ROWING NORSE

by Craig Crowden

The Cup is ours for the taking.

Our lads are bent on brand building as

we row into the hearts of the world

heading for our colony of Vinland.

Our lads are bent on brand building as

we sail from a Fiord clad in Viking garb.

Heading for our colony of Vinland,

we score iconic team photos.

We sail from a Fiord clad in Viking garb

striking fear into football defenses,

we score iconic team goals

charming even those we sack.

Striking fear into football defenses,

we show Brazil a beautiful game

charming even those we sack,

turning vanquished foes into fans.

We showed Brazil a beautiful game.

We gave England all it could take

turning victorious foes into fans

Off we row home to a parade.

We gave England all it could take

leaving with class and respect.

Off we row home to a parade

while cleverly conquering Instagram.

Leaving with class and respect,

we row into the hearts of the world

while cleverly conquering Instagram.

The Cup is ours for the taking!

*

We row back home to

one hundred-fifty thousand

Norse fans—triumphant!

Hidden in Haaland’s raccoon

lies the heart of the World Cup.

Craig Cowden: As a Norwegian and a fan of the beautiful game, I was very excited when Norway made the World Cup field. Then they put on a master class in marketing starting with an extraordinary photo shoot from a Fjord in Norway. They backed this up with outstanding play reaching the quarterfinals earning respect across the world. They did it with class and lots of fun. I am very proud to be Norwegian.   

IS TODAY ENGLAND AND CONGO OR JORDAN AND FRANCE?

by Jennifer M Phillips

The heat-dome trundles in like a tumbril

lugging 98 degrees. Men are laying asphalt

in the courthouse parking lot, smell

my drug of choice in childhood, tincture

of summer, intoxicating toxin of tar.

I want to summon the ice cream truck for them

with its salutary jingle and chill. Is it still

rumbling round on Willow Lane

in after-school hours? Or divert a mountain rill

to ripple between the marble columns

down the marble steps to cool their feet.

We share a co-misery of heat this July

that tamps our civic feuds and ardors. 

In the deep south, men in kilts stride the lobby

of the Grand Bohemian Hotel—of course they do.

This makes us unreasonably happy.

Boston is learning La Marseillaise,

dining on Fufu and practicing The Wave.

The possibility of joy backspins between us.

Even sad souls without Spanish

now know the meaning of pausa de hydratacion.

Hometowns are parade-ready,

balconies skirted in red, white, and blue.

The French assume it is for them, and why not?

World Cup is a feast for all fools and fans.

We all have sibling-skin in this game.

A much-published bi-national immigrant, gardener, Bonsai-grower, painter, Jennifer M Phillips has lived in five states, two countries, and now, with gratitude, in Wampanoag ancestral land on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Her chapbooks: Sitting Safe In the Theatre of Electricity (i-blurb.com, 2020) and A Song of Ascents (Orchard Street Press, 2022), and Sailing To the Edges (Finishing Line Press, forthcoming 2025). Two of Phillips' poems were nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her collection is Wrestling With the Angel (Wipf & Stock).

TIDY UP

by Peter A. Witt

Nobody can predict how the 48 teams will do at the FIFA World Cup this summer, but if you wanted to gamble on Japan being the tidiest team, you’d surely clean up at the bookies. Thanks to a societal expectation of all Japanese people, you’d never know they were there. —CNN, June 14, 2026

The final whistle echoes across the Dallas pitch,
and the stadium slowly drains,
leaving behind the usual modern tax of celebration:
a landscape of crushed plastic, discarded cups,
and the torn remnants of a stadium afternoon.
Most of us walk away,
assuming the mess belongs to the stadium,
or the city, or anyone but ourselves.

But then, the blue jerseys of the Japanese faithful emerge,
not moving toward the exits,
but walking down the rows.
They carry large, simple trash bags,
bending to collect the garbage left by strangers.
There are no television cameras forcing their hand,
no rewards promised at the gates.

They call it tatsu tori ato wo nigosazu, 
"the bird that flies away leaves the water unstirred."

It is a quiet philosophy woven into the fabric of a childhood,
where classrooms are swept by the students who occupy them,
and responsibility is not a chore,
but a form of respect for the space we share.

It makes you stop and look at the row you just vacated.
Why must we always leave a scar on the places we visit?
Why do we treat the shared world as a landfill managed by someone else?

Imagine a culture where accountability isn't outsourced,
where we take pride not just in the win,
but in the condition of the ground beneath our feet.
To leave a place cleaner than we found it
not for the praise, but simply because we were there.

Peter A. Witt by chance lives in Texas and is a recovering university professor who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for the Best of the Net award and has appeared in a variety of online and print publications. He also writes family history.  His book about his aunt was published by the Texas A&M University Press (Edith's War: Writings of a Red Cross Worker and Lifelong Champion of Social Justice). He is also an avid birder and wildlife photographer.