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Showing posts with label heaven. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heaven. Show all posts

Saturday, June 07, 2025

GAZA'S CHILDREN

by Rakibul Hasan Khan

 


Gaza’s children are as childish as 
the children of anywhere else—
they’re full of joy,
singing, dancing, jumping,
and playing with extraordinary toys.
 
They’ve plenty to eat and drink,
and beautiful dresses to wear.
They live in luxurious houses
and are always loved and cared.
 
These cheerful children of Gaza
have no memories of Earth,
and no one is a bit sad,
even the cutest ones
who’d just left the warmth of wombs.
 
The happy children of Gaza 
have grown in number 
in such a short time,
and their number is increasing still.
 
Should Heaven—
keep a separate gate for Gaza’s children? 

 
Rakibul Hasan Khan is a Bangladeshi academic, poet, and writer based in New Zealand. He holds a PhD in English from the University of Otago, where he remains affiliated. His scholarly and creative works have been published in internationally recognized platforms.

Thursday, April 24, 2025

FRANCIS’S PARTY

by Jo Ann S. Hoffman




God slept in the day after Francis arrived

matter of fact I couldn’t reach a soul up there

 

finally managed to snag Mary about noon

(she always has her cell)

sorry it’s so late, she says

but we partied hard last night

sang and danced 

ate and drank till all hours

everyone is dragging today

 

she adds 

the Trifecta was pleased with Francis

good man   strong voice      soft touch

I hear the smile in her words

anything on your mind dear?

 

I look down at my long written list

of wishes and (mostly) complaints 

not really, I say, just checking in to say hi

 

Well, good   do that every day if you can

I’m off to take a nap

a little laugh and she was gone



Jo Ann S. Hoffman’s publications include a children’s book, short fiction and numerous poems in literary journals, including The Merton Seasonal, Flying South, Pinesong, Persimmon Tree, Red Clay Review, Broad River Review and The North Carolina Literary Review, among others. A Pushcart nominee, she has received awards from The Palm Beach Poetry Festival and several other contests.    Her non-fiction narrative, Angels Wear Black, recounts the only technology executive kidnapping to occur in California’s Silicon Valley. 

Thursday, January 02, 2025

DAYS OF ABSENCE

by Royal Rhodes




Trump’s promise of mass deportation throws undocumented Texans into fear, uncertainty. —Texas Public Radio, December 19, 2024


Was I asleep and missed the sudden Rapture
that took the nameless with familiar faces?
Where did they go, with all the little ones?
The guy who cut the hair of homeless Vets,
the smiling pizza boy, and couriers?
Our well-trimmed gardens are now overgrown.
Produce at the market costs much more—
no strawberries for even ready money.
And who will take our dogs for daily walks?
These days of absence seem so rude at best.
Are we supposed to give Grandma a bath?
She knew the helper more than she knows us.
Are they on retreat deep in the desert
in prayer and fasting from all food and water?
In church they took with us the bread and wine,
but sat apart or stood beside the door.
Have angels raised them up to Paradise?
Was it the Rapture or some plotted rupture?


Royal Rhodes is a poet whose poems have appeared in numerous literary journals, including several times in The New Verse News.

Tuesday, July 09, 2024

HIGHKU

by Jerome Berglund


The highest camp on the world’s tallest mountain is littered with garbage that is going to take years to clean up, according to a Sherpa who led a team that worked to clear trash and dig up dead bodies frozen for years near Mount Everest’s peak. The Nepal government-funded team of soldiers and Sherpas removed 11 tons of garbage, four dead bodies and a skeleton from Everest during this year's climbing season. Ang Babu Sherpa, who led the team of Sherpas, said there could be as much as 40-50 tons of garbage still at South Col, the last camp before climbers make their attempt on the summit. —AP, July 6, 2024


heavenly threshold
near the summit 
all the waste


Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. His first full-length collections of poetry were released by Setu, Meat For Tea, Mōtus Audāx press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.

