GAZA, JUNE 8, 2024

by Elizabeth Poreba

The office of the U.N. High Commissioner for Human Rights said on Tusday that it was “profoundly shocked” by the impact on civilians of Israel’s raid to free four hostages, adding that actions by both Hamas and Israel may be war crimes. —The New York Times, June 11, 2024. Photo: A Palestinian medic carrying an injured child Saturday at a hospital during an Israeli military operation in the town of Nuseirat in central Gaza.

Credit...Mohammed Saber/EPA, via Shutterstock

We know from ancient bones that a pigeon or dove could atone 
now these bodies strewn 
sufficient sacrifice when less than a lamb or goat would suffice 
bodies anonymous to us 
the same birds that crowd our streets
but these could devise no flight 
their blood set the sinner right  
damage—collateral,  blood—fungible 
a ram replaces a son, or if no ram, 
a score of these little ones.

Elizabeth Poreba is a retired New York City High School English teacher. She has published two collections of poems. Vexed and Self Help (Wipf and Stock), and two chapbooks, The Family Profile and New Lebanon (Finishing Line Press). Her work is also in This Full Green Hour, an anthology composed of work by six of the O’Clock Poets (Sonopo Press, 2008). Kelsay Press will soon publish her new collection Yamma.

ON THE ARREST OF A DOMESTIC ROCK DOVE

by Matthew King

A pigeon that was captured eight months back near a port after being suspected to be a Chinese spy, is released at a vet hospital in Mumbai, India, Tuesday, Jan.30, 2024. Police had found two rings tied to its legs, carrying words that looked like Chinese. Police suspected it was involved in espionage and took it in. Eventually, it turned out the pigeon was an open-water racing bird from Taiwan that had escaped and made its way to India. With police permission, the bird was transferred to the Bombay Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, whose doctors set it free on Tuesday. (Anshuman Poyrekar/Hindustan Times via AP via ABC News, February 1, 2024) 

It’s said, when Noah’s ark had run aground

but water stretched far as the human eye

could see, he sent a dove out as a spy.

Her first sortie betrayed for miles around

no evidence of anything undrowned,

but with another week for things to dry,

and Earth to soak in hues of sun and sky,

she brought a sprig of leafy green she found.

The world may end, depending on a word.

We all know, if not why, a dove is meant

to signal peace, so let’s rename the bird

and think, if we would like, it might be sent

to fight for land or money or religion:

that’s no dove, it’s just a dirty pigeon.

Author's note: A Taiwanese racing pigeon, which had been detained in India for eight months on suspicion of being a Chinese spy, was released last week. (In 2020 Indian authorities arrested a suspected Pakistani spy pigeon.) "Pigeon" is another name for domesticated rock doves, and the idea of a spying dove, for me, recalls the bird Noah sent from the ark to see if there was anything alive in the world. The image of the dove returning with an olive branch is of course a widely recognized peace symbol, used for instance in the logo of the annual UN-sponsored International Day of Peace. In light of so much going on in the world, including struggles over naming things and what follows from our naming of them, it is darkly fitting that a dove by another name would be mistaken for a hostile agent.

Matthew King used to teach philosophy at York University in Toronto, Canada; he now lives in what Al Purdy called "the country north of Belleville", where he tries to grow things, counts birds, takes pictures of flowers with bugs on them, and walks a rope bridge between the neighbouring mountaintops of philosophy and poetry.

OLIVES

by Gabriella Brand

Johannesburg-born artist Adam Broomberg, 53, took photographs of olive trees to his mother just before she died in December last year. She had been an ardent supporter of the state of Israel and a firm Zionist. Like many people in South Africa’s Jewish community, her family were Holocaust survivors. Both her parents lost 90% of their family in that pogrom. Broomberg has been taking pictures of ancient olive trees in Palestine for the past 18 months — most of them were planted more than a thousand years ago. The oldest one, called the Al-Badawi tree, is over 4 500 years old. Every two years this tree still yields 800kg of olives. It is nearly 20m high and has a circumference of 25m. “There is the sweetest man who lives there; at night he sleeps underneath the Al-Badawi tree just to protect it,” Broomberg tells me on a Zoom call from Berlin, where he is now based. “I was meant to go on 23 October, to take seven of my students to Palestine to go and pick olives from the Al-Badawi tree, because it is olive-picking season.” But the Israeli war—many describe it as a genocide—on Gaza, about 75km away, has put a firm brake on that plan. “It’s heart-breaking not to be able to go there,” Broomberg says. He pauses and closes his eyes. Since 1967 more than 800 000 of these trees have been either uprooted or burnt to the ground by Israeli authorities or by illegal Jewish settlers under the supervision of the military. Between August 2020 and 2021, more than 9 300 olive trees were destroyed in the West Bank, according to The Art Newspaper.  —Mail & Guardian (South Africa), October 21, 2023

Is there anything more innocent than olives,
green and heavy on the branch, 
Is there anything more peaceful than those branches,
Or more gentle than the wind chime of those leaves?

