THE STRANDED CITY

by Iman Oshani

 

 

Tehran skyline at sunset, with the city's iconic Milad Tower rising in the distance, January 2026 —Iran International

 

The smell of gunpowder

lingers for a lifetime.

And in this land,

the snow migrated last year.

Car washes are shut down,

and cars won't move under the weight of ash.

Houses are drained of commotion.

The bedroom.

A large bed.

Sheets neatly made, but gathering dust.

The desk clock faces the wall.

And on the floor,

lies the only corpse: a fly.

The phone will not ring.

The TV is locked on the news.

And behind the window, there is no view...

except

a dog walking by,

sniffing the holes in the buildings.

Iman Oshani is an Iranian writer and poet based in Tehran. His work explores the surreal intersections of memory, objects, and the geography of crisis.

MY CANNOTS

by Kim Malinowski

I cannot say ban guns 

 

I cannot say ban assault rifles 

when the Uzi I fired at eight still thrums 

its song through my veins, the recoil still smacking muscle 

rifle stabled on rusty hood 

merging in fierce moment with those before me 

deep in warrior chant. 

 

I cannot cannot say ban assault rifles 

the morgue has seen enough mangled 

enough loved ones pointing at shirts that should be muddy 

not tie-dyed with blood. 

 

I cannot cannot cannot watch faces line up  

as if on the milk carton shelf 

rows of parents, rows of children, wives, lovers, husbands, police 

panic the pledge of allegiance 

 

I cannot cannot cannot 

 

cannot see plague 

 

when I prime flintlock, inherit ancestors’  

gunpowder  

  savor gritty aftertaste  

Kim Malinowski is a lover of words. Her collection Home was published by Kelsay Books and her chapbook Death: A Love Story was published by Flutter Press. She has three forthcoming verse novels. Her work has appeared in War, Literature, and the Arts, BOMBFIRE, S/tick, Mookychick, and others. Her work dictated that she become a political science defined rebel, advocating for listening and understanding of our individual and collective history and bringing it to the page. She writes because the alternative is unthinkable. 

MANMADE

 by Paul Smith

In Chicago, 558 people have been killed this year. That is 158 more than 2019. (Data and graphic through Tuesday, September 22 from Chicago Tribune)

We like to think

we are safe up here

away from the rising waters

to our south

when the winds blow really hard

and the seas get angry

we watch our brothers and sisters perish

on the news

glad we’re not among them

and far to the west

where our mountains meet the sea

fires burn out of control

houses blaze till they are skeletons

our brothers and sisters

suffocate and go up in smoke

whatever twinge of sympathy ignites in us

is escorted by the comfort provided by

the distance of a thousand miles

but something else new is going on

almost a natural phenomenon

that excites all our senses

here in Englewood and Austin

bright flashes in the brown light of evening

the smell of gunpowder

the sharp crack of weaponry

the wail of raging sirens

the chill of flesh going limp

without a pulse

mothers cry

brothers and sisters

get strapped to gurneys

so ongoing and constant

it makes you think of the Devonian

the Pleistocene

the Reconstruction

Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has traveled all over the place and met lots of people. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. His poetry and fiction have been published in Convergence, Packingtown Review, Literary Orphans, TheNewVerse.News, and other lit mags.

CHURCH OF THE HOLY GUNS

by John Kaprielian

Someday all poems will have to be
about shootings and killing sprees
It seems that's all that happens these
days and if we do not change our ways
there will be no time to write about things
like the first light of dawn that kisses the
treetops aflame against a carmine sky or
waves that wash dancing silver
fish across shell-flecked sand

No, there will be no time for that only
blood and fear and hate and tears
the sick sweet smell of gunpowder
that hangs in the air like incense
at some perverse Church of Holy Guns
while mothers kiss cold lips and
bleach washes crimson stains
from shell-shocked floors and walls

Who needs poems about nature
and love when there are elegies
and laments to be written thoughts
and prayers to be mouthed
and promises to be made
and forgotten until the next time
which will probably be the day
after tomorrow

A natural history photo editor by day, John Kaprielian has been writing poetry for over 35 years. In 2012 he challenged himself to write a poem a day for a year and self-published the poems in a book 366 Poems: My Year in Verse available on Amazon. His poems have been published in The Five-Two Poetry Blog, Down in the Dirt Magazine, TheNewVerse.News, Naturewriting.com, The Blue Nib, The Blue Mountain Review, and Minute Magazine. He lives in Putnam County, NY with his wife, teenage son, and assorted pets. He is thoroughly sick of writing poems like this.

WAR

by James Bettendorf

“Suffer the Children” by Janice Nabors Raiteri (2007)

I cannot see the sun rise
            red white yellow horizon
                        I see blood of children
                        form rivers in the streets.

I cannot hear the muted moans of lovers
            passion arms legs tangle
                        I hear keening of mothers
                        Sons, daughters ripped from their arms.

I cannot taste the melon or berry
            sweetness tongue juice chin
                        only the dry residue of lead
                        cannon smoke clouding my face.

I cannot smell the aroma of lilacs
            roses garden blues lilies
                        only the acrid cordite of gunpowder
                        copper odor of innocent blood.

I cannot feel warm breath on my cheek
children grandchildren friends lover
                        only the sharp pain of shrapnel
                        tearing holes, shattering bones.


James Bettendorf taught math for 34 years at various levels and in his retirement begin writing classes at the Loft in Minneapolis, MN. He was accepted for a two-year poetry internship in the Loft Master Track program in 2006 and has been working on a manuscript with his mentor/advisor, Thomas R. Smith.  He has had poems published in Rockhurst Review, Light Quarterly, Ottertail Review, Talking Stick Vols. 18 - 23 and Free Verse.