DONALD TRUMP’S BIRTHDAY PARADE AS IF CELEBRATED IN GAZA

by Roberta Batorsky

U.S. Army photo by Bernardo Fuller • Public domain

In orderly formation 

the parade’s vanguard 

advances:

a scrawny teen carries 

a flag depicting an empty bowl,

leads a battalion of stiffly marching, 

starved children.

The main detachment 

follows. These children, 

missing various limbs, 

some aided by crutches or 

in wheelchairs sport head bandages,

slings, plaster casts or eye patches,

proceed down the fairway 

in wobbly, uneven rows.

The rear guard, made up of

several pint-sized caskets,

is solemnly wheeled 

past the reviewing station,

its tail end brought up 

by a lone small girl

soulfully bugling “Taps.”

These casualties-

heart-rending results

of senseless war;

We must break ranks 

with our generals,

blend into their procession,

embrace fully their humanity;

no other way.

Day is done

Gone the sun

Thanks and praise

For our days

As we go

This we know

God is nigh

Roberta Batorsky is a Biology teacher, poet and freelance science writer. She has published poems in Fine-lines and Heron Clan and is working on her first poetry book. Her science blog is https://solipsistssoiree.blogspot.com and her instagram is RobertaBatorsky_poetry.

PARTNERS IN GENOCIDE

by Steve Bloom

New York City,
Israel Day Parade,
June 2 2024,
I see the flag, take a photo,
tell myself I will write
a poem titled:
“Partners in Genocide.” 

Find, however
that no additional words
by me
are needed.

Steve Bloom is a New York City based activist, poet, and composer. He is curator of the Poetry of Protest and Struggle video series that comes out three times a year and can be found on his YouTube channel.

PRIDE

by Marion Evalee

Carrying a jumbo rainbow flag onto the Salem Common under the rainbow arch are Ken Elie, left and Ed Hurley, right of the group Boston Pride, who turned out to support the North Shore Pride group. Joe Brown photo via The Salem News, June 25, 2023

The great Arc-en-ciel
Is colorless,

Not on the wing.
A heart needs something,

Color needs light,
A flag needs the wind—

Whoever’s eternal
Rebounding breath

Has deadened with the night,
As it often does.

I keep walking
Over what was

The parade grounds
(What will be the Commons

By the time we celebrate
Our independence)

Like an old vet,
Though it’s getting dark.

Marion Evalee, a Pushcart Prize nominee, has appeared in The Amethyst Review, Willows Wept, Survivor Lit, The Boston Compass, Neologism, and Montage. A selection of her poetry is featured in the anthology 14 International Younger Poets (Art and Letters, 2021). She lives in Salem, Massachusetts.

THIS WAS NOT A NEWS STORY

by Catherine Gonick

Cold Spring, NY, October 15, 2022

 

The trees were at their red and orange height

as we drove toward our town and had to stop

for a parade. A police car parked sideways 

on the road blocked our way. At first

we thought the line of cars was a funeral

procession, until we noticed the drivers

and passengers were all boys, some standing 

to wave American flags from top-down convertibles,

open moon-roofs, the backs of 4 x 4s. They smiled

as they passed, and a few saluted like Nazis.

The next week, the editor of the local paper said it sounded

like the high school parade held the previous Friday.

But we’d seen this procession the next day. The police

said they knew nothing about it. As far as we knew,

only my husband and I had seen it. I saw just one

Hitler salute, but he saw three. Afterward

we kept driving to a birthday party for a friend,

a Holocaust survivor still going strong at 95.

He told the guests about the night the doorbell rang

and his father was taken to Dachau. We reported

the parade we’d just seen, which already felt like a dream.

Catherine Gonick has published poetry in journals including Notre Dame Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Forge, Live Encounters, Soul-Lit, and Amethyst Review, and in anthologies including Grabbed, Support Ukraine, and, forthcoming, Rumors, Secrets, Lies: Poems about Pregnancy, Abortion and Choice. She lives in Cold Spring, NY and works in a company that slows the rate of global warming through projects that repair and restore the climate.

I GREW UP IN HIGHLAND PARK

by Tricia Knoll

Highland Park IL Fourth of July parade, circa 1965.

Twenty-nine spaces in the US carry this name.

