I WEEP FOR THE WORLD

by Mary Saracino

“Weeping World” print by Marinka Bendova at Saatchi Art

I weep for the world,

for women and girls

for boys and men,

living and dying at the mercy

of those without mercy,

the merciless misers,

the autocrats who have sold

their empathy for power,

their compassion for money,

who have sacrificed their souls

for privileges they did not earn—or deserve.

The world they manifest burns

with injustice, oppression, war.

I weep for the planet,

Her essence assaulted,

decimated by greed,

and insatiable lust

for all that is unholy.

I weep for our non-human kin,

all creatures, great and small

all vegetation, too,

that seeks to live and thrive

under the sunlit sky,

bathed in the moonlit darkness,

moving through the seasons

with grace, grit, and gratitude.

We humans have lost our way.

The path is strewn with

obstacles to peace and prosperity,

the carnage of millennia,

the debris of lost memories

of how it should be,

how it could be

if we joined forces and

reclaimed our roots,

celebrated our ancient origins,

honored our connections

to all that is, and ever will be.

Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet. Her book of poetry, Motherlines, was published by Pearlsong Press (February 2026). She is the author of four novels: Heretics: A Love Story (Pearlsong Press 2014), The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006), No Matter What (Spinsters Ink 1993), and Finding Grace (Spinsters Ink 1999), and the memoir, Voices of the Soft-bellied Warrior (Spinsters Ink 2001). She co-edited (with Mary Beth Moser) She Is Everywhere! Volume 3: An anthology of writings in womanist/feminist spirituality (iUniverse 2012), which earned the 2013 Enheduanna Award for Excellence in Women-Centered Literature from Sofia University.

THE INHERITANCE

by Jim Bellanca

Gainesville, Georgia, 2020 (Shutterstock)

Jim Crow’s obituary read,

“After a lengthy illness, Jim has passed away,

His Crow name now just history.” 

I thought “maybe not, maybe so.”

(You cannot trust the news these days.)

 

I knew Jim’s sister Jane had moved to Toronto

with her DACA son Juan

a surprise, a ten-year caboose

behind three sisters college gone,

had joined the family late.

Juan Crow was the most interesting one,

a son who’d volunteered for war, 

three tours in Afghanistan’s battle fields,

a Silver Cross and long times spent from love.

Back home, a hero named, he learned again, 

(most definitely not his first experience),

the curse of Jim Crow’s name, 

with his life separated by skin

in school,

        —at water fountains

        —on school bus ride

        —in restaurants

        —in restrooms

        —in voting booths

        —in marriage beds

the profile depicting all brown men

as one no matter where or who or when

ICE labeled shady caricatures,  

        —“beaner”

        —“wetback”

        —“gringo”​

        —“spic”

who tequila too much, siesta too long, 

just “don’t belong” on our turf;

accused of job stealing, rape, and more, 

tattooed as M-13,

by Presidential decree,

      —“the worst of hombres”

      —“the most detestable of human beings”

      —“the lowest despicable animal beast”

      —“a greaser druggy poisoning our lands”

any excuse the man can name

while hooded fiends from ICE 

day-quota-sized kidnapping any brown man

      —in church or school  

      —in hospital bed

      —in shopping mall

      —in strawberry fields 

      —in pizza huts

all blared and shared in local tv news, 

dread images bent with bowed shaved heads, 

arms tattoed with criminal marks

slow marched to caged jail cells,

(no one knows where)

—to scare the most innocent

—to leave their family love 

—to end their journey to freedom’s land

—to prove the power of the President

            by breaking what laws, he wished.

 

Juan Crow’s red blood

once given to save the land, the nation he loved,

no longer flows free. Juan sits in Alcatraz,

in his separate unequal cell

all son and martyr and hero dream

of Jim Crow newborn, a cosmic transfer,

a heritage inherited without recourse

Jim’s curse transferred to Juan, 

a lifetime injustice to bare, 

all ball and chain and prison wrack, 

all Sisyphus rock on his back.

Jim Bellanca, former English teacher, publisher and gadfly, now a late blooming poet, favors paining memory images about nature, family, peace, social justice and wry comments about senior life. He fervently assumes a “No Prufrock I” position when he writes about social injustice. More than two dozen poetry journals including Witcraft, Write City zine, Aerial Journey. Down In the Dirt, Sparks of Caliope, Westwood Quarterly, The Lyric, and East on Central have published his poems.

THE ANSWER

by Indran Amirthanayagam

There is justice until 

it meets injustice, 

tyranny until 

stopped by bravery, 

refusal, non-violent 

rebellion, insurrection, 

the big broad fat no. 

