I WILL MISS THE LARGE ANIMALS OF NORTH AMERICA

by Michael Brockley

Woody Guthrie in March 1943.

The bison. The grizzly bears. The jaguars that can’t leap over the wall along the border river. I will miss reading irreverent books. Novels where Jesus has a friend named Biff. Comic books where Deadpool is a hero. I will miss news reporters who know that Kansas City is in Missouri and that Benjamin Franklin never resided in the White House. I will miss the White House. The Smithsonian, the Statue of Liberty, and Yellowstone. I will wonder how Old Faithful might be disappeared. I will miss pennies. And the Beatitudes, the part of the Bible Kurt Vonnegut valued the most. I will miss voting for women. I will miss movies that tell the stories of men and women who don’t look like me. I will miss being able to see Venus and Mars on clear nights. I will miss strawberries and tomatoes and watermelons and sweet potatoes and cranberries and sunflowers and cherries. I will miss guitars with This Machine Kills Fascists scrawled across their bodies. I will miss dogs that look more like wolves than weapons of war. I will miss saying  Feliz Navidad, Fröhliche Weihnachten, and Mele Kalikimaka. I will miss finger-pointing songs. I will miss licorice. Yes, I will even miss licorice.

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana, His prose poems have appeared in Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Red Eft Review, and Unlikely Stories Mark V. Brockley's prose poems are also forthcoming in Ley Lines Literary Review, Seat at the Table, and Alien Buddha.

NOTHING

by Lynn White

ABC (Australia), August 27, 2024

In those streets

of men and boys,

in that country 

for men and boys,

she feels like a person with no face,

her face space covered,

her identity occupied

by a swirling mist of confusion

like nothingness being born.

Sometimes 

she wishes for a blank space

that she could fill herself

with a Magritte apple

or even a woman

even herself

un-blanked

and visible.

Now, in those streets

of men and boys,

in that country 

for men and boys,

she feels like a person with no voice,

Magritte’s apple is choking her,

muting her

so even in her home she whispers

her songs and curses.

Only in her head does she shout

that something will come of nothing,

that something must come of nothing.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes.

POEM FOR A YEAR IN UKRAINE

by Shih-Min, Sun

 Ironing   stained glasses
   scruffy, growth of magnitude  soul   
         of every somber
     night  comes forth
     suspended on this land
                        flood of 
                                       living , gasping
                          corpses
 rise and walk : bend
            pick 
                                                                                                                              one shoe up
           fold : clothes / string / dirty nails   unbuckle
                    crusted toes with blood, frosted
                                                                                                                                            moon   black
                                                                                                                      eye of the city   inflamed
                     a year
                                                                                                                     with a year   icy mud   feathers plank
                                             perishable but closer   underneath
 
                                              *

                             When  
                                                                    forest call
                           on each step 
                                                              streaks
                                upon walls, walls 
              birds depart, river sink
                             to depth of the country, the land   all turn into: prayers and songs
 
                                                    the orchard 
                              of life
                      respirate   unceasing
                                                                                              glare   now: wide open

Shih-Min, Sun lives and writes in Taipei, Taiwan. Her work has appeared and will be presented in publications including, The Academy of the Heart and Mind, Dadakuku, Rural Fiction Magazine, Wordpeace and has been selected for Atlanta Review 2022 International Poetry Competition in Merit Award. She started writing while working abroad, inspired deeply by family, teachers, and friends. She loves writing as a way to interpret still life and scenes of bond through language. Visit her on Instagram: @aura_a_u_r_a

PREGNANT AND TRAPPED IN MARIUPOL, UKRAINE

by Claire Matturro

“Pregnant women moved from Mariupol hospital were sheltering in bombed theatre.” —Sky News, March 26, 2022. Photo: Mariana Vishegirskaya, an injured pregnant woman walks downstairs in a maternity hospital damaged by shelling in Mariupol, Ukraine, Wednesday, March 9, 2022. (AP Photo/Evgeniy Maloletka)

At first we acted brave as we hurried

Inside the theater to flee mortars.

We had food and water, but I worried

Heavy with child if I’d make the border

If buses didn’t come. We sang bold songs,

then our food ran out, the water was gone.

Missiles crushed the walls, so we ran for trees,

as if feeble branches could stop the siege.

My baby kicks as an old man stopping

By me in the forest offers toffee.

He says “don’t chew it. It is the last one.

Let it melt slowly upon your tongue.

Chocolate and mint, a bit of sweet cream,

like the bold songs we used to bravely sing.” 

Author's Note: This sonnet is a heart-felt response to recent news stories about the continuing ordeal of people in Mariupol. The first eight lines are based upon direct news accounts—including the shelling of the theater where many took refuge and the wait for the humanitarian relief via the Red Cross buses. However, the last six lines, after the turn in the sonnet about the man offering the pregnant woman the last piece of candy, are wholly imagined. I wanted to show something of the kindness and courage of the Ukrainian people, which is so often reflected in news stories, and to offer at least a hint of hope. 