When the news broke, I wondered if it was my home town.

It was. The place I lived for the first twenty years of my life. 

My home town as much as any other. Where I was born

 

more than seventy years ago. I hadn’t wondered how much

or what had changed. Videos brought it home. The store

that was once Chandlers where every year I went 

with my mother to get new pencils, pens, and notebooks

 to go back to school. The shoe store with the Xray

machine. The laundry owned by Chinese Americans 

where the windows always dripped with water. 

Mr. Leeds' jewelry store. Across the street

I bought my prom dress to dance with my first love. 

My first bank account on the corner of Central. 

Learning to drive in town across the railroad tracks.

Our library. Smelling the alewives on Ravinia Beach 

where I learned to swim and loved a sun tan.  

Hearing Louis Armstrong sing "Hello Dolly" 

at the festival. My father’s service

on the school board. The flooded

field where I learned to ice skate. The miles

of roads where I careened around on a bike. 

The day a migrating whooping crane stopped

in our flooded back yard. Long ago. Green

skies over oaks before tornados. 

 

My feet once knew every inch of that parade route.

You never really leave those old home towns. 

The red flags didn’t wave true here. The young man

got his assault rifle in a state and town known

for its tougher-than-most gun laws.

I supposed I wouldn’t know anyone who was there

after all these decades. That wasn’t true.

I knew two people who fled the explosions, one

a man I went to school with who fled with his

grandchildren and one a woman who lived next door

to me as a child. Everyone says it can happen

anywhere. I know that now. 

Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet. When media people describe Highland Park's 30,000 residents as a small town, she's aware that in Vermont Highland Park would be Vermont's second largest city. She worried about possible violence in June for friends in Portland, Oregon going to the Pride Parade. Her next collection of poetry One Bent Twig is coming out from Future Cycle Press in early 2023—poems reflecting her love and concern for trees facing climate change. She has written about the red oaks of Highland Park.

REWIND

by Laura Rodley

If I write this poem

will you breathe again?

Will the bullet

eject itself from your heart,

close the hole where

the blood pumps out

over the ground,

will the blood surge

through the stunned portions

of your heart, your legs,

let them walk again?

If I write this poem

will it rewind time, stop the sale

of the automatic rifle

to a twenty-two year-old—

his whole life ahead of him—

who fired into

the 4th of July parade in Highland Park,

killing seven, no life ahead of them now.

If I write this poem

will the parade stop on 4th street

so where he stood on the roof

is too far away for his bullets

to reach, the slew of revelers

rerouted, over the river, safe.

If I write this poem

will this sky pour down its angels

to dismantle the armories,

dismantle the gun cabinets,

dismantle the twenty-two-year old’s gun,

dismantle the anger, despair, whatever

feeds this frenzy, though, yes, I know

angels can only surge their light,

flicker on the intention, even they cannot

lift the rifle, pull it out of his hands,

—given free choice,

the shooter must do it for himself,

should have chosen otherwise;

the next shooter must decide

for himself: put the weapon down.

Is it because of a lack of a way

to be a hero that they take up arms

and destroy? Rewind, give

the people back their lives. Do it now.

Laura Rodley, Pushcart Prize winner, is a quintuple Pushcart Prize nominee and quintuple Best of Net nominee. Latest books: Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Publishing, Counter Point by Prolific Press, and As You Write It Lucky Lucky 7, a collection of 11 writers' work.

A PERILOUS YEAR

by Tom Bauer

What fireworks are good enough on any
nation’s holiday? What illumination
is light enough? The light of sweet relief
is the light most creatures seem to love the best.
Where do we find it? Shooting in the streets
and yelling for our rights? Can we ever,
can anyone find peace in war and hate?
How can we feel our best? Ignore the worst?
Paint flowers in the mind? Sell hopes and smiles?
Bring on delightful lies and praise our kind?
It happens, and we never even knew
a flash of light could take it all away.
The long night’s fireworks scream at us all.
We cannot do this anymore. No more.


Tom Bauer's an old coot who lives in Montreal and plays a lot of board games.

