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Showing posts with label schoolgirls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label schoolgirls. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 31, 2026

DEATH TAX

by Mark Hendrickson




In honor of the 250th anniversary of the United States of America, President Donald J. Trump’s signature will appear on future U.S. paper currency along with the Secretary of the Treasury, marking the first time in history for a sitting president. —US Treasury Dept., March 26, 2026


According to a website calculator

what I paid in taxes last year

bought the government 

350 to 500 rounds of ammo.

 

I wonder if I bought the bullets

that killed Pretti and Good

in Minneapolis

by men in masks

 

Or perhaps I helped pay

for the tomahawk missile

that killed over 100 girls

in a school in Iran.

 

I protest policies,

but pay my taxes

the way I was taught

good Americans should.

 

In this way I’m complicit.

Every dollar I send

will be signed by the culprit,

and signed off by me.



Mark Hendrickson (he/him) is a poet and writer in the Des Moines area navigating the Sturm und Drang of daily life through wordcraft. His words appear in The Ekphrastic Review, The New Verse News, and Modern Haiku. Follow him @MarkHPoetry, https://www.chillsubs.com/profile/mhendrickson

 or on his website: www.markhendricksonpoetry.com

Wednesday, March 11, 2026

AGAINST PURIM

by Barbara Ungar


ID 67399384 © Olga Kuevda | Dreamstime.com


Parading as Queen Esther in kindergarten
at my first carnival, in her long blue dress, 
I tripped and tumbled off the low stage.
Yet I teach my son the fairy tale:

Queen Esther was a secret Jew, raised 
by cousin Mordecai, who refuses 
to bow down to Haman, who’s convinced the king 
to kill all the Jews, so Esther risks her life 
to reveal herself and plead. The king relents, 
asks what to do to Haman. Mordecai says, 
whatever Haman says to do to me. Haman says 
hang Mordecai, so the king hangs Haman instead. 
We rejoice: They tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat 
hamantaschen, tarts shaped like Haman’s hat.

Bored at my son’s Purim carnival 
while his class intones Hebrew verses 
no one understands, and the teachers mug 
their way through the tale in drag, I read 
the whole Megilla, realize this was Persia
(Iran), Esther was in a harem, and Haman
wasn’t hanged, but impaled on a fifty-foot stake.

As the kids trip, one by one, to the front
to chant if they can, or just read the Hebrew
with no vowels, or blush and break down
in tears, I read, yes, Haman did plan
to impale Mordecai (so it’s a grisly take 
on the golden rule), but then they impale 
all ten of Haman’s sons. At every mention 
of Haman, everyone goes wild, twirling their noise-
making groggers and shrieking with laughter.

The besotted king gives Mordecai power so, 
the text crows, our hero slaughters 75,000 
of his foes in the city, and who knows
how many more in the countryside? This
we are enjoined to celebrate as Purim.
Party on. A vendetta thousands of years old.

Today, on Purim, I see photos of rows 
and rows of graves dug side by side for  
160 schoolgirls, and a video of an Iranian 
man in tears, holding the hand of a six- or 
seven-year-old girl, just the hand, all that’s left
of her. Of course we’ll pay in kind.
While the US vows vengeance for its seven 
(so far) dead, Jew-hatred blooms across the world-
wide web, and for every murdered child, 
how many will avenge? 


Barbara Ungar is the author of six books, most recently After Naming the Animals. Honors include the Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press, Gival Poetry Prize, and being named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best Indie Books of 2015 and 2019. She has published poems in Scientific American, Rattle, Southern Indiana Review, and many other journals. 

Tuesday, March 03, 2026

FATAL DISTRACTION

by Philip Kitcher




Epstein helped men get their jollies.
Donald Trump was once a fan.
Latest victims of his follies:
Blameless schoolgirls in Iran


Philip Kitcher has written too many books about philosophy, a subject which he taught at Columbia for many years. His new book The Rich and the Poor (Polity Press) is all about the costs of abandoning morality in politics and public life. His poems have appeared online in Light, Lighten Up Online, Politics/Letters, Snakeskin, and The Dirigible Balloon; and in print in the Hudson Review.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

3 MONTHS, 200 NIGERIAN SCHOOLGIRLS

by Paula Schulz




In the 3 months since 200 schoolgirls
were kidnapped, 11 parents have died.
The town of Chibok is just 1 village
cut off from the world, from all mercy,
by Boko Haram. What Haram’s taken--
how to imagine the wear on parents,

the misery of loving fathers
who could not keep their own girls
safe from violent men. The taken
have taken others with them to death’s
doorway. And beyond. 7 fathers could not escape the merci-
less attack on Kautakari village.

4 more have died of heart failure or illness. A village
themselves, they are the grief-broken parents
of the missing. Life showed no mercy
to the father, coma-like and repeating his girls’
names “until life left him”. Until he died,
to say it plainly. So much has been taken

from these families. The school girls taken,
their fathers taken. Powerless villages
of Nigeria pray for life, expect death.
Waiting is hardest for the parents:
all they can think of is their little girls,
children who are merciful, gentle. No mercy

seems likely for them. What kind of mercy
can be found in mobs who burn cars, have taken
airlines out of service. The 57 girls
who ran home found help in their villages.
Grief and rape counselors for themselves, their families.
Now will food shortages mean death?

Chibuk village, the taken girls, their parents:
it can’t be told in numbers, this story
of impending death, this story without mercy.


Editor’s note: This poem is based on reporting in the AP story 11 “Parents of Nigeria’s Abducted Girls Die" by Michelle Faul, July 22, 2014.


Paula Schulz works daily in a 3K setting, sits for grandchildren and grieves for these children and their families.