Isn’t it always the olive branch offered, between man and wife,
Between nations, the olive branch carried off to the Moon, even,
coded into statue and treaty, held out with pleading arms
Noah, himself, relieved when the dove returns 
with that verdant sign in its beak.
Mud receding, the return of life. 

Deborah was going to pick olives this fall
a special harvest program, there, by the Mediterranean 
Israelis gathering with Palestinians, Palestinians picking next to Israelis
Round hard olives in their hands, not stones, not weapons. just olives
An effort to extract some small oily, slippery drops of justice. 

And then came the news, the shock of it,
in that holy, but defiled place 
and the world gasped in horror
and the olives flew off the trees
bleeding, ripped, raped, burned
and the trees fell to the ground
and hope scattered and hid.

So many wrongs
No matter from which  hillside you gaze
The soil festers with pain 
Hate fueled, fertilized, continued. 
Why can’t there just be olives?


Gabriella Brand’s work has appeared worldwide  in over fifty literary magazines. Her latest U.S published poems and short stories can be found in Abandoned Mine, Syncopation, and Amaranth Journal. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Gabriella lives near New Haven, Connecticut, where she teaches foreign languages.

COLLECTIVE NOUNS FOR BIRDS

by Katherine Page

Workers at the Field Museum in Chicago inspecting birds that were killed when they flew into the windows of the McCormick Place Lakeside Center. Credit: Lauren Nassef/Chicago Field Museum, via Associated Press, via The New York Times, October 8, 2023

There’s a circumference of concrete paths 
around earth’s freshwater body
down which you ride your bike.
Cold flutters sharp on pink knuckles,
evening cicadas once a deafening scream,
the size of a hummingbird with a tymbal spring
now ghosts gripping tree bark shells.
Some people have bells or shout
on your left but you pedal gently
around clumps of walking friends,
air cupping October leaves as they twirl
petals and click to the asphalt below. 

You can’t stop looking at the telephone wires,
the gray space of sky between intersecting lines,
the softest eruptions of birds blooming into flight,
their punctuations of gravitational ease—
comma comma question—
a cote, a murder, a brood, 
a flock, a worm, a quarrel, 
a charm, a scold,
a trembling. 

Nearly a thousand died last night,
warblers, waterthrush, yellowthroats
slamming warm, flapping bodies into the brightness 
of a shoreline Chicago glass. 
It’s impossible to see where one things starts
and another one ends.
Now even in a first floor apartment
you can still imagine the pattering
of rain on the roof. The maple hands are turning,
neighborhood cats waul through the dark.
In the morning, 
a dove coos in the evergreen 
outside your tiny window.


Katherine Page is an elementary school teacher and writer living in Chicago. She is working on a manuscript about teaching and learning. She has poems published in Beyond Queer Words, Awakened Voices, Evocations Review, Green Linden Press, Open Minds Quarterly, Wingless Dreamer Press, Rough Cut Press, and Passengers Journal. She is a graduate of the 2022–23 Lighthouse Writers Workshop Poetry Collective in Denver, CO.

MEDIA SPEAKS

by Patricia Carragon

The internet is a war zone—

violence seizes eyes,

rhetoric bangs on eardrums.

Another report

shoves smoke up nostrils,

cuts vocal cords from 

speaking the truth.

The zombie apocalypse

handcuffed to take sides.

 

Justice walks

amid bombed-out cities, 

wears bandages and blood

of innocent minds—

limps on crutches,

unshielded—

determined

to breathe life back 

into the walking dead.

 

Finds Peace

trapped in the rubble—

its tattered feathers 

drip in blood and ash.

Inside its beak,

a scorched branch

of an unlived tree—

two leaves

still intact.

Patricia Carragon’s recent publications include Dreams in Hiding Anthology, Fixed and Free Quarterly, Jerry Jazz Musician, Out Loud, an LGBTQA Literary Arts Anthology (Red or Green Books), Soup Can Magazine, The Scene, The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow Anthology, When Women Speak Poetry Anthology, Vol. 1, Witchery, et al. Her debut novel is Angel Fire (Alien Buddha Press). Her books from Poets Wear Prada are Meowku and The Cupcake Chronicles. She hosts Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology. 

DRY JULY

by David Chorlton

Today the inside knows what the outside’s like,
cats asleep and windows closed
with nobody walking on the street
and birds in the yard waiting for a shadow
to perch on.