7.4.22

by Don Brunnquell

Terrified paradegoers fled the Highland Park, Ill., Fourth of July event after shots were fired Monday. At least six people were dead, more than 40 people were hospitalized and a gunman was at large Monday afternoon after shooting Fourth of July paradegoers from a roof in this Chicago suburb, authorities said. (Photo: Lynn Sweet/AP via The Washington Post, July 4, 2022)

            In the dark times

            Will there be singing?

            Yes, there will be singing.

            About the dark times.

—Bertolt Brecht, “Motto”

 

Oh, say can you see, on this day

we celebrate what we used to call

one nation, with liberty and justice

for all, from every mountainside

let us sing all the songs our country

has earned, not only O beautiful

for spacious skies, but the mourning

dirge for today’s dead in Chicago parading

beside us with the children of Uvalde

and the spirit of George Floyd, not only

“Columbia the Gem of the Ocean”

but Woody’s “I Ain’t  Got No Home,”

and with fitting irony This land is your

land, this land is my land, recalling

whose land this really was, every verse

written on the mounds of the old bones.

Perhaps sing “You’re a Grand Old Flag”

not for the flag worship of the title,

but the lines, forever in peace

may you wave, and never a boast

or brag, sing “We Shall Overcome,”

but also the source of its tune,

“No More Auction Block For Me.”

All the songs need to be sung,

then return to “America the Beautiful,”

the closing lines of the second verse,

Confirm thy soul in self-control,

Thy liberty in law. 

Don Brunnquell is a poet working in Saint Paul, MN after careers in pediatric psychology and bioethics.  He is one of the coordinators of the Midstream Poetry Series in the Twin Cities. 

THE VIEW FROM WHERE I SIT

by Brooke Herter James

 

The cloud of fog

hovering

over the mountain

has shaped itself

into a jaunty cap—

the kind one might wear

to a party 

or a parade.

Brooke Herter James is a poet living in Vermont.

DUFUR HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION, MAY 29, 2020

by Penelope Scambly Schott

The NASA astronauts Douglas Hurley, left, and Robert Behnken as they made their way to the launch pad at the Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral, Fla., on Saturday. Credit: John Raoux/Associated Press via The New York Times, May 30, 2020

Speeches, music, drive-by
awarding of all 18 diplomas:
fire engines and ambulance
lead the noisy parade
through our small town.

I sit on my curb
raising my half-empty
mug of cold coffee
to personally congratulate
each gowned kid.

Two hours later at Canaveral
astronauts Bob and Doug
are rocketed into earth orbit.
Tomorrow they’ll meet up
with the space station.

Where
can our 18 graduates go
in this time of quarantine
as the local wheat is rising
into small golden capsules?


Penelope Scambly Schott is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry. Recent books are House of the Cardamom Seed  and November Quilt.  Forthcoming is On Dufur Hill, a sequence of poems about a small (pop. 623) wheat-growing town in central Oregon.

THE NEW WORLD

by Barlow Adams


It’s not my birthday
but they bring me cake,
a rainbow bearing my name
with candles like lighthouses
on a multihued shore,
welcoming me to safe harbor.
What a beach,
what a holiday we have discovered,
a paradise prescribed through 
HR interventions, signs saying
love is love, we are all one,
Life Gets Better Together.
We get tomorrow off for the parade.

I face the flames, 
wax runs with my mascara
sizzling like sugar.
Caramelized callousness, 
calls back the heat in my shoulder
where a cluster of circles remembers where
my father used to snuff his Pall Malls.
A fag for a fag, here’s a flag
I claim this land, you scallywag.
And none of these brave explorers of equality,
in business casual and formal apology,
realize that they are not the first to arrive,
that I am not an undiscovered country.

Barlow Adams is the author of two novellas. His poetry has been featured by Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel and Dos Madres Press, and is set to appear later this year in formercactus and Finishing Line Press.

I LOVE A PARADE

by Linda Ferguson

as spontaneous as kissing,
one that opens like skies and camellias in January,
one that’s snug as the petals of artichoke buds,
one as knock-kneed as newly born calves in the spring.

I love a parade that knows the way, like elephants returning to a stream,
or a parade without purpose, one that drifts along, trailing its fingers in a summer lake,
or one that’s as wistful as the hound with its nose pressed
against the rough grain of gray fence planks.

