THE DEMOCRATS' POST-MORTEM 2024

by William Aarnes

Graphic credit: Eniola Odetunde  Axios

That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  

What tactic worked? Beyoncé’s walk-on song?

We have nobody but ourselves to blame.

Resentful people rule. So why inflame

them more with hopeful talk they hear as wrong?    

That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  

You’d think by now we’d play a better game.    

Why hint at climate? Why not go along—

back fossil fuels? We have ourselves to blame.

The ads we ran were far too nice. So tame.

Why not something like Haitians don’t belong?

That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  

Our nuanced stances came across as lame.    

Why didn’t we present ourselves as strong  

enough to bring—in days!—world peace? We’re to blame.

Next time let’s make attracting men our aim.

Why didn’t we bring up that golfer’s schlong?

That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  

We have nobody but ourselves to blame.

William Aarnes lives in Manhattan.

MARCH OF THE POSTER BOYS

by Scott LaMascus

for Robin Davis

He Took His 68-Year-Old Secret to Court and Finally Confronted His Ghost: Robin Davis (above) spent a long career in finance and philanthropy haunted by what had happened to him as a boy. Could an unusual trial on Long Island help him find peace? —Michael Wilson, The New York Times, August 5, 2024

The poster boys for this malady 
each stare into their mirrors hoping to see the ghost
they would be able to fight now
their feet are no longer frozen to the spots

of their only crimes — the car ride with a coach, 
an after-school job, a church’s back room. 
They gather now in a spectral locker room of boys
chosen by chance and dark intention, charged 

and armor-plated by twenty, thirty, sixty years
of silent shame driving them to something else.
However much success they find, the juries snicker
and some doze, nodding away at lack of blood

and gore, for they cannot see the fright of spirits
gathered on each side of the glass, a throng of 
poster boys facing ghosts who picked them out 
of the schoolyards of time. No justice can redress 

the fraids on either side of the mirror, peering 
in with one hand on gavel and one on a scale, 
sometimes seeing the wispy victims, sometimes not,
I suspect. All velocity has settled now into sleep.

The pardon Robin seeks is in that mirror, too,
as he speaks before the harsher judge and jury all in one,
a lone poster boy standing again before his ghost
testifying now into the wisp of time he cannot unimagine.

Author’s Note:  This poem puts Davis (and me) into the company of a myriad of ghostly perpetrators and ghostly victims. A “fraid” is the technical name for a gathering of spirits, in this poem’s vision a two-sided confrontation of ghosts of perpetrators and of survivors. The poem also turns on found language from the Michael Wilson article including the three F’s (fight or flight or freeze) quoted by Wilson from the courtroom testimony of the psychologist, Valentina Stoycheva.

Scott LaMascus is a writer and public-humanities advocate living in Oklahoma City. His recent work may be found in World Literature Today, The Writer’s Chronicle, Bracken, Red Door, and Epiphany.

I HAVE NO WORDS

by Arshi Mortuza

I replaced i’s with !’s
E’s with 3s
Countries with fruits and 
News of g3noc!d3 with 
Skull emojis. 

I [crying face] for ALL (yes, all)
!nnocent lives lost
Because what m0nster 
Would differentiate between 
Human bl00d?

I speak droid
To convey my beep-ing p@in towards 
Humans stripped off humanity 
All the while dreaming 
Of planting 
little w@termelon seeds.

Sh@me on you.

Sh@me on me.

Arshi Mortuza is a 20-something Bangladeshi poet living in Canada. She is the author of the poetry collection One Minute Past Midnight. Arshi’s poetry and prose have been featured in various literary outlets across the globe.

MORAL CHARACTER

by Frederick Wilbur

Dear Justice Roberts, honorable by name,

here is a friendly note from the public-

at-large though the message is but one:

if you have even a whereas of shame

it would be wise, indeed, politic,

to share some with colleagues who have none.

Frederick Wilbur is a writer and architectural woodcarver living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. His poetry collections are As Pus Floats the Splinter Out and Conjugation of Perhaps. He was awarded the Midwest Quarterly’s Stephen Meats Poetry Prize. He is poetry co-editor and blogger for Streetlight Magazine.

OF SNAKES AND STONE

by Olivia Fortier

 

“Self-portrait in the style of Medusa” by Andrea Mantegna c. 1474 Uffizi Gallery. 
Photo via Web Gallery of Art

 

Though afraid of the water, 

my mother hand-scooped the lake 

to wet my skin before she blew up 

water wings, and slid them to the tops

of my arms. 

