QUESTIONS

by Katy Z. Allen

Cartoon by Clay Jones

President Donald Trump declared Wednesday evening that his power as commander in chief is constrained only by his “own morality,” brushing aside international law and other checks on his ability to use military might to strike, invade or coerce nations around the world. –The New York Times, January 8, 2026

But the more they were oppressed, the more they multiplied and spread out… —Exodus 1:12
 
asking yourself a question / that's where resistance starts // and then asking someone else, the same question —Remco Campert, "Someone Asks the Question"

The money began to disappear

and the people, 

adherence to the law,

whether ours or everyone’s,

environmental protection,

childcare and other services,

a sense of safety and security,

more money,

more people.

The killing and wounding began—

always with an explanation—

adherence to personal morality alone 

prevailed.

Yet questions were spoken,

whispered and shouted, 

in the open and behind closed doors, 

among friends and in public, 

on airwaves and in cyberspace,

by children and by grandparents, 

by the energized and by the exhausted,

in solitude or to another

question were repeated, 

multiplied 

and spread out,

until 

they were on the lips of every caring woman 

and child 

and man,

every caring human being.

And that was the moment that led,

in the end,

to the beginning.

Katy Z. Allen is a lover of the more-than-human world, poet, retired rabbi of an outdoor congregation, former healthcare chaplain, co-founder of a Jewish climate organization, and eco-chaplain. She has been writing in one context or another all her life. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in print and online in such places as Amethyst Review, The New Verse News, The Bluebird Word, Cosmic Daffodil, and Art on the Trails: Number 9. Her book, A Tree of Life: A Story in Word, Image, and Text was published by Strong Voices Publishing.

ON THE HOWLER MONKEY DEATHS IN MEXICO

by Pepper Trail

Their howls were pure vowel, shapes
in the mouth of existence: Here, here, we are here,
bringing the forest to monkey-life,
vibrating the leaves of caoba and pochote,
the fruits of zapote, guarumo and nanche,
howls that named the family, organized the world.
 
Yes, there was always heat—but now
different, a heat that makes silence 
through the night, through the day,
loosens the baby’s grip, then the mother’s.
They fall from the trees like rotten fruit,
their open hands holding nothing but questions.

Author's note:  As a field biologist, I have shared tropical forests with these monkeys, have been awakened in the night by their prodigious howls, have marveled as they leap from tree to tree with their infants on their backs. The news that we have made the planet too hot for these fellow primates, superbly adapted to the heat and humidity of the tropics, is tragic and terrifying. How can we not understand that we are next?

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

TO THE iPHONE FALLING 16,000 FEET FROM AN AIRPLANE

by Fran Davis

Representative image created using AI via India Today

Cuong Tran is the man whose iPhone fell out of Alaska Airlines Flight 1282 when the plane lost a door plug during the flight, which was going from Portland, Oregon, to Ontario, California, on January 5. His phone was recovered on the side of a road and miraculously survived the drop of thousands of feet: It still had half of its battery's charge and was in airplane mode, opened to an email containing a baggage claim receipt.— Business Insider, January 13, 2024

A fierce gust 

ripped out like a rude birth

to incomprehensible air

propellered by wind

strong steel case

glinting sun

blue sky

dark earth

 

turning and turning

the hawk’s gyre

compass berserk with spinning

electrons scattered

hectic static stilled

 

freefall

calm at the farthest edges

deep silence of

time unscaled

 

violent jolt

jiggering compass

shuddering apps

readjustments

where is

where is

the tower

 

glass face swept clean

thumbs probing

questions

that can’t be answered

Fran Davis is a journalist living on California’s South Coast. Her writing appears in magazines and travel books. Her prose and poems have been published in New Verse News, Calyx, The Chattahoochee Review, The Vincent Brothers Review, Reed Magazine, Passager, and several anthologies. She is a winner of the Lamar York prize York prize for nonfiction and a Pushcart Prize nominee.

TISSUE & NERVE

by Art Goodtimes

Illustration: Jonathon Rosen for Mother Jones, 2011.

One of the books Capt. Barefoot’s been reading

Crews’ Freud: The Making of an Illusion

details how Freud’s entire legacy

constitutes a tissue of lies

 

Only 'tis you and yous who believe

who put the lie to lies, even

poorly disguised with political handstands

cheap shout-outs & calisthenic flash mobs

 

Truth is, truth can be torn

& so mangled it’s not just-us or justice

but tissue & nerve that compensate

for the loss of all muscle

 

Just one rip & a deep

unconditional dive into the bliss of belief

whether odi et amo, for, out of the fabric

to leap lizard bots & borgs

 

Aye, citizens. Let’s inaugurate our hills to climb

Unzip the science. Unmask the threats. Let’s be

born again believers in the freedom of choices—not so

much the answers, but the friends we make of the questions

 

Art Goodtimes was an Earth First! poetry editor before getting elected to five terms as a Green county commissioner in Southwestern Colorado, where U.S. Rep. Lauren Boebert (R-Rifle) now represents the Third Congressional district in Congress. Art is co-director of Talking Gourds, a local and regional poetry program under the non-profit aegis of the Telluride Institute.

