SCARLET LETTERS

by Deb Myers

An executive 

once told my boss 

I should smile more

make more eye contact

with him, so he didn’t feel 

like I didn’t like him 

At a concert 

red letters on the front 

of a black t-shirt read 

Don’t Tell Me to Smile

it was only offered

in women’s cut 

because

of course

I bought it

Deb Myers spent her career helping companies create and improve technology products. She has left the business and technical writing world behind, and now writes poetry from her home in coastal Maine.

SHHHH

by stella graham-landau

in memory of Andrea Gibson 
13 August 1975 — 14 July 2025

quiet settles on the sheets
eyelids closed
one final rest

their smile remains
last memory last touch
last blessing inhaled exhaled

their passion lifts 
into the air around us
ignites our faith

their lines of poetry 
vine around our hearts 
their legacy already in bloom

be inspired
let yourselves lean into joy
dig deeper into all aspects of life

every step 
every breath
carry hope forward

shhhh
now smile
all is well

stella lives in richmond, va and has been published in The 

New Verse News several times as well as in regional publications. she's grateful for the wonderful poetry communities that exist, encouraging all of us to find our voices and share our truths and wonderings.

MARY ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL

by Suzanne Morris

The irrepressible

Mary Richards has

seized the cap she had

tossed in the air,

shined up her high brass

walking boots, and

temporarily stepped down

from her iconic pedestal

on Nicollet Mall at the

corner of 7th Avenue

in Minneapolis.

At the urging of

the Vice President and

the Governor, who

wholeheartedly agreed

nothing could be

Minnesota Nicer than to

have Mary on board

as a campaign adviser,

the 1970's TV character

who cheered women on

in the chase for their dreams

recognized at once

the meaningful encore

to her long-running

top-rated sitcom:

cheering on the first Black/

Asian American woman

in her quest for the

highest office in the land

right up to the

5th of November

when–God willing–

the VP and the Governor

will carry the day and

all the joy

into the White House

for the next four years.

Then, with parting advice

for the new President

to remember her example

Mary can climb up

on her pedestal again,

toss her cap

in the air, and

turn the world on

with her smile.

Suzanne Morris is a novelist with eight published works, and a poet.  Her poems have appeared in several anthologies, and in online poetry journals including The New Verse News, The Texas Poetry Assignment, and Stone Poetry Quarterly.  She resides in Cherokee County, Texas.

THE FALLEN WARRIOR OF JIHAD AND ZIONISM

by George Salamon

"To understand the Israel-Hamas war, you have to understand how we got here." —Vox, October 19, 2023

Historian Rashid Khalidi: Palestinians “Living Under Incredible Oppression, … It Had to Explode” —Democracy Now, October 9, 2023

“The Decolonization Narrative Is Dangerous and False.” —Simon Sebag Montefiore, The Atlantic,  October 27, 2023

His corpse lies all over town,

in all streets, all courtyards,

all rooms

drained out from his blood.

Air raid sirens yawn aloud

and roar, boom a

hollow scream

all over village or city.

A shimmer of light falls on

the corpse, bounces off his

glassy teeth and a smile

forms around his lips.

George Salamon talked years ago to a young Palestinian recently released from an Israeli prison for throwing stones at Israeli soldiers. "I just want to have a life," he said.  I wonder if he is among the fallen now. Also years ago a "revisionist" Israeli historian said "there is sympathy for both sides." All sides have failed the "Holy Land," and it is now a Bloodland.

KNOW THE VICTIM; KNOW THE SHOOTER

by Laura Lindeman

I know the victim!

knew…

Time in suspension 

For his extravagant antics:

Bouncing down the halls,

Bouncing words at teachers,

Bouncing a few punches 

off the faces of his peers.

But his smile races through a room 

Like lightning!

Dreads dancing on his head with the energy of a

Superbowl halftime show…

He was mischief and enthusiasm and zest!

But living in danger

His speed and agility 

Weaving through the violence

Not enough to protect him from the turbulence

Of generations of white oppression’s

Black destruction.

Armed by his family

False security in his sagging waistband.

At sixteen—just smart enough 

To make irrational risk 

Look adventurous.

Maybe this is why there used to be curfews?