 

I floated on the surface of a calm lake, 

the flotsam of a failed marriage;

my father had sided with the man 

who’d raped my mother, when he, 

the rapist, denied any wrongdoing, 

as rapists often do, and it was then 

my mother lost her head.

 

From the water, I watched my mother 

walk the beach in search of driftwood 

for garden ornaments. An hour later, 

her pile was small, her harvest thin, 

so I swam back to shore to help her, 

my skin burned from the sun’s reflection 

on the lake’s mirror top. Seeing her error, 

my mother glossed me with sunscreen. 

Then, stony-faced, as single mothers 

must be at times, doing everything alone, 

she removed my wings, deflated them, 

and withdrew into herself.

 

When it comes to driftwood, 

gnarls and knots are lovely decorative 

features. Dead tree roots are rare finds; 

initially disturbing to look at, yes, but 

given a couple coats of shellac to bring 

out their natural beauty, they transform 

into octopi, or staghorn coral. Or, as 

my mother explained to me as I grew,

the rape survivor Medusa’s head of snakes—

 

snakes being her punishment for Poseidon's

assault against her body with his venomous 

viper; the rape turned any future hopes she had 

for normalcy to stone, which is to say, as Medusa

lied under his shadow, Poseidon projected himself 

onto her—a terrifying appearance, a petrifying gaze.

Then she was called monster while he continued 

to reign freely. Any man who slayed Medusa 

with his long, sharp blade would be called hero, 

and brave; her severed head and deadened mind, 

a trophy. But until then, she was forced to withdraw 

from society and live alone in a cave,

 

for shame. Before Mother died, she told me nothing 

has changed for women, and that I am Medusa’s daughter, 

and that statistically speaking, I will also become

Medusa.

 

I am Medusa.

Olivia Fortier’s work has appeared in multiple literary journals. She is currently a Master of Fine Arts candidate.

AND SOON RELIEF

by tom bauer

United States Congresswoman Rashida Tlaib has introduced a resolution to recognise the Palestinian Nakba, the term used to describe the forced displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians before and during the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948. —AlJazeera, May 11, 2023

The United Nations for the first time on Monday officially commemorated the displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians in the war surrounding the creation of Israel 75 years ago, drawing a sharp response from the Israeli ambassador to the world body. —The New York Times, May 15, 2023

how long the shame of saying words all wrong

not knowing who is right or wrong in harm.

how long to never criticize for fear
of self-betrayal, life, and friend-betrayal,
the edge betrayals of a world of stone.

the concrete streets and building fronts are full.
emptiness is everywhere in loneliness.

whatever loss there is, life returns in full.
spring flowers come again in spring for all.
it is but one promise of being in life.

we must not waste it all, we cannot waste
it all, we dare not waste it all again.

a moving field of faces growing warm
in sunlight, yellow sand, dusky nights, rain
refreshing all the land, crumbly when
we climb the yielding earth with fresh roots.

tom bauer lives in montreal with his sons and plays boardgames.

SHAME!

 by Pepper Trail

Author’s note: This poem responds to the House passage this week of a bill barring transgender girls and women from participating in women's athletics.  The bill is only the latest Republican attack on transgender youth, an attempt to deny their identity and very existence. In the words of the NY Times, this is "part of a nationwide push by conservatives to restrict transgender rights as they make culture issues a centerpiece of their political message." This has been led by Florida governor Ron DeSantis and former President Donald Trump and enthusiastically taken up by House Speaker Kevin McCarthy and Republican governors and state legislatures around the country.  As the parent of a transgender son, I am horrified at this rush to demonize our most powerless and vulnerable children, a cynical play on ignorance and fear that will unquestionably increase suicide rates and mental health crises.

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.

WHAT PEOPLE MEAN WHEN THEY SAY LATER

by Devon Balwit

The headlines scream of war and child labor,
the ways humans brutalize each other. The authors
hope to shame us out of apathy. Near
their blare gapes a book with a cow on the cover.
Her long-lashed eyes make this reader hunger
to press my face to hers. She’s been slaughtered,
one of tens of millions every year, numbers
too large to render back into individual creatures,
a fact, with our favorite and customary foods, we prefer
to ignore. We ought care more for human mothers
some argue—for farmers and workers, for the poor,
who cannot afford to eat ethically. Later
we can worry about animal welfare. Later, 
my friends, is a common synonym for never.

Devon Balwit walks in all weather. Her most recent collection is Spirit Spout [Nixes Mate Books, 2023].

