MY FRIEND TEXTS

by Ron Riekki

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

“my typewriter is

tombstone”

—Charles Bukowski,

“8 count”

 

for S. and H.

 
            My friend texts:
 
It was great.  But today I
got a terrible news from
Ukraine. My best best
friend was killed by
Russian soldiers. So, all
my good memories
about graduating just
disappeared
 
I call her.  She says she
doesn’t want to talk.
I call her the next day,
she says she still doesn’t
want to talk.  I don’t know
how to write a poem
right now.  Another friend
calls.  She was a refugee
 
from Iraq.  Her house was
burned down there.  She
says it’s hard to talk about,
that forever she’s felt
silenced.  I feel the need to
write poetry.  I cannot handle
history.  I don’t know how
to cope other than through
 
poetry.  I had a meeting
recently where I talked
about what happened
to us in the military.
I told the woman
sitting in front of me
that I couldn’t talk
about it for decades
 
I’d get aphasia.  I
couldn’t speak.  I’d
want to speak, but I
couldn’t speak.  During
those decades, I wrote
poems.  Not enough
people read poems.
Poems sometimes
 
are the silenced
trying to speak
when their voice
is being choked,
when their words
are being taken
by history.
Like now.

Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (Michigan State University Press).

DUFUR HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION, MAY 29, 2020

by Penelope Scambly Schott

The NASA astronauts Douglas Hurley, left, and Robert Behnken as they made their way to the launch pad at the Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral, Fla., on Saturday. Credit: John Raoux/Associated Press via The New York Times, May 30, 2020

Speeches, music, drive-by
awarding of all 18 diplomas:
fire engines and ambulance
lead the noisy parade
through our small town.

I sit on my curb
raising my half-empty
mug of cold coffee
to personally congratulate
each gowned kid.

Two hours later at Canaveral
astronauts Bob and Doug
are rocketed into earth orbit.
Tomorrow they’ll meet up
with the space station.

Where
can our 18 graduates go
in this time of quarantine
as the local wheat is rising
into small golden capsules?


Penelope Scambly Schott is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry. Recent books are House of the Cardamom Seed  and November Quilt.  Forthcoming is On Dufur Hill, a sequence of poems about a small (pop. 623) wheat-growing town in central Oregon.

THE SMOKING OF ANOTHER SHARPSHOOTER

by Tricia Knoll

Joshua Mitchell wore the soccer jersey of younger brother Emilio Hoffman during graduation who was shot and killed by fellow student Jared Michael Padgett, 15, just two days ago in the school locker room in Troutdale. Randy L. Rasmussen/The Oregonian, June 12, 2014

There was smoke, a girl crouching in a locker room
saw smoke, smelled it, heard the rattle of shells
and ammo in a flack jacket filled with fumbling fingers
looking to reload.

There was smoke in the mind of the boy
who carried the guns from home.

The deadly smoke of anger,
a soul burning
with wrongs

all wrongs
done to him
he’d do unto others.

He died in his poison smoke,
our confusion of fog
hanging in the trees
the morning of graduation
like a death sentence.


Tricia Knoll is a Portland, Oregon poet -- who taught high school English for eight years not far from Reynolds High School.