A WALK IN THE PARK

by Carole Z Croll

That’s what Maverick called it 

in Top Gun before he set out

on a perilous mission. 

As it turned out, it wasn’t

a walk and there was not 

a park. It was more about

bombs, side-winding

missiles, planes and pilots

falling from the sky. 

As I think about it now, 

I am certain everyone

would call this otherwise 

as well, especially those 

who recently parachuted 

to safety, and city dwellers 

who comb through rubble,  

and those in neighboring 

countries who wonder 

if they are next, or the ones 

stranded in airports wanting 

desperately to go home,

or persons manning ships—

sitting ducks. War is

never a walk in the park

so I encourage you 

to take one. Do it today, 

tomorrow, and the next, 

because the earth 

beneath you is undisturbed 

and the ground prepares

to sprout, trees are tall 

and steady as they reach

toward unthreatening skies, 

birds and creatures 

are out and about being birds 

and creatures, 

and children can still play

on playgrounds.

Carole Z Croll has returned to her native Pennsylvania after an extended residence in the Chicago area. She is a former massage therapist as well as a teacher of English Language Learners. Her first collection of poetry The Gift Forthcoming was published in 2000. Her work has appeared in The Prairie Light Review and publications of The Brookfield Zoo and the Winfield Post in Illinois, as well as those of Studio B in Boyertown. Her poetry has received awards from The Nevada State Poetry Society, Poets and Patrons of Chicago, and The Illinois State Poetry Society. Her most recent book A Hundred Pairs of Eyes is available on Amazon.

FOOTAGE

by Kai Jensen

The bridge falls so quickly.
The ship seems stationary
like a fat little house
alight behind the dark lattice
tiled with coloured rectangles
or a plump insistent animal
nudging a leg for food.
On air, laconic voices
discuss the situation.
It seems there’s a crew up there.
The pilots wring their hands—
their bad dream’s turned real.
Nothing seems to change
but the bridge falls
all at once, its cobweb drooping
then brushed away.
The men dozing in their cabs
awake to death. A city stalls.

Kai Jensen’s father was born in Baltimore, the site of the recent bridge disaster, while Kai was born in Philadelphia. As a child he emigrated to New Zealand with his family, and is now an Australian. Kai works from home as an editor at Wallaga Lake on the Far South Coast of New South Wales. His poems have appeared in most leading Australasian literary journals and, in the United States, have been published in or accepted by The Inquisitive Eater, Men Matters Online, The NewVerseNews, Rattle and The Fictional Cafe.

FLIGHT CHECK

by Lee Nash

A British Airways pilot has reportedly been left with significant damage to his eyesight after a “military-strength” laser was shone into the cockpit of his plane landing at Heathrow, in what appears to be the most serious laser attack to date in the UK. The pilot suffered a burned retina in his right eye and has not worked since, according to the head of the British Airline Pilots’ Association (Balpa). The incident has escalated concerns over the problem of laser attacks. Balpa claims that one in two pilots has been in a plane targeted with lasers in the last 12 months. . . . In the US, the Federal Aviation Administration said the number of incidents had grown steadily since it started collating information on laser attacks in 2005. More than 3,700 incidents have been reported in the US this year. —The Guardian, Nov. 23, 2015. Photograph: Steve Parsons/PA via The Guardian: A plane lands at Heathrow. 

You may think that the most important
piece of equipment on this passenger jet
is the undercarriage,
or the recently serviced turbofan engine,
or the locking mechanism on the cockpit door.
Or the enhanced GPWS,
or the pitot-static system.
You may be afraid that the flight director
will freeze,
that the rear pressure bulkhead is not airtight.
You may be concerned that human error will occur
over at control tower,
or you may be anxious
that the security check you just passed
to ensure no incendiary device is on board,
in some innocuous soda can, for instance,
has failed.
If there’s enough fuel.
If autopilot somehow flipped to descent.
When you’ve run through the list in your mind,
don’t forget to fret
about one more thing,
the two things that are actually flying
this crate,
two precise, acutely sensitive optical instruments,
and the left one just got fried
when someone in the rundown high-rise opposite
(bypassing every operational sensor
and every moral censor)
shone a military-strength laser
(through the cockpit, into the orbit of the eye,
though pupil, lens and vitreous body)
onto the pilot’s retina.


Lee Nash lives in France and freelances as an editorial designer for a UK publisher. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in print and online journals in the UK, the US and France including The French Literary Review, The Dawntreader, The Lake, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Orbis, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, The Interpreter's House, The Journal (UK), Brittle Star, The World Haiku Review, Black Poppy Review and Silver Birch Press.

THE LIES

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

Some Gazans have admitted that they were afraid of criticizing Hamas, but none have said they had been forced by the organisation to stay in places of danger and become unwilling human-shields. The Bani Sobeila area, near Khan Younis, where the Abu Jamaa deaths took place received leaflets dropped from the air last week warning them to leave. But almost all stayed. One reason for that was many of the houses belonged to the Abu Jamaa clan who felt there was safety in staying together. Another reason was given by a neighbour, Abdullah al-Daweish: “Where do we go to? Some people moved from the outer edge of Khan Younis to Khan Younis centre after Israelis told them to, then the centre got bombed. People have moved from this area to Gaza City, and Gaza City has been bombed. It’s not Hamas who is ordering us in this, it’s the Israelis.”  --“Israel-Gaza conflict: The myth of Hamas’s human shields.” The Independent (UK), July 21, 2014. Image source: Israel Defense Forces.

The lies rise early
To shower and shave
And don their heroic flight suits
(The lies are nothing
If not clean-cut
And smartly turned-out)

At breakfast the lies
Playfully mock each other
And make light
Of the dangers of their upcoming mission
Over enemy territory
(The lies are nothing
If not courageous)

During their preflight briefing
The lies receive
Aerial photographs
And location coordinates
For surgical strikes
Against terrorist targets
(The lies are nothing
If not precise)

In the cockpits of their F16s
The lies crack jokes
Over their crackling radios
About mowing down “future terrorists”
(The lies are nothing
If not witty)

When they return to base
The lies meet over a few beers
To review their day’s work
And pledge allegiance once again
To the founding myths
While on enemy ground
Countless small truths
Bleed into soil and sand


Buff Whitman-Bradley is the author of four books of poetry, b. eagle, poet; The Honey Philosophies; Realpolitik; and When Compasses Grow Old; and the chapbook, Everything Wakes Up! His poetry has appeared in many print and online journals. He is also co-editor, with Cynthia Whitman-Bradley and Sarah Lazare, of the book About Face: Military Resisters Turn Against War.  He has co-produced/directed two documentary films, the award-winning Outside In (with Cynthia Whitman-Bradley) and Por Que Venimos (with the MIRC Film Collective).  He lives in northern California.

MYSTERY PLANE

by Phyllis Wax

They keep searching the seas:
the Bay of Bengal, the Gulf of Thailand,
the South China Sea, the Indian Ocean.
Might as well look in Lake Michigan.

No terrorists on board, no hijackers.
Two good pilots—a grandfather and
a young man looking forward to marriage.
Only good people (ask the relatives,
wailing and weeping), a planeload
of concentrated goodness
from Asia, Australia, Europe
and North America.  Where
could they possibly be?

I know.  A night flight.
Two pilots, heads in the clouds.                        
One gives a nod, turns                   
off the transponder.  The plane
rises to 45,000 feet, 60,000, higher—
approaches the glowing face of God.         


Phyllis Wax muses on the news and politics from a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan in Milwaukee, WI.  She's been widely published, most recently in  The Widows' Handbook:  Poetic Reflections on Grief and Survival from Kent State University Press.