IN MOSCOW

by Phyllis Wax

Natalia Samsonova says she imagines the muffled screams of those trapped under the rubble, the fire and smell of smoke, the grief of the mother who lost her husband and infant child beneath the ruins of the building in Dnipro bombed by Russia. She imagines being unable to breathe. That is why she is here, at a statue to the Ukrainian poet Lesya Ukrainka, a largely unknown monument tucked away among Moscow’s brutalist apartment blocks that has hosted a furtive anti-war memorial at a time when few in Russia dare protest against the conflict. PHOTO: A woman holds a placard reading ‘Ukraine is not our enemy, they are our brothers’ in front of a monument to Ukrainian poet Lesya Ukrainka in Moscow. Photograph: Reuters —The Guardian, January 28, 2023

On this poor, indigent ground

I shall sow flowers of flowing colors;

I shall sow flowers even amidst the frost,

And water them with my bitter tears.

—Lesya Ukrainka

Silently                    

they lay their flowers

before the poet’s statue.              

Alone

or in twos

they stand mute.

Thunderous      

in the silence

is their sorrow

their horror

and shame

at what Russia is doing.

Phyllis Wax watches the world from Milwaukee. Much of her poetry comes from her observations. She has been published in numerous journals and anthologies, in print and online.

KILLING IS IN THE AIR

by David Radavich

                On the murder of Yuriy Kerpatenko

Ours is the age of barbarians.

When life is valued little

as a song.

 

A conductor refuses

to lead the music     

of his oppressors

 

and is shot dead

without his baton.

 

Soldiers who shoot him

fear no lingering guilt, 

no final judgment, 

no cosmic shame.

 

The man who dies

is an ant to be squished,

a former echo only.

 

Let us hope the silence

will accuse forever,

 

that angels will sing

the conductor

to his final place

enhemmed in flowers.

David Radavich's poetry collections include two epics, America Bound and America Abroad, as well as Middle-East Mezze and The Countries We Live In. His latest book is Unter der Sonne / Under the Sun: German and English Poems (2022).  

[THIS POEM WILL PROBABLY GET US KILLED]

by Sharmila Voorakkara & Ron Riekki

Planned Parenthood officials on Monday announced plans for a mobile abortion clinic—a 37ft recreational vehicle that will stay in Illinois but travel close to the borders of adjoining states that have banned the procedure since the US supreme court overturned Roe v Wade earlier this year. —The Guardian, October 4, 2022

                                                               for Alexis McGill Johnson

There has always been a running, either away from

or to.  And sometimes, just the promise of anything other than

where you are is all you need to leave. To live.  This fills me

with worried peace… My friend told me that I need

to practice gratitude, to be thankful for mobile clinics

and mobile apps and even my mobile home—

these places of temporary comfort, where people 

might treat you like a person, can understand you are

a being, human, like them, to help with the need to avoid

suffering, needlessly, and perhaps be understood, 

be under caring hands, especially after the hands

that strangled you, tried to own you, drown you,

breakdown you, in your nightgown, you in front

of your children and the law-and-order and the Bible 

that want to shame you, and then, at the border,

this safety, waiting, at the border, thank God, at the border.

Sharmila Voorakkara received her MFA from the University of Virginia. Her first collection of poems, Fire Wheel, was published by the University of Akron Press.

Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (Michigan State University Press).

SOULS IN SOLES

by Jen Schneider

Gun-control advocates hold a vigil outside of the National Rifle Association (NRA) headquarters in Fairfax, Virginia following the mass shooting at Robb Elementary. Kevin Dietsch/Getty Images

again / tiny souls in rubble

and rubber soles

and rainbow-hued cotton

laces. elastic tips tucked

and tied. two-loops.

classroom pride. hide

under desks, behind doors,

on carpet-covered floors.

time once a concept

to be taught, not measured.

again / time knocks

on the doors of a nation

of shame and guns

with no roses

and loopholes

on parades / again

            with no brakes

mindless modeling

of putty and clay

must stop / now

so tiny souls

in rubber soles

            may learn, laugh, live

again / to teach and tell time,

sculpt and script

            a future of roses

                        with no guns  /  what if

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

CIRCUS

by Imogen Arate

Met Police officer Wayne Couzens has been sentenced to a whole-life term for the murder of Sarah Everard (above), in a case that sparked national outrage and calls for more action to tackle violence against women. Couzens admitted the kidnap, rape, and murder of the 33-year-old marketing executive when he appeared in court several months ago. But it was only during his sentencing that the full details of his crimes emerged. —BBC News, October 1, 2021