Let’s have a parade that gleams like the keys that open the hidden doors,
or like the intrepid turtles that continue to carry small polished maps of the world –
a parade that smells of peaches and petrichor and pine –
a parade that surprises, like the sight of your name, handwritten in ink,
on a cream envelope.

Let’s have a barefoot, makeshift parade made of pinecones and popsicle sticks and twine –
a red-wagon parade, with wheels that squeak and trumpets that strain and ponies that canter
along crooked brick streets.

Give us a piggy-back, leapfrog, hopscotch parade –
a parade of acorns and feathers and beads,
a parade of thick knitted socks and worn wooden clogs,
a parade with spider web streamers and twig batons
covered in clumps of fresh emerald moss.

Let’s have a parade of flags stitched with verbs
like gentle and shimmy and billow and mist
or humble signs printed with pudding and pillow
and button and bone and apple and toe—

Let’s see a parade of dazed passengers stepping off a plane
into a long embrace,
a parade of soldiers lifting their palms,
a parade of perpetrators asking forgiveness,
a parade of jurors confessing, I, too, have sinned,  
a parade of ancestors promising, it will be alright.

Come, let our parade know the beams of a blue supermoon,
let our parade know the loneliness of being lost at sea—
let our parade be the one that remembers
how footprints tremble when they touch
foreign soil.

Linda Ferguson is an award-winning writer of poetry, fiction and essays. Her poetry chapbook was published by Dancing Girl Press. She has a passion for teaching creative writing classes that inspire and support students of all ages.

BELLS & WHISTLES

by Paul Smith

I love a parade
with all the bells and whistles
tanks and cannons and ICBM’s
and, of course,
Sidewinder missiles
I love to watch the men march
and hear their stomping feet
all pound as one in unison
thudding down the street
I love to see the beamish boys
cheering for the troops
waving at their gravity
with manxome jaws outstuck
I love to see the young girls
swept up by fervor true
swooning at platoons festooned
in khaki, white and blue
as the marchers pass the graveyard
their drums and bugles cease
their toots and tweets
a still salute to fallen men
who now lie still
and march no more
the lull is brief
just a moment
a semi-quaver of relief
then right on cue
the band strikes up
Hail to the Chief!


Paul Smith lives near Chicago. He writes fiction & poetry. He likes Hemingway, really likes Bukowski, the Rolling Stones, Beatles, Kinks and Slim Harpo. He can play James Jamerson's bass solo for 'Home Cookin' by Junior Walker & the Allstars.

#HEATHERHEYER

by S.O.Fasrus

Detail from the Cable Street Mural, a large mural painting in the East End of London apinted by Dave Binnington Savage, Paul Butler, Ray Walker and Desmond Rochfort between 1979 and 1983 to commemorate the street battle in October 1936 against Oswald Moseley and his fascist Black Shirts’ march down Cable Street.

Why the Nazis came to Charlottesville.
And why I was wrong not to confront them.

—Siva Viadhyanathan, The New York Times, August 14, 2017

Ha!

She will not watch from side walks

she will not shrug

and shop.

Speak my language

dare to care

share

think

this crusade will not be rained upon.

Scribble through the night

we wear our placards

high

our fashion will never weary—

proud

clear

and dear

we know who we are

you know who we stand for.

We are our own headlines

our own music—

we are the song you think you heard before

we are the old song with new words

we are the tune from your cradle

This is OUR parade.

OUR parade.

Our parade

is American

It's American.

Ha!

SHE did not watch from side walks

SHE did not shrug

and shop.

S.O.Fasrus has verses at LUPO and is currently writing a YA novel.

MEMORIAL DAY 2014

by George Held

These (mostly) young men and women

Have fought and died for our freedom –

Nasty business, but someone has to do it –

So the least we can do is honor them

Once a year on Memorial Day, which,

Sadly, fell on May 31st, making

A floating holiday, so in our wisdom,

And eternal quest for convenience, we

Fixed it on the last Monday in May, this year

The 26th, leaving the 31st to end

The month on Saturday. So on the 26th

Let us march in or watch a parade

To honor our (mostly) young at-the-time-

Of-their-death veterans of our wars. Amen.

An occasional contributor to The New Verse News, George Held occasionally blogs at www.georgeheld.blogspot.com