FROM THE FIELDS OF MINNESOTA

by Mike Bayles

 

an old watercolor believed to be of Grand Marais, Minnesota

 

 

Each winter fields rested

and in spring they found

new life. My uncle raised

cattle and crops with pride.

 

News played on television

during simpler times

while families sat together

and talked at the dinner table.

 

We had our dreams

of going to the moon

and in quiet times

we looked into clear skies.

 

Buildings in downtown

Minneapolis glistened

our pride, a mecca for most

 

while in St. Paul

cattle displayed at the State Fair

won ribbons while young boys

learned to farm.

 

My cousin and I walked

through pastures and we said

our uncles would never die.

 

We talked of wars,

as soldiers fought

on the other side of the world.

Little did we know that they

would be fought on our streets

 

Back then a man dressed in a cape

could leap over the tallest building

with a single bound. I long

to hold onto that dream.

 

The farm where my cousin once lived

was torn up for a highway

and we’ve fallen out of touch.

Our fathers have died.

 

Now I cry for them

and innocence lost

when the news says

we are killing each other

on the streets I once loved.

Mike Bayles, a lifelong Midwest resident, is the author of seven books of poetry and fiction. His most recent book is The Siouxland and Other Dreams, with poems about Northwest and surrounding areas, and mythology of the land. His writing is informed by his travels when he worked as a flagger/traffic control for construction and utility crews. He is expecting to publish his next collection of poetry this spring.

YOKO LEAVES THE DAKOTA

by Maria Lisella

Yoko Ono’s WishTree at the Museum of Modern Art, 1996.
UK’s Daily Mail broke the story last month of Yoko’s leaving New York City.

… to raise cows on a 600-acre farm

she & Beatles legend John Lennon

purchased 45 years ago, outfitting it

with a herd of 122 cows and 10 bulls …

a dream to live on land as his father did

 

with no plans of returning

 

their attempt to create new lives,

away from crowds, smog, love-ins

and the ceaseless need to be THEM

on West 72 St.—until 1980–

shot in the Dakota archway, Lennon fell

on the feast of the Immaculate Conception

 

with no plans of returning

 

Outdistancing his dad, 47-year old Sean

pushes wheel-chair bound Yoko

from stage to stage, celebrity galas;

she perches alone on the Marcellus Shale

plateau, protests “fracking” for the rest of us,

no longer hibernates in the sprawling Dakota

 

with no plans of returning

 

Controversial, she lived, starved

through World War II,

like a modern-day Eve, gossipy fans

blamed her for breaking up Camelot… 

she offered them her “wish tree” series.

Now widowed 50 years, at 90,

it is as if she has lived 400 years

 

with no plans of returning

Maria Lisella is the sixth Queens Poet Laureate and an Academy of American Poets Fellow. Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, her collections include: Thieves in the Family (NYQ Books), Amore on Hope Street (Finishing Line Press) and Two Naked Feet (Poets Wear Prada). Forthcoming is The Man with a Plan.

LOSING THE LAND

by Barbara Parchim

In 1964, a Vermont farmer burned himself and his farm, rather than surrender his land. Photo: Romaine Tenney on his farm. Credit: Weathersfield Historical Society via The New York Times, May 27, 2021

eminent domain:

the Jack-in-the-box surprise

when you discover

what you thought was yours

never was

 

no matter the 64 years

born and raised on this fertile soil

working the farm, living off the grid

with some draft horses

a herd of dairy cows and a couple of dogs—

the only life you’ve known

 

what remains to be done

when they come to pile

your belongings out in the dusty road?

loose the horses and cows to the field

torch the barns

then return to the house,

send the dogs outside,

nail the doors shut and set it afire

 

eminent domain:

when men sitting at a boardroom table

decide what will become of a man’s life—

take away home and livelihood

in a gesture as simple

as signing a document

and then wonder why

the final chapter ends

with a gun and a pile of bones

in the cellar of a burnt-out house

 

a hill country farm

lies buried beneath the interstate—

the maple that bore witness 57 years ago,

cut down this week as a hazard tree,

a memorial made from the wood

may be erected in this spot,

where parking lot

meets what was once called home

 

Barbara Parchim lives on a small farm in southwest Oregon. She enjoys gardening and wilderness hiking and volunteered for several years at a wildlife rehabilitation facility caring for raptors and wolves. Her poems have appeared (or are forthcoming) in Ariel Chart, Jefferson Journal, Isacoustic, Turtle Island Quarterly, Windfall, Allegro Poetry, Trouvaille Review, Front Porch Review, and others.   Her first book has been selected by Flowstone Press to appear in 2021.

OLD MCDONALD

by Mickey J. Corrigan

Art by Zelley

destroys his own farm

blind eye on the golden hay

clumsily embarking on a sweep

of dirt under fields and rugs 

fistfuls hidden, tossed away

the swamp calm beneath blue skies

and the swell of a flood tide

bearing an economy of crime

bears down, drowns the land.