Reasoning of the prefrontal cortex not fully formed 

For another half dozen years;

Which he won’t experience.

His unique weapon—fancy firearm

Not a secret.

Proudly waved 

Like a flag…

Or a dare.

During the next news cycle

I realize

I also know the shooter.

He took the dare;

Captured the flag.

Wanted the weapon of his friend.

Like two-year-olds in a sandbox

Tussling over a Tonka Truck.

What did they say?

“Mine.”

“Mine!”

“Give it!”

Bang…

Silence.

I know the shooter.

Smart, articulate

First year in middle school

Studying with headphones—Beats he called them.

Asking deep questions

Seeking complex answers

Quoting Tupac and Jay-Z

But survival on his block

Translates school as

“White people shit”.

Only slick, stark self-preservation

Was rewarded there.

The Seventh Sense

Of street survival.

Cutting classes,

Cursing teachers,

Curtailing disrespect from peers

At all costs.

Take what you want!

Command the room

      the block

      the bitches

      the boys.

So when he wants his bro’s gun,

He takes the weapon;

Takes the shot;

Takes the life.

Takes the arrest,

The parole violation.

Takes his OG’s soul

Her head in her hands in the court room.

Takes residence in a cell

No bail.

Taking traded for youth, freedom and “potential”

Barely a teenager

Playing adult games 

And losing.

Losing high school,

And chess club.

Losing a driver’s license and 

The right to vote.

Losing his siblings and 

His chance to age.

If tried and convicted as an adult

He’ll be incarcerated 45 to life.

Either way, life will be the sentence.

For the rest of his years, days, hours and moments

He will be dogged by the memory and 

Haunted by the choices 

He didn’t make:

To walk away,

To let go of the gun,

To put friendship over face-saving

And laugh at his own pretension

Stuck at fourteen forever.

Trauma imprints

Even if denied by bluster

He can’t out-run

out-shout

out-shoot

or fake out

His own fledgling soul.

I knew the victim;

I know the shooter.

Again.

Laura Lindeman is a new poet who has just decided to submit some poetry for publication with the help of a friend. This poem is a political poem focusing on gun violence, and as you will read, is based on her knowing, as a teacher, two teenagers before they became shooter and victim in a real-life tragedy. The poem speculates based on material revealed in news reports, but the poet has no first-hand knowledge of the crime itself.

BRAVE RED

by Ellen White Rook

Posted on May 25, 2017 by Maggie at The Magical, Magnificent, Miraculous Amaryllis Journey.

on the one-year anniversary of the last time I got dressed up

 

In this country,

there is no minister for loneliness.

We make do with general anxiety.

The wind, loose, plucks

the last pinecones and builds

horizontal crowns across the snow.

After this year of quizzical

breath and fingers pressed 

against glass walls, houseplants 

are overgrown from too much care: 

Ivies overthrow terracotta 

and aloe spikes weave 

through jades.

An amaryllis 

that hasn’t bloomed in years,

this week leapt a green arc from its nest 

of tiny stones. The thumb-bud aims 

precisely where the sun comes up

even though I turn the pot

each morning and some days, 

the sky stays winter pale. 

The red sepals unfold

precisely the shade

of that last lipstick smile.

Ellen White Rook is a poet and teacher of contemplative arts residing in upstate New York and southern Maine. In the pre-COVID-19 world, she offered workshops on Japanese flower arranging and led day-long Sit, Walk, Write retreats that merge meditation, movement, and writing. In 2021, you can find her on Zoom. Although a senior citizen, Ellen is a recent graduate from the Master of Fine Arts program at Lindenwood University. Her work has been published in Montana Mouthful and Trolley Literary Journal.

ILLUMINATION

by James Schwartz

500,000.

We are not equipped to process this level of grief, the news anchor sighs. Video plays of the President, First Lady, VP and Second Gentleman surrounded by candles. 

500,000.

A statistic surpassing wartime numbers. The day will come, President Biden promises, when the memory of our loved ones will bring a smile before a tear. 

500,000. 

We are an illumination in this dark stillness. One morning we will smile at the empty chair. One morning we will smile. 

