AND SOON RELIEF

by tom bauer

United States Congresswoman Rashida Tlaib has introduced a resolution to recognise the Palestinian Nakba, the term used to describe the forced displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians before and during the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948. —AlJazeera, May 11, 2023

The United Nations for the first time on Monday officially commemorated the displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians in the war surrounding the creation of Israel 75 years ago, drawing a sharp response from the Israeli ambassador to the world body. —The New York Times, May 15, 2023

how long the shame of saying words all wrong

not knowing who is right or wrong in harm.

how long to never criticize for fear
of self-betrayal, life, and friend-betrayal,
the edge betrayals of a world of stone.

the concrete streets and building fronts are full.
emptiness is everywhere in loneliness.

whatever loss there is, life returns in full.
spring flowers come again in spring for all.
it is but one promise of being in life.

we must not waste it all, we cannot waste
it all, we dare not waste it all again.

a moving field of faces growing warm
in sunlight, yellow sand, dusky nights, rain
refreshing all the land, crumbly when
we climb the yielding earth with fresh roots.

tom bauer lives in montreal with his sons and plays boardgames.

YOU ENTER HIS HOUSE

by Nathan Porceng

U.S. Roman Catholic bishops are due this week to discuss whether politicians, including President Joe Biden, should receive Communion while supporting abortion and LGBTQ rights, a debate that has divided the clergy and laid bare internal cultural rifts. —Reuters, June 15, 2021

and his air smells funny

and his art looks funny

and his wine tastes funny

but you try not to offend him,

for you’re dining in his house.

You exchange pleasantries.

You catch up a bit.

You ask about Gabe,

and Michael

and all the other boys

from yard days past

and he tells you they’re

fine,

even made a bit of money,

though they don’t come

around as often as they should,

and you try not to offend him,

for you’re dining in his house.

And it’s Eastertime,

or Christmastime,

or all another holy time.

He asks if it’s been a rough year?

“You don’t look so well.”

“You used to be so giving.”

You swill your wine.

You swallow.

“Yes, it has been a rough year,”

you spit,

but you try not to offend him

for you’re dining in his house.

He tells you

he likes you 

better in person.

You tell him

you like him 

better by mail.

He nods.

He appreciates your candor.

He makes a little joke.

He tells you he has it on the BEST of authorities

that this is FINALLY the year

that your team

(Panthers, Pirates, Penguins... )

will win it all.

In years past,

you’d fake a smile,

and try not to offend him,

but you can’t even manage

that.

He plays you a song.

He ushers you out.

You leave his house,

feeling emptier for it.

Nathan Porceng is a Washington-based poet, songwriter, and submariner. As part of the band Bridge Out, he won first place at the 2014 Northeastern Songwriter Festival in Brookfield, CT. He firmly believes Joe Strummer gave us all the tools we need to save the world.

ONLY ONE TICKET PER FAMILY PER DAY

 by Susannah W. Simpson

Photo: The Seemapuri crematorium in eastern New Delhi, on April 29, 2021. "As India's second wave of coronavirus sweeps through the country, bodies are piling up faster than workers can cremate them or build new pyres… Demand is so high that Seemapuri crematorium has expanded into its parking lot, where dozens of workers construct new cremation platforms from bricks and mortar. There is so little space and so many bodies that families have to get a ticket and wait in line for their turn." —CNN, May 1, 2021

Delhi... 2031... 

Blue-grey haze hangs low over

bundles of bodies and bundles of wood.

When the wood runs out, blankets

and chairs, shutters, both yellow

and green serve double-duty to carry

and to burn, ashes—snowdrifts

of mothers, daughters, uncles

float on the Ganges.  No one left to fill

Diwali lanterns with oil, no one left

to string up lights, to sweep or wash streets,

no one left to weave marigolds into their hair,

or wrap saffron saris round the young and old

no one left to feed the water buffalo,

or to tie ribbons to their tails.

Susannah W. Simpson is a hospice nurse. Her work has been published in The North American Review, Potomac, The Wisconsin Review, South Carolina Review, POET, Nimrod International, Poet Lore, Salamander, Xavier Review. Her poem "Lily" has been anthologized in Full Moon and Foxglove (Three Drops Press, UK), and her book Geography of Love & Exile was published by Cervena Barva Press in 2016. She holds an MFA from Bennington, a Ph.D. from SUNY/Binghamton and is the Founder & Co-Director of the Performance Poets of the Palm Beaches.

WHAT MAN HAS MADE OF MAN

by Katherine West

“Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?”

—William Wordsworth, 

“Lines Written in Early Spring”

At first she took everything
Boxes tied with string
Old sugar sacks
Filled
With books
Socks
Grandmother’s sweater
Grandmother’s cider
A journal
A pen

She followed rivers
Creeks
Run-offs
Through orange dirt
She followed the birds
They always knew
Where to find water
And at each
Oasis
She left something behind
A thanks
An offering
A sacrifice
A song

Until it was summer
And she walked barefoot
Over the hot rocks
Of foothills
Hands empty now
Even her songs
Only in her head
Her throat
Her mouth
The cider
Inside her
The socks
Decorating trees
The sweater
A scarecrow

She came at last
To the high country
Green mountains
A long meadow where wild iris
Still bloomed
As if time had stopped
And spring lived always
In this one place
Where a large chair
Throne-like
Had been set on a rise
At one end
Commanding
An eternal view
Of beauty

Red velvet cushions
Gold painted arms
All looked new
As if weather were not allowed
To touch it
She
Did not touch it
Did not sit
She tried to go on
But the throne
Pulled her back
Once
Twice
Three times
She left the meadow behind
Only to turn
To return
Following her own path
Through damp grass

Finally
Exhausted
She lay down at the far end
Of the meadow
And slept
And when she woke the moon
Was up
The meadow filled
With people
Thin
Sick
They surrounded
The throne

A bowl filled with rice
Sat before it
One by one
The people stood
Came forward
And took a single
Grain of rice
Until the bowl
Was empty

Then there was silence
Then out of the silence
Came a song
Like the wind in winter
Rising
From the people
And the words of the song
Were names
Only names
On and on
The people sang
Rocking
Weeping
Singing
Names

Until the sky began to fade
And the song
And the people
Faded too
But the throne
The golden throne
Glittering in the new sun
The throne remained


Katherine West lives in Southwest New Mexico, near the Gila Wilderness, where she writes poetry about the soul-importance of wilderness, performs it with her musician husband, Yaakov, and teaches seasonal poetry workshops that revolve around "wilderness writing."  She has written three collections of poetry: The Bone Train, Scimitar Dreams, and Riddle, as well as one novel, Lion Tamer.  Her poetry has appeared in journals such as Lalitamba, Bombay Gin, and TheNewVerse.News  which recently nominated her poem "And Then the Sky" for a Pushcart Prize.