Wednesday, May 08, 2024

BURNING CAR

by Kip Knott




“We are not an authoritarian nation where we 
silence people or squash dissent. But…”
          —President Biden addressing protests
              over the war in Gaza


Whether it rises 
from melting tires 
or devotional candles
or one child’s body 
or a million children’s bodies, 

smoke burns 
everyone’s eyes to tears
before it gathers 
as the clouds 
one faction uses

to construct 
their idea of Heaven
and another faction uses
to construct 
their idea of Hell.


Kip Knott is a writer, poet, teacher, photographer, and part-time art dealer living in Ohio. His most recent book of poetry, The Misanthrope in Moonlight, is available from Bottlecap Press.

Monday, March 18, 2024

CIVILIAN SPACES

by Tricia L. Somers


AI-generated image by Shutterstock


Heaven just sounds
like another kind of hell
Truth is the most
dangerous tale to tell
 
With the Torah
in one hand
and 2-ton bombs
in the other they prey
 
on children and their families
Chased from home
to rescue facility
No such thing as a safe place
 
Gas explorations
off the coast of Gaza
All hail to money
and to wealth be the power
 
Hallelujah and Amen
in His image
A reflection of creator
seen in the creation
 
It used to scare me to think
What if there is no god?
Now it scares me to think
What if there is?


Trish is out of L.A. CA where she lives with her Significant Other and a crazy cat or two. Online her poetry can be found at The New Verse News and Rat's Ass Review where she is an active member of the workshop. Offline, she has fierce debates with the cantankerous editor of The American Dissident print journal where she has poetry and essays. To read her take on current issues, and/ or say hi, please visit her newsletter Bitch n' Complain on Substack.

Thursday, September 21, 2023

BÉLIZAIRE

by Suzanne Morris




after “Bélizaire and the Frey Children”  attributed to French portraitist Jacques Amans, 1837, acquired by the Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2023


He stands tall, one shoulder
resting against a wide-girthed tree

on the pleasant green expanse
of a Louisiana plantation.

His arms are folded
contemplatively

across the front of his
tailored coat.

His face is solemn,
cheeks highly colored,

gaze fixed on some
point in the distance

as if he’s assessing
his place above

the three young,
open-faced siblings

in dainty frocks
standing below:

What might have led to an
enslaved youngster’s appearance

in a portrait of his
owner’s fair children?

And if this be vouchsafed by
sweet Heaven’s intent, then

might these
privileged youths

who boast to him of their
McGuffey Readers and are
well-versed in Bible stories

one day take up 
their writing pens and

set down the truth of
his people’s history?

Some sixty years hence,
the yoke of American
slavery broken,

Bélizaire’s noble figure
will be cunningly painted over

leaving his ghost to hover
between the artist’s vision

and the sunny sky, added later,
to obscure him.

The antebellum portrait of
three comely white children

will be forgotten

in the dark reaches
of attic and basement

until the dawn of the
21st century, when

Bélizaire’s figure
is finally restored

and the work receives
due veneration

the full franchise of 
his people bought with
calloused feet and heroes’ blood.

Yet now, less than
two decades passed,

Bélizaire looks down
contemplatively

from high up on a
museum wall

as a generation
come lately

forswearing the truth 
painstakingly written

again takes up the brush to
paint over him.   


Suzanne Morris is a novelist with eight published works.  Her poems have appeared inThe New Verse News and The Texas Poetry Assignment, as well as other online poetry journals, and anthologies.  A native of Houston, she now makes her home in Cherokee County, Texas.

Friday, July 21, 2023

STRAIGHT TALK FOR AMTRAK JOE

by Patricia Phillips-Batoma 


One of the photos Lunden Roberts posted on Instagram of her daughter during a trip to Washington.


After Maureen Dowd, “It’s Seven Grandkids, Mr. President,” The New York Times, July 8, 2023


Mr. President, for the love of God, learn to count to seven—
one boy, six girls—and include the one named Navy.
Be quick. You hold a ticket for the good old train to heaven.
 