James Schwartz is a poet, writer, slam performer and author of 5 poetry collections including The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay and Amish in America. Twitter: @queeraspoetry

HILLARY'S SONG

by Sue Fagalde Lick

Margot Gerster poses for a photo with Hillary Clinton on a hiking trail in Chappaqua, New York on Nov 10 2016. Photographer: Bill Clinton. Credit: MARGOT GERSTER, The Huffington Post, November 10, 2016

On Day Two, she wakes up late.
No alarm, no phone, no car waiting,
just rain streaking down the window
beyond the white lace curtains.

She hears her husband’s scratchy voice
talking downstairs to the dog,
a clatter of cups, the microwave.
She stretches and sighs, it feels good.

She reaches to turn the radio on,
then stops. What for? No.
It’s over and she didn’t win.
Still no Madame President.

She pictures her opponent’s day,
at dawn already in his suit,
the media, the press of aides
calling him president-elect.

Her followers are all in tears.
They’re holding protests in the streets
while the gun-toting, woman-hating
winners have stolen their country back.

She snuggles in her flannel sheets
and sighs again. We cracked
that old glass ceiling more
but didn’t quite break through.

They called her “Crooked Hillary,”
his voters chanted, “Lock her up,”
they displayed her husband’s mistresses,
hit her hard and yet she stood.

She stood tall, a chubby woman
in designer pantsuits and heels,
with styled hair and painted face,
looking up at all those men.

All the girls and women thought
now our voices will be heard,
but did she really want the weight
of an entire country on her back?

She could do it, and do it well,
better, in fact, than any man,
but the spotlight burned, her feet were sore.
She’d seen the job turn young men old.

Today while Trump is getting briefed—
the wars, the codes, the protocol—
she can take a bubble bath
or sit and watch the world go by.

She puts her slippers on and stands,
looks into the mirror and smiles.
It’s someone else’s problem now.
And I don’t have to style my hair.

Sue Fagalde Lick returned to poetry after a long detour in the newspaper business and a better-late-than-never MFA at Antioch University Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in New Letters, Tenemos, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Windfall and other publications. Her books include Stories Grandma Never Told and Shoes Full of Sand. 

BELATED

by Megan Collins

I’ll admit I did it, too—loved a lion
I’d never heard of until he was dead.
Scrolling through photographs, I fell
for his amber eyes. I even noted how—
in some poses—he seemed as benign
as my golden retriever, asleep at my feet.
When I read of the arrow in this lion’s side,
the forty hours he suffered, I felt my throat
stiffen like cooling wax, felt my eyes
sting as if exposed to flame.

For days, I said his name—Cecil, Cecil—
but I had to Google the woman (Sandra!)
who died in a jail cell, who’d been dragged
from her car, pulled by her collar like a dog.
I loved her, then, too—how she fought
in ways I’ve never had to, how her smile
in photographs made me want to smile back.
Her laughter, I imagined, would sound like a song.

But—how easy it is to love a victim.
How easy to love what’s already gone.


Megan Collins holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Boston University. She teaches creative writing and literature in Connecticut, and is also an editor of 3Elements Review. Her work has appeared in many journals, including Compose, Linebreak, Rattle, Spillway, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal. 

HE WON MAJOR SCORN

by Jan D. Hodge

Image source: Chumpmonkey's Electronic Cartoonatorium

There was such acid in his smile
And such hardness in his thought,
It was no wonder what deep chill
His conviction brought.

Never considering that words
Extracted from attitudes adjusted
By stress positions and waterboards
Were not to be trusted,

He spoke with infinite scorn
At those who discredited his view,
Lip curled, sullen and smugly stern,
Unbeautiful, untrue.

Not one to retreat from truculence,
Even a change of heart changed nothing.
We are vexed at such intransigence
And such deep loathing.


Jan D. Hodge has had poems published in Western Wind (5th ed.), Writing Metrical Poetry, and many print and online journals, including North American Review, New Orleans Review, Iambs & Trochees, Defined Providence, IthacaLit, and South Coast Poetry Journal.  His double dactyl renderings of Shakespeare, nursery stories, and tales from the Arabian Nights have appeared in the American Arts Quarterly website, Lavender Review, Off the Coast, Light Quarterly, Kiss and Part, Poetry Revolt, and Umbrella Journal.  The title of this poem anagrams John Crowe Ransom, whose "Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter" obviously served as the model for the poem.