WHY I SHOW UP ON WEDNESDAY AT 4:30 PM ON THE CURB ACROSS FROM 188 HARVEST LANE IN MY HOMETOWN

by Tricia Knoll

Google Maps photo of 188 Harvest Lane, Williston. It houses the "Law Enforcement Support Center," ie the ICE national data collection facility.

Because I can carry a chair to sit in for one hour

Because I remember what sit in means

Because they will not let us be on their side of the street

Because workers inside need a gated parking lot 

Because the building has only mirror windows

Because we can’t see inside but know enough

Because workers inside can see out

Because they shuffle national data about who will be deported from where and when

Because they maneuver to disappear people 

Because they refuse to share information

Because on this side of the street, we are 13, a jury plus one

Because we vow silence, meditate, stare back at their mirror glass

Because fear brings me back 

Because where else will my tears go

Tricia Knoll lives not far from this ICE national data collection facility in Williston, Vermont. She has joined a group of people to sit across the street from this facility on Wednesday afternoons to remind ourselves and others driving by that the machinations of ICE are continuous, ongoing.

PITY THE NATION

an update

by Kent Reichert 

to his August 25, 3020 New Verse News poem

after Kahlil Gibran

after Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Pity the nation who despises “the other,”
who returns to a past that never was,
where everyone knew their place
and the uncomfortable facts
have been replaced with patriotic fantasies,
as if flags and hats and colors and slogans
are the qualities of true citizenship.

Pity the nation that clings to fictional fears
and praises violence
when used against the unpopular,
the marginalized or those
with whom it disagrees.

Pity the nation that bathes
daily in the warm waters of grievance and victimhood,
accepting no responsibility for its failings,
all the while claiming a Messianic destiny
ordained by God into a faith rarely lived.

Pity the nation that despises books and ideas,
becomes its own arbiter of truth 
and basks in the comfort of ignorance,
that would rather be told what to believe
and look no further.

Pity the nation where the mantle of freedom
is bestowed by those in power
leaving them free to dispense it just
to those they favor.

Pity the nation that calls its own citizens enemies.

Pity the nation…
Pity the nation.


Kent Reichert passes the time spoiling his dogs, practicing digital photography and writing. His poetry has appeared in a variety of journals and anthologies.

IN A TIME OF VIOLENCE

by Iris Jamahl Dunkle

The swab goes deep enough to eliminate

doubt—We stay bubbled in our vehicles, 

press our IDs to the car window's glass—

The doctor's scrubs and PPE are the color of Easter eggs—

The sky blue as a calm sea. When I look up 

and open my mouth to let them insert 

the swab to touch the back of my throat, it burns

with my own fear. Hours before 

a helicopter hovered just feet above my home and I

didn’t know what it was looking for: 

downed power lines to prevent future wildfires or 

another hidden violence I've yet to know.

Iris Jamahl Dunkle was the 2017-2018 Poet Laureate of Sonoma County, CA. Her newest poetry collection West : Fire : Archive will be published by Mountain/ West Poetry Series in 2021.  Her other poetry collections include Interrupted Geographies (Trio House Press, 2017) Gold Passage (Trio House Press, 2013), and There's a Ghost in this Machine of Air (Word Tech, 2015).  Her biography Charmian Kittredge London: Trailblazer, Author, Adventurer is forthcoming from the University of Oklahoma Press. Her poem “Listening to the Caryatids on the Palace of Fine Arts” poem will be featured on 100 buses as part of the San Francisco Beautiful and Poetry Society of America Muni Art 2020 campaign. Her works have been published in Tin House, San Francisco Examiner, Fence, Los Angeles Review of Books, Split Rock Review, Taos Poetry Journal, Pleiades, Calyx, Catamaran, Poet's Market, Women's Studies, and Chicago Quarterly Review. Dunkle teaches at Napa Valley College and is the Poetry Director of the Napa Valley Writers' Conference. 

THE AGE OF MAGA HATS AND A DIMWIT VIRUS

by Lyndi Waters                

 

More Than a Feeling by Matt Lubchansky, The Nib, April 22, 2020

Our generation passes
with both hands over our eyes,
yet moving a certain bluster
through the world as owners,

out the other side
as whimpering eye blinks,
departing roughly the same time
realization dawns

of how the world has carved us,
tumbled us in the rapids
until our edges are smooth.
The preachers wave their cleavers,

hack us apart like fresh fish at market,
politicians widen the space
between the halves
then stuff them with our own fears.

