbook Woman by Blue Lyra, 2020. Dodge poet, life-long educator and writer, she is published in literary journals and online ezines from American Poetry Review to Zone 3.

MY STEPSON IN TEL AVIV SENDS A SHORT VIDEO

by Catherine Gonick

At night, on a street near his house

neighbors follow as soldiers carry

a spent missile as if it were a body.

The weapon that landed, killing

only itself, is about the size

of a man, maybe six feet long,

one end twisted by impact.

It takes three men to carry the gray

corpse to wherever they are going.

I don’t know how it is in Hebrew

or Arabic, but in English, when we say 

a body, we know without being told

whether the body is dead or alive.

Catherine Gonick has published poetry in journals including Live Encounters, Notre Dame Review, Forge, Blue Heron Review,and Beltway Poetry Quarterly, and in anthologies including Support Ukraine, Grabbed, and Rumors, Secrets & Lies: Poems About Pregnancy, Abortion and Choice. She works in a company that slows the rate of global warming through projects that repair and restore the climate. 

THE HORA FOR THE FIRST PASSOVER UNDER PRESIDENT T***P

by Zev Shanken

It's a chilly afternoon for Tel Aviv,
but we swim like we used to
and shiver and laugh,

because we’re not that old,
though I’m fat and bald,
but as soon as I visit you, you—

No!  You don’t turn me young and thin and hairy again.

Instead, you teach me the Hebrew
for loving a land
even when bad guys win,

for you've shown me the movements
for dancing on sand
with partners whom you pray to change.

Zev Shanken lived in Israel in the mid-1960s before, during and after the 1967 Six Day War.  His poems “Twilight of the Greatest Generation” and “High Noon” appeared in earlier issues of TheNewVerse.News.  Last year, Full Court Press released his selected poems Memory Tricks. 

MY BROTHER

by Kelly Jadon

A Palestinian laborer in Israel. Image source: Jerusalem Post

he works with his hands

digging, building, construction

labor

tunneling mountains

putting up walls of steel

one week and three hours

away from home

as many men

to feed families in the north

each Sabbath, driving highway

with cash, eggs, vegetables

a smile, a hug, treats for five children

dinner kept warm

chicken with sumac,¹ roasted batata²

fattoush³

yet, my brother is late today

we wait

his wife, Nagla, calls his cell

it rings, no answer

two hours

she phones again

and again, no answer

time moves slowly in the East

with God—in His time

finally, the call comes

not my brother—another

his voice, dry as crackers

raspy, hoarse

Nagla screams

unsure, I take the phone

“allo?”

…”your brother, ahhok,⁴

he was found, hung,

from the 4^th story…”

recoiling in shock

my mind recalls

John—who died on Patmos⁵

Stephen—outside the gate

with stones⁶

and Peter—who like

my brother,

was taken where he

did not wish to go⁷

“a nightmare” cries Nagla

our mother tongue

a cousin

my brother’s faith

the world cannot comprehend

for kosmos⁸ thinks as the Cretans⁹

fleshy,

and is natural

without Spirit

full of sin

autopsy, three days, Nazareth

we buried him today

within our crypt—

all others pushed aside

making room for his box

the city present—though media

stayed away—left unreported

yet 30,000 saw the truth

of one of the least of these

who came to bid him goodbye

kiss his coffin

scream, cry

this one, my blood, our blood

he is—one of us

the body

his blood, like Abel’s,

cries from the ground beneath

our crypt

covered over with the Blood

of al Messiah¹⁰

awaiting the Great White Throne

when bodies rejoin spirit and soul

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.”

Who sees all, knows all

--even, the evil intentions of men

whose wrong thoughts toward murder

led them to believe that

no one is watching

_________________________________________________________________

1. sumac—an edible Middle Eastern ground spice

2. batata—Arabic for potato

3. fattoush—a Middle Eastern salad which includes squares of dried or fried pita

4. ahhok—Arabic for brother

5. Patmos—a Greek island in the Aegean Sea, meaning  “my killing”

6. Acts 7:56-60, Bible

7. John 21:18-19, Bible

8.  kosmos—Koine Greek for “the world”

9. Cretans—Koine Greek for those from the Greek island of Crete, meaning “fleshy”

10. al Messiah—Arabic for “the Messiah”

Author' note on the poem: A story that has gone unreported, but just happened a few days ago--to an in-law, in Tel Aviv.