Now, I am calling 

all citizens, migrants, 

the documented,

to come out 

to the square 

to link hands

and wait for 

the ICE Man 

to come, and ask 

the masked avenger 

in aviator glasses: 

what America 

do you represent? 

What laws 

are you imposing?

And, by the way,

the undocumented

among us 

have been advised 

not to show up 

for your court appointments.

Indran Amirthanayagam writes a Substack. His publications include El bosque de deleites fratricidas ( RIL Editores), Seer (Hanging Loose Press),The Runner's Almanac (Spuyten Duyvil), Powèt Nan Pò A: Poet of the Port (Mad Hat), and Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (Broadstone Books). He is the translator of Kenia Cano’s Animal For The Eyes (Dialogos Books) and Origami: Selected Poems of Manuel Ulacia (Dialogos Books). He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube, and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.

SERMON

by Daniel Romo

Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob; and Jacob begat Judas and his brethren;
And Judas begat Phares and Zara of Thamar; and Phares begat Esrom; and Esrom begat Aram.
—Matthew 1:2-3

The egg begat 
the chicken and 
the farmer begat 
overalls and
the middleman begat 
the supermarket.
 
The coffee begat 
the customer and 
the bean begat 
the roast and 
the desire begat 
the brand.
 
The strawberry begat 
the pickers and 
brown hands begat 
ICE and 
Native Americans begat 
the land.
 
MAGA begat 
the bullies and
an outdated amendment begat 
the gun and
the school shooter begat 
the bodies.
 
The Bible begat 
the commandments and 
scripture begat 
cherry-picking and
nationalism begat 
hypocrisy.
 
Adam begat 
Eve and 
the rib begat 
the barbecue
and the flames begat 
the fire.
 
Injustice begat 
the boycott and 
hope begat
light and 
the day begat 
the struggle.

Daniel Romo's latest book is Bum Knees and Grieving Sunsets.

AMERICA’S TRUE FACE

by Jon Wesick

is orange. It is gallows on the Capitol Mall,

a pile of shit on Nancy Pelosi’s desk,

a hammer to her husband’s skull.

It wears a red tie hanging below its knees

and stores the nation's secrets

in Putin’s bathroom. It is one set of laws

for the rich and heads slammed 

into police car roofs for the rest of us.

To the snobs who suggest plastic surgery

or even a little concealer, we say

Hell No! We like America’s face just fine! 

 

Jon Wesick is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He’s published hundreds of poems and stories in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, I-70 Review, Lowestoft Chronicle, New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, Pearl, Pirene’s Fountain, Slipstream, Space and Time, and Unlikely Stories Mark V. His most recent books are The Shaman in the Library and The Prague Deception.

WHEN ASKED WHAT SKILLS WE GAINED FROM SLAVERY

by MEH

how to run [from slave catchers, the klan, crooked cops,

especially when finding the distinction difficult]. how to

keep our own counsel. to code-switch. to sing songs

in mother-tongues they will emulate and sharecrop

in blackface or while ignoring their origin—jazz, blues,

rock and roll, R&B, rap. how to hide our babies from

[see original list], christening them with names proper

to replace stolen drums, lands, gods. how not to list

the skills we already possessed, were compelled to

employ—navigation, cultivation, curing smallpox—

knowing they will fall on ungrateful ears. how to turn

our every cheek. to be more Christ-like than those who

disgraced the religion they forced upon us. to embody

the fruits of the spirit—especially patience and self-

control—in arms, legs, backs chiseled in cottonfields,

defined by bearing the lash of injustice. how to refrain

from calling down a legion of angels, or easily poisoning

their food, or slitting an oppressor’s throat in their sleep,

at least for now.

Matthew E. Henry (MEH) is the author of six poetry collections including Teaching While Black (Main Street Rag, 2020) and the Colored page (Sundress Publications, 2022). He is editor-in-chief of The Weight Journal and an associate poetry editor at Pidgeonholes. MEH’s poetry appears or is forthcoming in The New Verse News, Cola Literary Review, The Florida Review, Massachusetts Review, Ninth Letter, Pangyrus, Ploughshares, Poetry East, Shenandoah, and The Worcester Review among others. MEH’s an educator who received his MFA yet continued to spend money he didn’t have completing an MA in theology and a PhD in education. You can find him at www.MEHPoeting.com writing about education, race, religion, and burning oppressive systems to the ground.