Don’t ask me to write a poem about her death

because there’ll be another before I can find

the perfect synonym that excites murders to titillate

Though I think we’ll be just fine with our hot

breath fogging up whichever screen that

protects our voyeurism as a news craze

Don’t look for nuance as there won’t be

hues apart from those that sell well

Misogyny has a target market like any

I mean do we really care about the loss

of peoples whose value we’ve decided 

to debase long ago except during

their assigned celebratory terms

How else can we virtual signal without

Ah sorry #Timesup For your month

I mean Not your demise Amphitheaters

must be filled Come come we’ve broken

through the boundaries of brick-and-mortar 

decades ago but bloodlust is evergreen 

And since we’ve dispensed with shame

only thumbs ups are allowed 

though we’ll deliver all the same 😉

Imogen Arate is an award-winning Asian-American poet and writer and the Executive Producer and Host of Poets and Muses (https://poetsandmuses.com), a weekly poetry podcast that won second place at National Federation of Press Women's 2020 Communications Contest. She has written in four languages and published in two. Her works were most recently published in Rigorous and The Opiate and on the Global Vaccine Poem project. You can find her @PoetsandMuses on Twitter and Instagram.

HEY TALIB

by Aryan Ashory

Hey Talib a stain of shame in our history 

You didn’t show mercy to our newborn babies

You didn’t show mercy to our students

You didn’t show mercy to our pregnant women

You didn’t show mercy to our old white-bearded fathers

You didn’t show mercy to our wise sisters and brothers

I wish for this slaughterhouse generation to be destroyed

I wish for our notebooks to be no more tainted with blood

I wish that we lose no more our kin and our beloveds

I wish for no more crying, collapsing, tears and pain

I wish that our education be no more cloaked in blood

I wish that we no more be the page of sorrow in the history of the world 

I wish that our goals no longer be cut short before their fulfillment

I wish our hills be no more filled with the corpses of students

I wish those living to be coloured no more with red

Aryan Ashory is a 16-year old poet and filmmaker from Afghanistan. She spent two years in Greece, before moving with her family to a refugee camp in Germany. Her poems are in Dari, English, Greek, and German. One of her short films, about her experience of Coronavirus and quarantine in a refugee facility, was among 15 finalists for the Girl Rising Competition and is available here. 

PORTRAIT OF WARPAINT

Pencil on paper with typed spoken word by Deidra Suwanee Dees

Dr. Deidra Suwanee Dees is Director/Tribal Archivist at Poarch Band of Creek Indians. She teaches Native American Studies at the University of South Alabama, initiated by the Tribe. She earned her doctorate at Harvard. She is the author of a chapbook, Vision Lines: Native American Decolonizing Literature. Heleswv heres, mvto.

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

by Marsha Owens  

Credit Warren F. Johnson, Photographer

"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."  1 Corinthians 13-12


The black eye
of the storm
is the safest place
we’re told.

I don’t know blackness
slumped in the abyss
of my white privilege

yet I see broken
everywhere,
a prism of shame
shattered
beyond words.


Marsha Owens lives and writes in Richmond, VA. Her writing has appeared in print publications, including The Huffington Post, Wild Word Anthology, The Sun, and online at TheNewVerse.News, Poets Reading the News, Rat’s Ass Review, and Rise Up Review. She is a co-editor of the poetry anthology, Lingering in the Margins.

TAMIR

by Diane Vogel Ferri

Every time an unarmed black man
falls to our videoed fears and white failures

I see Tamir’s face, so many times, too many times,
the face that I saw in my classroom one year.

Yes he was tall, yes he liked attention,
neither are reasons to be given two seconds

to respond to an adult, neither are reasons
to be on a list of martyrs to America’s shame,

neither are reasons for his twelve year-old
face to be frozen in time on tv, the news,

on the never-ending list of lost black men,
not a reason to be famous or dead.


Author’s Note: Tamir Rice was my student in 2012.

Diane Vogel Ferri is a teacher, poet, and writer living in Solon, Ohio. Her essays have been published in Scene Magazine, Cleveland Stories, Cleveland Christmas Memories, and Good Works Review among others. Her poems can be found in numerous journals such as Plainsongs, Rubbertop Review, and Poet Lore. Her previous publications include Liquid Rubies (poetry), The Volume of Our Incongruity (poetry), and The Desire Path (novel). A former special education teacher, she holds an M.Ed from Cleveland State University and is a founding member of Literary Cleveland.