How long will we acquiesce
to rock hunters who pass truth by
in search of people to fit their stories,
characters who have already

been ear-tagged through fable,
pressed into service,
handed scripts and dark glasses.
And yet we continue on with a dimwit virus,

MAGA hats, sippy cups of bleach,
protesters demanding haircuts,
and quiet poets, who navel gaze and describe sunsets
while Denise Levertov rolls in her grave.

Lyndi Waters is a Pushcart Prize nominee, winner of the 2019 Frank Nelson Doubleday Memorial Writing Award, the 2018 Eugene V. Shea National Poetry Contest, and the 2019 Wyoming Writers, Inc. free verse contest. Lyndi’s poems have been published, or are forthcoming, in literary magazines and anthologies such as The Owen Wister Review, Gyroscope Review, New Verse News, Picaroon Poetry, Unbroken Journal, Blood, Water, Wind, and Stone: An Anthology of Wyoming Writers (Sastrugi Press, 2016), and Troubadour (Picaroon Poetry Press, U.K., 2017).

TODAY AS I HEAD INTO MY CLINIC IN THE TOUGH CITY

by Kelley White

via GIPHY


the brain-injured man who always blesses me
from his porch beside the parking lot is calling down
the Full Power of the Living God on my head
and I am grateful; inside, on the counter in the ‘rash room
someone has left me three blue masks with elastic straps,
the kind house-painters use, and I am grateful,
the patients coming into the building for check-ups,
and bedwetting, and autism, and ADHD, and knee-
pain-for-a-year-and-a-half and stomach-ache-for-my-
whole-life are all wearing surgical masks. They won’t
tell me where they got them. I have stashed some
toilet paper, and I am grateful, perhaps we can trade.

Miss Aesha, my granddaughter’s pre-school teacher
has posted a virtual hug on instagram with her arms
stretched like angel’s wings in her beautiful spring green
veil and matching garment; my daughter has posted back
pictures of the family baking focaccia; Evelyn
is measuring and beaming—both parents are home
now that they’ve had to close the Cake Shop, and she
is grateful. Now the water is down. Planned work
on the century old water and sewer lines, and I am
grateful it’s not more. And that I have not lost my secret
stash of hand sanitizer. Yet. My staff are hitting me

with dozens of questions I can’t answer—is it true? my
cousin’s husband’s friend said if you’re over 80 you can’t
eat eggs or cheese; I have a knee replacement, is that
risky; my teeth hurt, is that a sign of the disease? Do I need
to cancel my colonoscopy, my MRI, my breast biopsy?
I’m a pediatrician, I’m grateful I don’t have to know
all this. But we have no ‘adult’ doctor. Our ob-gyn
doesn’t want to cancel her prenatals but she herself is 73.
None of us are young. I’m 65. Our phone operator
is 87! She won’t go home. She’s afraid she won’t get paid.
Hers is the only paycheck in her family. I promise her
she will. I’m grateful for her. She leaves after a half day.
Hers may be the only life I save.

Pediatrician Kelley White has worked in inner city Philadelphia and rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her recent books are Toxic Environment (Boston Poet Press) and Two Birds in Flame (Beech River Books.) She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.

VET'S HALLOWEEN

by Linda J. Himot

Image source: Shopsafe

Halloween and all those kids in skeletal black,
glow-in-the-dark green and purple –
no fairy princess pink Mama, please –
roam the streets for candy treats while my neighbor,

secreted behind his kitchen counter – shades drawn,
lights out, hides trembling.  Fears ghouls and worse –
gooks –rise – like ghosts – from steamy jungle floor –
every night – silent, stealthy –  then melt away –

before first light.  Dead bodies left to mark their trail.
He made it back – except his mind – to live alone –
on duty, dusk to dawn.  Forty two years he’s kept watch,
high alert, rifle steel slick with sweat – ready,

mission unchanged – protect his buddies, kill
or be killed.  Sees sallow, shiny, enemy faces creeping
through his front yard swampy grass.  Hears mortar
in the back fire of passing trucks, cruising motorcycles.

Fears he will kill a kid if one should knock.
So takes a double dose of meds, stuffs his ears
with cotton, repeats Hail Mary’s aloud until
the fire horn sounds the end of trick or treat.


After many years as a psychiatrist, Linda J. Himot began writing poetry in 2005.  Her poems have been published in a variety of journals such as The MacGuffin, River Poets, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.