CALIFORNIA HATERS

by tom bauer

The Annihilation of Hate by Frank Hunter

Hate crimes soared in California in 2022, with year-over-year rises recorded in crimes targeting virtually every demographic group, according to a report released Tuesday. —Los Angeles Times, June 27, 2023

what is hate? the angry white boy, proud,
determined to bring worlds to their knees?

is it the ruminative brain, snowballed
around some speck of ugly dusty thought?

in brains is it like geysers boiling over
under shale until the surface cracks, breaks?

what is the spark? injustice felt? a pain
inside the eye, a prick of a needle?

i could have gone that way. some angry guy
infecting my brain with wrongheaded dreams.

a year or two to change the brain and off
i’d go, powered by resentment’s battery.

in gratitude it’s hard to hate. the choice
is always mine to make. it is my brain.

tom bauer lives in montreal with his sons and plays boardgames.

THE HEART OF IT ALL

by Bradley McIlwain

Whitman—

I hear the chains

Across N. America

At Capitol Hill

Where we’ve all become 

Capital—

Loose change

In the pockets 

Of pirate politicians

We elected 

To change—

Only to decline it; 

False prophets 

Who paid God 

To burn Sodom & Gommorah 

But they can’t kill my pride 

The way they put a bullet 

In Bonnie & Clyde.

People are still dying—

Trayvon. Floyd. Till—

Still, they shot Lewis in bed

Like Billy the Kid 

20—unarmed 

Dreams spilling out onto the sheets.

Ohio weeps in the streets.

Neil Young heard the drums;

Police are cutting us down—

What’s at the heart of it all?

You abolish slavery,

But commercialize prisons;

One shackle for another, 

Brother divided by brother

Under the foot 

Of the blood spangled banner

Still soaked in the soil

Of migrant workers

From the states to the border 

Across bus stops and shelters—

The buck doesn’t stop

At Roe v. Wade

When in a state of insanity 

Some judge decides 

In a state of supremacy

That women no longer 

Have control 

Over their bodies?

Over… my… dead… body

It’s time

To untuck injustice where it lies

Unbury the dead

And loosen their tongues

So we can unlearn

The things our fathers 

Have done—and do.

I no longer trust in God

The way I trusted in you.

The all seeing eye 

Has lost its shine 

And I see you

In tent cities

Crying out for food—

Whitman, 

Our people yearn. 

We are the choir 

Of others raging 

For freedom across the voiceless night, 

Rattling the chains for change.

Bradley McIlwain works as a Teacher-Librarian, where he strives to provide meaningful and inclusive spaces for knowledge exchange and advocacy. He believes that poems and poets can be agents for social change. Bradley’s latest book, Dear Emily, was published by Roasted Poet Press in July.

TODAY STARTED OUT WITH A HOPEFUL MOMENT

by Mark Danowsky

by Andrew Shu

“My dear fellow, who will let you?”

“That’s not the point. The point is, who will stop me?”

                        - Ayn Rand (The Fountainhead)

 

a story about an eagle

saving a baby hawk

instead of devouring

an eagle

the symbol of America

making a surprising choice

a moment of silence now

for humanity

who often shows no mercy

here comes the blood

sacrifices of scapegoats

who cry out the injustice

the weight of voices in pain

screams must echo

there is no way to ignore this 

Mark Danowsky is Editor-in-Chief of ONE ART: a journal of poetry. He is the author of As Falls Trees (NightBallet Press) and JAWN (Moonstone Press). A short collection Violet Flame is forthcoming from tiny wren lit. 

NO JUSTICE

by Mary Saracino 

Source: Pinterest

In what pocket of my heart do I shove my grief  

over vigilante white boys being exonerated?

In this land of justice, justice was not served.

The scales of Lady Justice have been upended. 

The blindfold covering her eyes has been torn asunder.

She weeps with outrage.

She wails with sorrow.

She sees the abuse of power.

She calls us to resist.

And for the preservation of humankind

we must act

for love is a verb

and resistance is the antidote

to evil, to fear, to hatred,

the only medicine that

can heal

what festers deepest in the wounds of America's inglorious story.

No shining city on the hill,

a nation founded on unspeakable atrocities

must tourniquet its bleeding limbs

suture its oozing lesions 

nurse its traumatized people back to wholeness.

Together we must embark on this  

beautiful and necessary mending.

Or die trying. 

Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet. Her most recent novel Heretics: A Love Story (2014) was published by Pearlsong Press. Her novel The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006) was named a 2007 Lambda Literary Awards finalist in the Spirituality category.