And there he stands, proud 

pitchfork in one pale hand

flash suit over excessive flesh

his minions and puppets

whiplashed and soft-focused

in the brilliance of a gilt sheen

he has shed the dark cloak

and revealed a plastic heart

that does not beat in tandem,

a harvest plan that starves,

feeding neither bodies nor souls

but the infantile emotional self-

interest of the greedy animal

chowing down fantasy food

and golden age TV dreams 

of power and wealth only

silly fictions bring to life.

From the top of the silo

fake this, false that

the poor garden at his feet

the sick and dying, lost

trampled down, laid out

in a stink pile of manure

his arrogant gaze pitiless

as the Florida sun

burning to a crusty char

all of it,

all that so many

worked so long, so hard 

to plant, tend, grow.

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes Florida noir with a dark humor. Novels include  Project XX about a school shooting (Salt Publishing, UK, 2017) and What I Did for Love a spoof of Lolita (Bloodhound Books, 2019). Kelsay Books recently published the poetry chapbook the disappearing self. Grandma Moses Press will publish the poetry chapbook Florida Man later this year. 

STEALTHY BOMBERS MIGRATING TO VERMONT IN FALL 2019

by Tricia Knoll

A federal report on the noise impact of F-35 jets on the area surrounding the Burlington International Airport is delayed again. Noise exposure information due from the Federal Aviation Administration regarding the F-35A Lightning II stealth fighter jets was due in December, then February. Now, according to airport officials, the information will be publicly available—tentatively—next month. —Burlington Free Press, March 14, 2019

The cemetery and the dairy face off against each other
on the winter-potholed two-lane road that runs
between two towns that aren’t really very big.

The F-35s are coming to the most populated part
of the state with the politicians’ blessings. On those wings
hang jobs, a possibly spotty safety record, and cost over-runs

that bring the war machine to where
the cemetery and the dairy face each other
on a first warm spring day.  The flags

in the cemetery reflect winter tatter
and the pasture grass for the cows
is brown. Someone on the radio

states that the new planes are four times
louder than the F-15s that left town
on Saturday, but whose brain can multiply

sound and decibels well enough to imagine that?
Suspicious why the FAA hasn’t issued
those sound maps, where the four times

as loud will be suffered. One man half-heartedly
blames the government shut down. The kids
in the school haven’t had their exercises yet

for when the noise terrifies them. They are
busy having their regular old active-shooter
drills. Even when the pasture grass is brown

and the flags on the cemetery are winter torn.

Tricia Knoll lives directly in the flight path of the F35s that will be stationed at the Vermont Air National Guard. She is a poet who is very tired of war machines, bellicose wall builders and those who seek to jail young children. 

OLD MAN SHOUTING IN A BARN

by Tricia Knoll

Photo by the poet.

On any given fine fall day and this one was given
as gold on the hills, gold in sunshine after rain,
two young parents push a stroller for a baby
wearing a knit hat down a fine gravel road.


The sun might have known it would dip soon
to a sunset but in that moment’s radiance, I asked
what brought them to this Vermont farm
this afternoon. They had many choices


on a day as fine as this. Snow has already topped
a nearby mountain. My purple petunias took on frost
last night. These October days are numbered
more reluctantly than most days, double digiting.


They said they came to u-pick a pumpkin
for Halloween to carve the baby’s first ghost face.
Light a candle. A fine Sunday to get out. Then
they heard “the old man shouting in the barn.”


I nod to the baby, ask “Another first?”
They smile. Another first for sure.
Too bad the baby won’t remember this.
That old man is Bernie Sanders,


a rally three weeks before mid-terms.
The baby inherits our crisis of climate change
and on this fine day, the old man whipped us
up to cheering his amplified words in a barn.


The mother, father and little boy—who will soon
see his first ghost—go rolling up the road to a field
where they might find a perfect pumpkin,
harvest gold despite this fine summer’s drought.



Tricia Knoll attended the rally in a barn in rural Vermont for Democratic candidates in Vermont on Sunday, October 14. This is a true story that means whatever you think it does.

UKRAINIAN FARMING

by Philip C. Kolin

The UN humanitarian aid chief has expressed alarm after UN agencies were ordered out of rebel-held parts of the Luhansk region in eastern Ukraine. Stephen O'Brien said the agencies had been told to leave by Friday, and several international non-governmental organisations (NGOs) by Saturday. Pro-Russian rebels seized parts of the Luhansk and Donetsk regions last year. Almost 8,000 people have been killed since fighting erupted in eastern Ukraine in April 2014, a month after Russia annexed the southern Crimea peninsula. A ceasefire in eastern Ukraine has been holding in the past two weeks, although there have been reports of occasional shelling. —BBC News, September 25, 2015

In the Ukraine this year
it is hard to tell
crops from corpses
except for red cabbages
that bleed all over
the fields. The white heat
from exploding artillery shells
only rain compost heaps of
hearts, lungs, spleens, moans.
The Politburo keeps denying
that its soldiers have been
trying to impersonate farmers.


Philip Kolin is the  University Distinguished Professor at the University of Southern Mississippi where he also edits  the  Southern Quarterly. He has published more than 40 books on Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, African American playwrights as well as  seven collections of poems. His most recent book  is Emmett Till in Different States: A Collection of Poems forthcoming in November from Third World Press.

