WHAT I TELL MYSELF

by Marjorie Tesser

 

That it’s all right to mourn. Okay to take a day to grieve. Okay to take it slow,

to do some yoga, take a nap; you know last night you didn’t sleep, the writing

on the wall a tale of loss on loss writ with excruciating slowness, unrelenting speed.

 

I warn myself not to indulge in doom prescience, worrying each bead

of a litany of despoliations sure to come. Try not to guess how they’ll pervert 

the name of freedom, desecrate “liberty,” have their nasty fun.

  

...women’s health and status racism xenophobia homophobia transphobia environmental waste bizarre quasi-scientific theories conspiracy book banning religious hegemony distasteful alliances impetuousness anti-intellectualism clannishness cronyism greed shitty “jokes” glorification of the mean spirited the sociopathic the stupid....

 

(I remind myself I was not going to do that. Tell myself it’s okay 

to backslide, as long as I catch it). Caution myself: anger can spark, 

but combust and turn to ashes.

 

Remind myself I can’t be so surprised; numbers show 

what I already knew in my heart: we’re still a misogynistic, 

racist nation in significant part. Remember that they feed 

 

on negative attention; deny them that sustenance. 

Command myself not to freeze in terror or wallow in despair; 

not to always blunt feelings with self-soothing behavior.

 

I tell myself my job’s the same: to be present, kind, true to my values

and respectful of others’, to support those that champion such aims 

and care for those who need. To uphold ideals, to interpret with empathy. 

 

To try to put it into words. To remind myself of bright points, precious few 

though they may be. I tell myself to write a poem take a walk talk with friends 

spend moments with an animal or tree.

 

The only way is forward.

 

Eyes and mouth, heart and hands and feet.

Marjorie Tesser’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Molecule, Cutleaf, poets.org, SWWIM, and others. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, The Important Thing Is, winner of the Firewheel Chapbook Award (Firewheel Editions 2010), and The Magic Feather (FLP 2011). She has co-edited three anthologies of poetry and prose, and is editor in chief of MER - Mom Egg Review.

DO WE NOT BLEED?

by Nolan Dannels

Painting (1886) by John Everett Millais of Kate Dolan as Portia.

“Though justice be thy plea, consider this:

That in the course of justice none of us

Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy …”

— Portia, IV, 1, from The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare 

 

The kids caught in the crossfire

never stood a chance—

they just stood there,

wrong place, wrong time,

and we didn’t do a thing,

just let them die

 

as we chose a side,

as if it were a color

in a world of

black and white

that we should have let be

blue and green

 

But who would we be

to dream of peace

when we don’t stand

in the way of the war—

the innocent plead,

we ignore,

so how can

they have hope anymore?

 

And who would we be

to feel a thing?

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

If you hurt us,

do we not grieve?

And if you don’t listen to us,

do we still speak?

 

Air raids and bombs… guns and hate—

this is neither the beginning nor the end

And it will only get worse if we wait

We’ll see soon enough even if we are blind now,

but our hands will be slow on the draw,

too little, too late:

we only do good

when the bad has already died down

 

Where will the refugees go

when their camps are attacked

before they can even cry out?

Which way will the world turn

when the sun sets on the other side

than the one it does right now?

 

I wish I knew the answers,

and I wish I could say them loud and clear,

but I can only beg, vocal cords torn,

for a fair and just end to the conflict

But I can only see it getting worse

from day to day and year to year

 

Yet, who would I be

to say a thing?

If you spit in my eyes,

can I still see?

If you put me in chains,

can I be free?

And if you tear out my tongue,

can I still speak?

 

But who are we

to be in need?

If you chase us,

do we not flee?

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

 

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

​whether our tears are true

​if they can never leave

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

whether we’re white and blue

​or red, white, black, and green

 

Nolan Dannels is a Persian American poet/musician with a Master's in English Language and Literature from the University of Edinburgh. He is currently a Literature PhD candidate, specializing in modern and contemporary Anglophone poetry at the University of California, San Diego, where he served as the Editor in Chief of Alchemy, Journal of Translation. His poetry and music appear in Kissing Dynamite, Trouvaille Review, Wine Cellar Press, Wishbone Words, Snakeskin Poetry Webzine, and Hare's Paw Literary Journal.

EARTH DAY

by Pepper Trail

I.

 

Let us give thanks

 

In gatherings or on our own

Stepping carefully upon the earth

Looking closely, bending to the flowers

Lifting our eyes to the swallows and the soaring hawk

Listening to the wind combing the grass and

Carrying birdsong across the creek

Scenting the richness of the soil

Mindfully opening every gift

 

Let us give thanks

 

II.

 

Let us grieve

 

Remembering all that once was given

Meadows bright with butterflies

Daily chorusing of the birds

Far forest-clad horizons

Silent wilderness

Mighty rivers of ice

Blue whales and elephants

Coral reefs in dazzling splendor

 

Let us grieve

 

 

III.

 

Let us protest

 

Lest we surrender to the drowsy sun

In our multitudes, cry Enough!

Name the destroyers

Corporate greed

Oil addiction

Political cowardice

Denial of nature’s rights

Willful blindness to all we do

 

Let us protest

 

IV.

 

Let us plant

 

Let us fall to our knees

Prepare the waiting earth

With our soft and ignorant hands

Plant a tree native to this damaged place

A testament to our desperate hopes

Flourishing past our little lives

A lasting gift of breath 

For our survivors 

 

Let us plant

 

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

CLOUD BURST

by Susan Delaney Spear

“Heavy Rain in the City,” a painting by Dan Haraga.

“Sad news this morning”
reads my daughter’s text,
“Ravi passed last night.”
Ravi, whom I’ve never met.

How to grieve a man
that I have never met
and now will never meet?
I find myself beset

by this amorphous loss.
He would have been
her uncle by marriage—
but for COVID-19.

The weather report predicted
a stiff fifty degrees,
so I decide to run
to feel the angry breeze.

I think I’ll beat the downpour
and quickly change my clothes.
A mile out the wind whips hard,
and the rain’s a drumming prose.                                  

I pass a Starbucks and notice
the vacant dining area.
Oddly, I think of Elijah,
transported to heaven by chariot.

But Ravi’s death was not
a smooth heavenward glide.
COVID victims wrestle death
with no one by their side.

At two miles out, too late to turn
around, large drops pelt
my legs, my bare forearms,
and the unforgiving asphalt.

The water rushes in gutters.
I plunge through its freezing foam.
Drops weep from the brim of my cap.
Run. Three miles from home.

I picture a deluge of faces,    
a flood of decimation,
one hundred fifty thousand plus,
the size of a small nation.

My shirt plasters my ribs.
My shoes and socks—drowned.
Numbness creeps from thumb to elbow.
Run. The storm pounds.

As I fumble for my key,
I say his name aloud: “Ravi”  
One by one they die,
this unspeakable enormity.


Susan Delaney Spear is an Associate Professor of English at Colorado Christian University in Lakewood. She is the author of Beyond All Bearing (Wipf & Stock Resource Publications 2018), a collection of poems, and the co-author of The Secrets of English Verse (forthcoming from Spring in November, 2020, with David J. Rothman) a creative writing textbook aimed at advanced high school students and undergraduates.