You love to fist bump all of America’s little children,
except one who hopes you’ll call and waits so patiently.
Please, Joe, for God’s sake, learn to count to seven.
 
What’s more she’s cool. A true made-for-shades Biden.
Gift her your good name and wrap it in some empathy.
Snap to it, you hold a ticket for that good old train to heaven.
 
It’s embarrassing to have to give a President a lesson,
and hard truths voice themselves with such severity.
So, no more malarky, just count all the way to seven.
 
Once those pearlies close, you might sense some tension,
the sound of heart space, forever and forever empty.
Too late, the good old train pulls into the eternity of heaven.
 
Spare her the taunts, this awful earthly aggression.
Navy! Navy! Not a welcome baby!  So can you maybe,
Joseph Robinette Biden, count all the way to seven?
Even presidents hold a ticket for the good old train to heaven.


Patricia Phillips-Batoma is a writer and teacher who lives in Illinois. She has published poems in Skylight 47, An Capall Dorcha, The New Verse News, Off Course, and Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis.

Monday, May 08, 2023

SILVER AND GOLD

by Donna Katzin


On April 25, 2023, the world lost beloved artist and activist Harry Belafonte after nearly a century of barrier-breaking music and work for social justice.  He played a major role in the U.S. Civil Rights Movement and anti-apartheid movement, and campaigns at home and abroad. He lived only five years after the death of his renowned friend, Hugh Masekela, who has been described as "the father of  African jazz."  Masekela gave voice to the struggle for freedom in South Africa—and around the world.


 

Their kindred cries

pierced our consciousness,

awakened us with irresistible reveilles

of "Day’O" and blasts of a sleepless horn

on two thirsting sides

of the same ocean.

 

On Calypso waves

and thunderstorms of jazz,

they bore us across seas and continents,

linking melodies and arms with others

in the push and pull of brothers,

igniting voices of a new time.

 

With silver tongue and golden trumpet,

they faced apartheid, Ku Klux Klan, Jim Crow—

unblinking in the face of whips and bullets,

released our inner rivers when we tired,

rekindling the fire in our blood

and our rebellious hearts.

 

They filled our streets with relentless rhythms,

marched with Black miners, laborers hungering

for the promises that gleamed

like ripe bananas in the sun,

mended our torn souls with

lullabies and love songs.

 

Today they are together, once again,

and we are left with their legacies

and indefatigable rhythms.

We can listen, hear them

—Harry and Hugh—

raising hell in heaven.



Donna Katzin is the founding and former executive director of Shared Interest, which facilitates access to credit for low-income Black Southern Africans.  She co-coordinates Tipitapa Partners, which helps feed and empower impoverished mothers and children in Nicaragua, and serves on the board of Community Change in the U.S.  A proud wife and mother, she is also a contributor to New Verse News and author of With These Hands—poems about the "new" South Africa giving birth to itself.

Tuesday, January 17, 2023

DELUGE

by Alejandro Escudé


The Los Angeles River flows at a powerful rate as a huge storm brings flooding and landslides to the west coast. Photograph: David McNew/Getty Images via The Guardian, January 16, 2023


I listen to Paradise Lost

in my car as the rain pours

at night, picturing the first 

couple as they huddle among 

the grasses and fruits.


From my car window, as if 

up toward heaven, I see an

uphill rain-slick boulevard, 

passenger planes landing 

at LAX, like blurry UFO’s.


The sound is exhilarating,

an aquatic thrashing, my car

sloshing over corner oceans,

the wipers struggling to sweep

a sinless version of the city.


I roll the window down

just as Satan calls out his 

fellow seraphim, like a zillion

tuna schooling out of a 

darkened precipice. 


Even if it’s atmospheric, 

and a river, it’s still rain, 

the wind wind, the forecast?


Our fallen state, our bodies

water-logged, the reflection 

of all the lights at night

splitting heaven and hell

into equal refractions.



Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.