                     It’s a hundred-
and-Hell degrees this afternoon, the devil’s
breath for a breeze
and climate change denial melts
when the temperature dances
on the asphalt in the road.

                                                The midnight low
is too high for living outdoors. Another
record falls. The homeless camp
was swept away and a public nuisance
turned into a death threat.

                                                     A dove
has made a dust bath in a bare patch
on the lawn, a man with no address
lies down with his belongings
at a bus stop where there’s shade.

A lizard on the back wall
flashes his lightning scales as he climbs
a few more degrees
                                     of dry heat
and doesn’t stop until he’s safely reached
the air conditioned sky.

David Chorlton is a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems often reflect his affection for the natural world, as well as occasional bewilderment at aspects of human behavior. He still produces occasional watercolors and is attentive to the local wildlife.

BLESSING THE ANIMALS

by David Chorlton

On and around The Feast of St. Francis, October 4 this year, many churches organize a Blessing of the Animals to which dogs, cats, bird, bunnies, ponies, chickens, and all creatures great and small are welcome.

Here’s a cat who’d take

the dinner from a china plate but bless

her anyway; she doesn’t know

the rules of etiquette. Consider the coyote

blessed when he stops in the middle of the street

and looks back at a pedestrian

his wildness has touched. Bless the starlings

who were fruitful and

multiplied from coast to coast, and bless

the common pigeon for

turning waste lots into food. Bless

the rattlesnake who curls up at a trail’s edge

by stepping carefully around him,

and save

for the jaguar who returns to

ancient hunting grounds

a special blessing that will follow him through

darkness. Shall we dare

to shower favor on the rats who climb the final

daylight and cavort

in yards and vegetable beds? Or spare

an extra prayer for the Great horned owl

when he is done with ferrying souls

to comfort and a resting place?

When the Cooper’s hawk is waiting

for a mourning dove, be generous as this world

in which an ocean is the predator

and a river is the prey.

David Chorlton has lived in Phoenix since 1978, and has shared home with many cats, birds, and occasionally dogs. The creatures who visit his yard appear frequently in his new book Poetry Mountain from Cholla Needles in Joshua Tree, CA., who also published the poems his white cat Raissa wrote in the late Clinton years (of a very concrete nature) in a little book called Gilded Snow along with her owner's commentary.

HOPE

by Sandra Anfang

“Hope and Justice” by David Garibaldi

is not the thing with feathers bickering at the feeder

bullying the finches into flight

 

nor the Hallmark card, faded from decades of cliché

shoved in the back of the dollar store rack

 

Hope is not the white dove flying from the open hymnal

like a pop-up book, nor the blond god on 

 

nana’s closet door smiling from his ruby throne.

It’s not the inscription on the hand-drawn

 

sign buried in roses at the site of the latest

black man’s murder by the men in blue

 

nor the Christian Covid patient emoting from

his ICU bed, hoarding oxygen and prayers

 

while millions of deniers chorus no,

we won’t go to vaccine clinics.

 

Hope is not the promised land behind

a child’s eyes when she mouths on bended knee

 

bless mommy and daddy and

all the creatures in the sea.

 

Is hope the force that pulls us from our beds

when the world seems to have given up?

 

Is it the hands that brew the coffee, steep the tea

debate existence with our feline friends

 

hands that kindle the ritual of another day

as if our time were endless here.

 

Sandra Anfang is a poet, editor, poetry teacher, and visual artist. She’s the author of Looking Glass Heart and Road Worrier (Finishing Line Press, 2016 and 2018) and Xylem Highway (Main Street Rag, 2019) and the founder of Rivertown Poets in Petaluma, CA. Since Covid overtook our lives, she alternates between binging on statistics and walking and writing to allay her fears.

EASTER DAY: 2020

by Devon Balwit

The Empty Tomb by He Qi

Here we are—days spent walled
in our tombs, straining for some sign of life,
pondering the world’s dissolution, our stalled
plans. The promises of faith we only half-
believe, yet still we send out hope like Noah’s
dove over the waters. Somewhere, the numbers
are favorable; someone descends from the peak, awe
gilding their face, glowing like the ruddy embers
of an almost-spent fire. We listen from within
our darkness for footsteps. Help was promised
us, a stone rolled away, rebirth. We begin
the same dance of every day, optimism
with despair, praying for the gasped: come and see—
the surprising confirmation the tomb is empty.


Devon Balwit's most recent collection is titled A Brief Way to Identify a Body (Ursus Americanus Press). Her individual poems can be found in here as well as in Jet Fuel, The Worcester Review, The Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, Apt (long-form issue), Tule Review, Grist, and Rattle among others.