2020: ON STORIES, TIME, AND QUERIES

by Jen Schneider

Twenty-eight queries on a year in review. 2020 is nearly hindsight.

 

Q1. Which of the following words is least like the other? Most?

Story

Storied

Stall

Scared

 

Q2. Which of the following words is least like the other? Most?

Relative

Time

Relate

Test

Term

 

Q3. If I cry and no one sees, does my pain matter?

 

Q4. True or false: Not all stories have happy endings.

 

Q5. True or false: All stories deserve to be told.

 

Q6. True or false: All tears are wet.

 

Q7. Which of the following is a symptom of 2020? Choose all that apply.

Headache

Stomachache

Heartache

 

Q8. Define struggle. Define consolation.

How are the two similar? Different?

 

Q9. Which of the following email signatures does not belong?

Stay safe

Stay well

With best wishes

Regards

 

Q10. Which of the following words is most like the other? Least?

Pandemic

Pandemonium

Parade

Puppet

 

Q11. Which of the following is an appropriate 2020 holiday greeting?

With condolences

Season’s greetings

Almost there

The most ____ time of year

 

Q12. Which of the following is most likely to win product of the year?

Masks

Music

Memories

 

Q13. What types of puzzles are hardest to solve?

Puzzle of a thousand pieces

Puzzle of 365 days

Puzzle of 2020

Puzzle of 100,000 pieces

 

Q14. What type of loss can’t be recovered? What types can be?

 

Q15. As citizens, we’ve been told to be patient. Define patient.

 

Q15. Which of the following words is least like the others?

Patience

Patient

Patent

Pest

Plague

 

Q16. Define and explain the difference between 2 and 3 ply paper. 

 

Q17. Which of the following words is most closely associated with 2020? Least?

Toilet 

Tissue

Tear

Time

 

Q18. Which of the following doesn’t belong?

Bookshop

Bookstore

Book swap

Bookmark

 

Q19. Define relative.

 

Q20. Doctors caution arms ache post-vaccine. Why does no one caution against heart aches prior?

 

Q21. How can a virus with only three consonants travels all continents?

 

Q22. Which of the following words doesn’t belong?

Vaccine

Virus

Virulent

Verse

 

Q23. If friends tell me I look different on video, who has changed?

 

Q24. Which of the following words doesn’t belong?

Zoo

Zoom

Zine

Zipper

 

Q25. Define present. Are all presents gifts?

 

Q26. How does the future differ from the present?

 

Q27. Writers speak of the moment in time when strings of words go dead. Define that moment in time.

 

Q28. First thought, best thought. Ready. Set. Go. 

1.     An emotion associated with January 2020

2.     Noun that describes 2020

3.     Another word for truth

4.     The word that describes a deep wound

5.     Word that describes a sibling, parent, aunt, or cousin

6.     A mineral or element on the periodic table of elements

7.     Lyric—two words—from a favorite song

8.     An emotion associated with March 2020

9.     A cartoon character

10.  Antonym for past

 

On Past Truths

Even as a young girl, I knew not all stories have _1__ endings. 

Not all __2__ end well. Knew, also, that not all tales are __3__. 

Time heals some ___4___, but not all. Time, too, is ___5___. 

Eight comes both before and after nine. And not all relatives 

are as strong as __6__. 

 

On Crossroads

With a heart of __7__ and a sense of __8__, 

we rest our heads on sheets of dancing __9__. 

Nighttime falls on the __10__. 

 

Run. Hurry now. We can beat it if we try.

Race for cures, vaccines, and fresh air. 

Friends, too. Run. Hurry now. 

Try, we can beat it now. Hurry. Run.

Race for a reason to live.

 

 

On Futures

Define Future. Define Race. 

How are the two similar? Different?

 

1.     The color of your favorite ice cream

2.     A favorite pub entree

3.     The noise of your daily commute

4.     A carnival food

5.     An airplane snack food

6.     A destination reached only by air

7.     A destination reached only by sea

8.     First love. One word

9.     A word that describes when shoulders rub

10.  Something, someone, somewhere beloved.

Futures are the color of __1__, the flavor of __2__, and the sound of __3__.

Futures smell of __4__ and __5___. Futures tease of __6__.  Futures 

are __7__, __8__ and __9__. The future is __10__. Focus on the Future.

