THIS IS NOT THE ISRAEL OF OLD

by Gordon Gilbert

in the Israel of ancient times,

prophets were revered

and even kings

(often reluctantly)

would allow them voice

knowing

they must be heard

even when (especially when)

they came to denounce

the actions or inaction

of the king

because all knew they were

both messengers from God

and the voice of the people

and as such

prophets must be given audience

 

some kings even listened

some even changed their ways

 

but this is not the Israel of old

and “King” Bibi chooses to kill

he does not listen 

not to those who prophetize 

nor to the voice of the people

and the anger grows on all sides

as former friends of Israel fall away

 

no

this is not the Israel of old

this king ignores the prophets

this king must go

NOW

if Israel is to survive

Author's Note:

My father was a minister. 

Not the kind who preached fire and brimstone.

He preached God’s love and forgiveness. 

But sometimes his sermons served to educate the congregation

about one or another of the Old Testament prophets

and why he thought them important. 

Gordon Gilbert is a resident of the West Village in NYC who got through the pandemic taking long walks along the Hudson River.

BEYOND THE NEW WORLD

by Mark Tarren

Image Source: Africa Geographic Magazine

"Shithole' remark by Trump makes global headlines—but it doesn't quite translate” —The Guardian, January 13, 2018

The old man sits before
the night sky,
a canopy of tiny crystals.

His grandson seated beside him
this small boy,
a jewel in his ancient shadow.

His wisdom speaks before him
like dust to the stars,
the boy was born
in the land before language
before the tongues of men
where a dune or a palm
was called after a lover
or a neighbour’s house
something loved from the past,
where there was no word for dawn
no words for the moon or the stars
or tears on skin
or eyes on maps

or country,
nothing to lose in translation.

The old man answered the boy’s silence:

I have seen many kings from the west fall,
their thrones crumble
and drift out to sea
the ripples from their empty voices
never reach our shores.

My son, we live in the land without words
this dull ache, this darkness
they call fear
sank into the ground like rain
an age ago
a forgotten song that only sometimes
wails in the winds.

Hate is a roar that was silenced
in the smile lined eyes
of our fathers.

Hunger is a song thief;
we dance in the bounty
of our one shared heart.

The word for our people
was birthed inside your mother
like birdsong,
before you were born,
before there was a word for
the colour of our skin,
before the word for memory,

before she left for The New World.

Mark Tarren is a poet and writer based in Queensland, Australia. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in various literary journals  including TheNewVerse.News, The Blue Nib, Poets Reading The News, Street Light Press and Spillwords Press.