I HEAR AMERICA CRYING

by Judy Trupin

holding in their fingers the shreds of constitution
tattered perhaps beyond repair
The insurrectionists running free, absolved
I hear America crying
the carpenter and the mason being dragged away
by the chilling iceman
their families slipping on their tears
and murmuring to each other
What is this land in which we dwell?
A boatman turned pilot ferries them away to 
prisons in countries unknown
I hear America crying
as judges erase the law of the land
another pilot does not cry but grits his teeth
as he drops his bombs
preserving his president’s honor but nothing else
I hear America reeling as yes becomes no
and truth morphs into lies
I hear America whispering
too afraid to sing
to afraid to shout
huddling in their homes
uncertain what the night will bring
or when the night will end
and if they will sing 
and if they will sing
again.

Judy Trupin lives, writes, and thinks in Pittsburgh, PA. Walking, teaching and practicing yoga and singing to her plants keeps her sane.

IN MEMORIAM DAY

by Michel Steven Krug

How do they know the real population of Minnesota, asked my daughter, as her older sister was within hours of an and-one moment. There are vital statistics kept, each birth and death are tracked to offset the changes. Deaths by IED, in schools, grocery stores, dance clubs, by gangster/zealot/misguides with ARs, by combat, depression, vengeance-disease or age. Thinking of my Aunt, with her new pacemaker, describing her day to her what’s-his-name son, because after dinner, the mind’s velocity wanes, as if a human comet falling back to earth. I visited my dad’s grave, saluting his WWII Airforce time, sure, but his greatest service as mentor to all. If he could see what the insurrectionists assert today in the name of patriotism, he’d re-enlist and ask for a D.C. assignment, thinking he could detox the paranormal hatred engendered against progressive democracy. If unsuccessful, he’d enter his “come on now” mode, demanding nothing less than reason, flinging treason into the infested sewer. It’s said we are coded.  His sense of equanimity/persuasion/reason/forceful compassion = soother of spirits. We each inherit a collection of such souls, all of the elements swirling within, like an alphabet of inclinations. With it do we promote peace, or reflexively look for sales, fitfully running from the best within? Memorial Day is indeed solemn, honoring passed down lives that survive as we ride the bear, the bull and the barrel.

Michel Steven Krug is a Minneapolis poet, fiction writer, former print journalist from the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars. He’s Managing Editor for Poets Reading the News (PRTN) literary magazine and litigates. His poems have appeared in Liquid Imagination, Blue Mountain Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Portside, The New Verse News, JMWW, Cagibi, Silver Blade, Crack the Spine, Dash, Mikrokosmos, North Dakota Quarterly, Eclectica, Writers Resist, Sheepshead, Mizmor Anthology, 2019, PRTN, Ginosko, Door Is A Jar, Raven's Perch, Main Street Rag, and Brooklyn Review.