A DAY WITHOUT

by Joe Cottonwood

Children never shut the door
except when they slam it.
Wet-footed dogs run through the house.
A dove lost, confused, flaps against the skylight.
From the turkey in the oven we hear
spits and gurgles. No gobbles.

In broad daylight Uncle Olaf and Aunt Gerta
strip and soak in the hot tub.
The children want to join them. We say no.
They say why not. We say BECAUSE!
They whine. We say okay.

Grampa and his girlfriend Jennifer arrive
on a two-seater bicycle from fifteen miles away.
Grampa is eighty and has no hair.
Jennifer hugs everybody, especially the dogs.

The children in the hot tub are naked.
Neighbor children are watching, pointing.
Neighbor mother says something.
She’s always saying something.
We smile. We bring towels.

Uncle Simon on a stepladder catches
the dove in a hanky. We all make calming
coo-coo-coo sounds as he carries it gently,
so gently outside. Unclasps his fingers.
The dove flies to the nearest tree. Clutches
a branch. Head-bobs toward us. Thankful.

Now let’s hold hands around the table,
close our eyes. Do not think of That Man.
Squeeze (gently) the hand you’re holding.
Let go, like a dove.
Amen.


Joe Cottonwood wants every day to be a Day Without.

FLEEING MOSUL

by Seree Zohar

Between 700 and 1,000 people arrive daily from the embattled city of Mosul to the stretch of UN-run refugee camps just 20 kilometers east of the city's outskirts. —CNN, December 18, 2016. Photo: Iraqi IDPs (internally displaced people ) from fighting in the village of Shora, south of Mosul, reach an Iraqi army checkpoint on the northern outskirts of Qayyarah, which was liberated from ISIS but is still engulfed in thick black smoke from oil wells set ablaze by the retreating militants. IDP’s who reach Qayyarah are then taken to the Ja’dah IDP camp, October 2016. Ivor Prickett—UNHCR via Time.

Homing pigeon launched through dawn, your rhythm alights on me,
fingers, gloats, dehisces: prayer, your cadence chooses me.

White flag?  We hadn't time to buy one.  And nothing here stays white.
Brethren!  We are light!  Scourges thunder news to me.

Amorphous tented Mama,  my weary footsteps echo yours.
Did I once beg for makeup?  To age so young no more amuses me.

On red-moist stone the thrashing dove’s heart seeks its startled head
as the moon shatters her mirror.  A hone-edged screeching nooses me.

In gasps accursed by memory, sounds palpitate, untongued.
Sheared of speech, my youngster throat: its grunted coo accuses me.

They thrill to this: to snatch and strip, recast their prophet’s land
where, slim as a rising blade, a martyr grooms, then bruises, me.

Mama, snatch up your hem and run, for torpor now diffuses me.
My spilling psyche frays.  My throwaway martyr loses me.


Seree Zohar has work published or forthcoming in various print and online venues.

DOVES BY STORMLIGHT

by David Chorlton

Wednesday’s was a sky
to cleanse a sinner of his sins: apocalyptic
rays from sunset
streaming up against a storm
about to break. The telephone cable

between the alley and the house
sagged with the weight of light
from the sun in the west
while earthquake, war, and political
intrigue welled up in the clouds
behind it. All day

the numbers rose
of bodies in the rubble, refugees
and campaign propaganda
until the pale doves

on the power line
brightened into blazing commas
from a text whose words
the news had rendered
insufficient.

David Chorlton is a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems have appeared in many publications on- and off-line, and reflect his affection for the natural world, as well as occasional bewilderment at aspects of human behavior. His most recent book, A Field Guide to Fire, was his contribution to the Fires of Change exhibition shown in Flagstaff and Tucson in Arizona.

THE ART OF PEACE

by Cally Conan-Davies

                     

Picasso, “Dove of Peace,” 1949. Source: “The Dove: Picasso and Matisse,” Lewis Art Café.

When Matisse

gave Picasso his last

fancy pigeon

he drew it

as though

it were a line in the wind

from which all things come

forgiven.


Cally Conan-Davies is a writer who lives by the sea.

NO LONGER CONFINED

by Johnnie Clemens May

Molested as a child
And mute for six years,
Yet you, with regal voice
And erect frame,

As an adult sang sweetly.
Never, once released, did you cease to ascend,
Giving so many fledglings silken wings.
Even Elijah could not work as many wonders.
Love was the creed
On which you based a life
Unlike any other’s:

Rich in word wisdom,
Insistent that the dove would soar,
Persistent in your dance of affirmation.


Johnnie Clemens May has an MFA in poetry from Pacific University and teaches English and creative writing at Glendale Community College in Arizona.