 

Hope

1.     Antonym for damaged

2.     An emotion associated with September 2020

3.     A wish for 2021

4.     An appropriate social distance (whole number only)

5.     Synonym for vaccine

6.     Number of consonants in COVID-19

7.     The color of 2020

8.     The smell of 2020

9.     Humpty Dumpty sat on _____. (Plural)

10.  Humpty Dumpty had great _____. (Plural)

11.  A word that rhymes with wall and fall.

 

Hope is wrapped of ___ and ___. Hope is ___ times ___.

Hope is found in ___ times ___. Hope is ___ and____.

Hope persists despite ____ and ___. ____, too. 

Hope is everywhere. 

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Her work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, unstamatic, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.

IN JEOPARDY

by Gary Glauber

 

My potent potable’s amber glow

reflects the lights and I reflect

that we are in jeopardy.

Everything has become a contest.

Surviving a Global Pandemic for 1000, Alex.

Science becomes a new focal point.

The game is charged with toxic partisanship

and many ignore even the obvious clues.

It’s a contest rife with unfathomed wonder,

close and chaotic and requiring an overall knowledge

that frightens the general populace,

yet the game continues to another round.

Heading to commercial, the camera

pans over a studio audience—too old, too white.

Suddenly, a few minutes of pharmaceutical ads

tells me of exotic brand names that can cure my ills

so long as I’m fine with a litany of side effects 

that seem worse than the targeted ailment.

And soon we are back. Alex battling

against his own threatened mortality;

contestants making small talk 

while trying not to self-embarrass

through slow or ignorant response.

Alex may chide them for being too young

to know a particular answer, and this

is the microcosm of how culture shifts,

the ways generational views differ on 

what defines patriotism, which lives matter.

Rule of Law for 600, Alex. 

Conspiracy Theories for 800.

The numbers indicate much is at stake

as we collectively head into the final round.

The category is irrelevant:

life revealed as a ruthless game.  

What are the parameters of true compassion?

When is a life worth less than economic progress?

Do the necessary math, then

wager it all when you realize this:

all the answers have been phrased as questions 

for far too long.   

Gary Glauber is a widely published poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist. He champions the underdog, and strives to survive modern life’s absurdities. He has three collections, Small Consolations (Aldrich Press), Worth the Candle (Five Oaks Press), and Rocky Landscape with Vagrants (Cyberwit) as well as two chapbooks, Memory Marries Desire (Finishing Line Press) and The Covalence of Equanimity (SurVision Books), a winner of the 2019 James Tate International Poetry Prize. Another collection, A Careful Contrition (Shanti Arts Publishing), is forthcoming soon. 

TODAY AS I HEAD INTO MY CLINIC IN THE TOUGH CITY

by Kelley White

via GIPHY


the brain-injured man who always blesses me
from his porch beside the parking lot is calling down
the Full Power of the Living God on my head
and I am grateful; inside, on the counter in the ‘rash room
someone has left me three blue masks with elastic straps,
the kind house-painters use, and I am grateful,
the patients coming into the building for check-ups,
and bedwetting, and autism, and ADHD, and knee-
pain-for-a-year-and-a-half and stomach-ache-for-my-
whole-life are all wearing surgical masks. They won’t
tell me where they got them. I have stashed some
toilet paper, and I am grateful, perhaps we can trade.

Miss Aesha, my granddaughter’s pre-school teacher
has posted a virtual hug on instagram with her arms
stretched like angel’s wings in her beautiful spring green
veil and matching garment; my daughter has posted back
pictures of the family baking focaccia; Evelyn
is measuring and beaming—both parents are home
now that they’ve had to close the Cake Shop, and she
is grateful. Now the water is down. Planned work
on the century old water and sewer lines, and I am
grateful it’s not more. And that I have not lost my secret
stash of hand sanitizer. Yet. My staff are hitting me

with dozens of questions I can’t answer—is it true? my
cousin’s husband’s friend said if you’re over 80 you can’t
eat eggs or cheese; I have a knee replacement, is that
risky; my teeth hurt, is that a sign of the disease? Do I need
to cancel my colonoscopy, my MRI, my breast biopsy?
I’m a pediatrician, I’m grateful I don’t have to know
all this. But we have no ‘adult’ doctor. Our ob-gyn
doesn’t want to cancel her prenatals but she herself is 73.
None of us are young. I’m 65. Our phone operator
is 87! She won’t go home. She’s afraid she won’t get paid.
Hers is the only paycheck in her family. I promise her
she will. I’m grateful for her. She leaves after a half day.
Hers may be the only life I save.

Pediatrician Kelley White has worked in inner city Philadelphia and rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her recent books are Toxic Environment (Boston Poet Press) and Two Birds in Flame (Beech River Books.) She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.