ROBERT FROST POSTS ON FACEBOOK

by Earl J. Wilcox

Sat down on back porch
This morning after feeding
Chickens, like yesterday.
Watched morning mist
Circle round apple orchard,
Listened long to lonesome
Dove coo its mate. Two lines
Of new poem came to me
During a long night. “Whose
Woods these are I think I know,”
But next line does not seem right,
Still I post it here for interest
To see if anyone likes it.
“His house is in the village
Though.” Now if only I had
A few more lines to go with
These two I might make a poem.
Probably won’t come to much,
Yet the Rhode Island Red Rooster
Liked the lines when I said them
To him. What do you think?
I will see if I can get more
Started while I walk around farm.
Cloudy and cold here in Vermont
Today. Could even snow. Rob.


Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he is a regular contributor to The New Verse News. More of Earl's poetry appears at his blog, Writing by Earl.

CLEANING UP DETROIT

by Iris Litt

A hedge fund manager’s plan to help clean up Detroit by letting baby goats graze on public land has come to an abrupt end — or so it seems. Mark Spitznagel, the founder of the $6 billion hedge fund Universa Investments, brought 18 goats to the Brightmoor neighborhood of Detroit last Thursday to graze on public lots as part of a campaign to promote urban farming. The goats were not well received by some city officials, who said local laws prohibited having animals graze on city property. So after a whirlwind 48 hours, Mr. Spitznagel’s baby goats were back on a truck on Saturday heading out of the neighborhood, destined to be sold to butchers. --Alexandra Stevenson, NY Times, June 9, 2014 (Image source: Housers at Idyll Farm)

Don’t depend on Man
To clean up Detroit.
But goats can.

Will they get any thanks?
No, all they’re going to get
is Eaten.
Yes, when their work is done
they’ll be sent to the final farm.

In reward for their gesture
they should be given a pasture
strewn with cigarette butts
and other yummy stuff.

The goat
should get our vote.

Iris Litt’s most recent book of poetry is What I Wanted to Say from Shivastan Publishing. An earlier book of poetry, Word Love,  was published by Cosmic Trend Publications.  She has had poems in many literary magazines including Onthebus, Confrontation, Hiram Poetry Review, The  New Renaissance, Asphodel, Poetry Now, Central Park, Icarus, The Rambunctious Review, Pearl, The Ledge, Earth's Daughters, Poet Lore, Scholastic, and Atlantic Monthly (special college edition).  She has had short stories in Travellers Tales, Prima Materia, Out Of The Catskills,  and The Second Word Thursdays Anthology; and articles in Pacific Coast Journal, Writer's Digest, and The Writer.  She teaches writing workshops in Woodstock, NY, and has taught creative writing at Bard College,  SUNY/Ulster, Arts Society of Kingston, Writers in the Mountains, Educational Alliance, New York Public Library, and Marble Collegiate Church. She lives in Woodstock and in New York City’s Greenwich Village.

A COMPANION OF HONOUR

by Martha Landman





            “. . . the sign of a mind that is restless but not wandering.”  -- The Guardian


A farm girl, lover of cats,
started writing and never stopped
the controversy

from communism to feminism
a sharp contrarian
chanting slogans
a step away from lunacy

ran away from motherhood
into a household of adolescent
waifs and strays

“I will not”
written in her Bible

every pigeonhole declined
a curtsied “no” to damehood
in a non-existent empire

her visionary power captured
in a golden notebook on a
dinosaur typewriter
her novels and scepticism
travelled the world

she thought freely, independently
an irascible soul with little tact

an impenetrable icon of wisdom
a lover of Sufis and cats.


Martha Landman writes poetry in North Queensland, Australia.  Her work has appeared in various journals including Every Day Poets, Poetry 24, Eunoia Review, Muse.

CLIMATE CHANGE SEEN AS RISK TO FOOD

by Jim Gustafson

Image source: The Verge

Climate change will pose sharp risks to the world’s food supply in coming decades, potentially undermining crop production and driving up prices at a time when the demand for food is expected to soar, scientists have found.  --NY Times, November 1, 2013

There will, or so it seems, come a day
            when warming left-overs for dinner
                         will be only a good memory,

like the one of our visit to grandma and grandpa
            on their farm,  when we played in the straw
                         in the loft of the barn,

ate the white chicken that ran the yard,
            potatoes pulled from patch, cooked  then mashed,
                        and fresh plucked peaches in pie.

Grandma and grandpa have now grown cold
            in the ground next to church down the road.
                        All day their granite stone warms in the sun.

At night it holds the heat, and listens to corn
            cry for drink, beans beg for dew,
                        as restless children in old farm houses

pull blankets from their bodies, wish
            for just a breeze to come cool the night
                        with fresh promise.


Jim Gustafson is an MFA student at the University of Tampa. His most recent book, Driving Home, was published by Aldrich Press in January, 2013. Jim lives in Fort Myers, Florida where he reads, writes, and pulls weeds.