Kelly Jadon is a graduate of Spring Arbor University and holds a degree in English with a concentration on poetry.  She is a teacher, poet, and writer.  Her poem "To Taste The Oil" was recently featured at the University of Colorado "Eye Contact" event as an audible poem.  Her poetry has been published both online and in print in several literary journals. Her poetry book To Taste the Oil: The Flavor of Life in the Middle East was published in June 2014 by Into The Deep Books.

BALANCE

by Carol Alexander

KHAN YUNIS, Gaza Strip -- The Al Haj family never heard it coming: An Israeli missile smashed into their home in the middle of the night, destroying the structure and killing eight relatives in a matter of seconds. A survivor said all the dead were civilians. --CTV News, July 10, 2014

You write, this is not fun. Two rockets arc above Tel Aviv
and in the streets, sirens and rubble. I forget you for weeks at a time
until you write about a trip to Mount Hebron, bellflowers, mignonette,
the grandchild's bit of tooth, a logy rock agama in the sun.

I hope you're getting a balanced view. There are bodies in red rags,
pensive cups of coffee after dawn, the drawing heat of the day.
Ordinary death proceeds with its modest civilities, prayers in shul.
In Khan Younis, a family shatters like a crystal cup; no prayer
will bind flesh to soul, no cool wind tame the burning of the coast.

Tell how it is for you, a garden with tall weeds, a son in the hills.
On your land, figs are slowly ripening despite the spider mites,
despite the lack of rain, the sirens louder than a mullah's call.
Heat underlies the very ground where traders shook out silk.

You hope the dusty rocks and rags will be reported truthfully.
You hope, worried by tomato rot, to grow old.

A writer for trade and educational publishing, Carol Alexander has authored numerous children’s books, served as a ghostwriter for radio and trade publishing, and taught at colleges around the metropolitan area. In 2011-2012, her poetry appears—or is scheduled to appear-- in literary journals and anthologies published by Avocet, Boyne Berries (UK), Chiron Review, Cave Moon Press, The Canary, Danse Macabre, Earthspeak, Eunoia Review, Fade Poetry Journal (UK), Fat Daddy’s Farm Press, Fried Chicken and Coffee, The Mad Hatter’s Review, Mobius, Numinous, OVS, Red Poppy Review, Red River Review, River Poets Journal, Sleeping Cat Books, The Whistling Fire, and Write Wing Publishing.

IT HAD BEEN WINTER

by Roger Aplon

She came to him followed 

by her mother & her three daughters. He waited

sipping strong black coffee 

& reading the interview with Dayan’s wife &

how the country’s moral 

fabric was being shredded, how power soils men.

It had been winter, they’d

made a pact, to plant in the spring, invite neighbors, 

the way it had been then,

as their grandfather’s dreams had been written down, how

the land would bear fruit for those 

who dig the wells, bend to furrow & set the seed.

In his dream, his kids play hard 

ball in Gaza when Rachides’ play in Tel Aviv.

In his dream, the Likud

who strut like crowned-kings in Jerusalem, ignore 

their spite, open the cells, call

off the dogs – demolish these blood corrupting walls.

Roger Aplon was a founder & editor of Chicago’s CHOICE Magazine with John Logan and Aaron Siskind. He has published one collection of short stories (Intimacies) & nine collections of poetry, most recently, The Man With His Back To The Room (2007) & It’s Only TV (2013). He occasionally reads his work with musicians from Wormhole & Trummerflora Collective in Yokohama, Japan & the US: San Diego & New York City. He was recently awarded an arts fellowship from the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation in Taos, New Mexico.