Claire Matturro has been a journalist, a lawyer, and a legal writing teacher at Florida State University and University of Oregon. She is the author of seven novels, including a legal thriller series published by HarperCollins, and is the co-author of a recent novel. She is an associate editor at Southern Literary Review and lives in Florida.

CHRISTMAS CARD

by George Salamon

We have not yet been touched by

the better angels of our nature,

I hear the music of our time

singing songs of ill will, waging

campaigns of hate, shouting

murderous chants, but few

angels singing.

Let us wake them up and let

them sing of peace and good

will and join them by sharing

fruitcake and gingerbread

by the same tree in the

spirit that  has been fleeing

from our land.

George Salamon hopes those better angels will touch America on both sides of the many-sided divide that has settled upon our lives.

BLY AND SONDHEIM: ELEGAIC DUET

by Earl J Wilcox

Making music that puts to shame a few

classic muses, you two gave us power

in poetry, in song—day after day

night after night, anytime we felt down-

hearted, no blues for you just strong

& virile and passionately human songs

for the soul. For words, we lift high

Robert, for lyrics we can never go

wrong with Stephen: harmonics

Not hysteria. Never mute, ever live.

 

Earl Wilcox, a Broadway buff and a deeply rooted poet for activism, grieves the loss of these two iconic word warriors.

FOUR SONGS OF MURDER

by Richard Lawson

BRUNSWICK, Ga. — Prosecutors in the trial of Ahmaud Arbery's accused murderers filed a flurry of new motions in recent days, including 15 in just the past 24 hours. Among them, the state's District Attorney's Office is asking the judge to allow a three-hour closing argument (an hour longer than allowed) and to show jurors cell phone video of Arbery's killing during opening statements. Arbery was shot to death on Feb. 23, 2020, after three men chased him through the coastal Georgia neighborhood of Satilla Shores. Travis and Greg McMichael are charged with first-degree murder along with their neighbor, William “Roddie” Bryan, who joined the chase and recorded the incident on his cell phone. All three have pleaded not guilty. … The state has filed previous motions seeking to keep out evidence of Arbery's diagnosed mental illness or his prior run-ins with police. The judge has not yet ruled on any of the motions. The next court date is July 22 at 10 a.m. —First Coast News, July 2, 2021

1. I Sing For Ahmaud

I sing for my sanity 

At night when I cannot sleep 

When the darkness plays an endless loop 

Of yesterday’s tragic news  

And I sing for the young black men 

Daily dying in our bleeding streets 

And I sing and pray for the mothers 

Whose tears stoke the flames of justice  

Now I sing and I pray  

Try to understand the fear the killers feel 

Why they grasp the coward’s last line of defense 

The trigger of a gun  

Yes I sing and pray that they’re something more 

Than the heartless, mindless head at the White House door 

Greeting millions marching for justice 

With tear gas and vicious dogs  

I sing for my sanity 

And pray for a savior like Dr. King 

To heal this deeply wounded world 

With wisdom, peace and love  

Yes I sing for the martyrs 

That their blood will finally cleanse this world

And slake the thirst of hate  

For now and all-time  

Now I sing and I pray  

Try to understand the fear the killers feel 

Why they grasp the coward’s last line of defense

The trigger of a gun  

 

I sing and pray that there’s something more

That the mindless, heartless head at the White House door

Greeting millions marching for justice

With tear gas and vicious dogs

Yes I sing, I sing, I sing

I sing for this country’s sanity

                                                                                  

2. Chanty For Ahmaud

The sunbeams and shadows thread through the Spanish moss

As the young men run under the live oak trees

It’s 1820 and all is well 

Cause young black men know where they should be 

At work for the master crushing shells from the beach

Making tabby all day, yes that’s their play

Hang your head low and shuffle your feet

Building master’s big house on Satilla’s white shore (and they sing)

“Ho, Ho. Scrape and pound.

Happy at work for the master

Ho. Ho. Yes scrape and pound

Crushing shells for tabby to build Master’s house.” 

 

Now it’s two thousand twenty, see what we’ve lost

Young black men forgot their place in this world

They dare to run on Satilla’s white shore

Without a white man to set their course

Sorry to say it had to be done

Lesson well-taught with an old shotgun

Soon we’ll forget and go back to our ways 

When young black men knew their place (and they’ll sing)

“Ho. Ho. Scrape and pound.

Happy at work for master

Ho. Ho. Yes I scrape and pound

Crushing shells for tabby to build Master’s house.” 

3. Black Lives Matter 

Black lives matter 

Finally a cause worth dying for 

Black lives matter 

Finally a chance to do what Jesus would do 

Do you know Jesus 

He used to run every Sunday down in southeast Georgia 

Then one day two white men shot Jesus dead in the street

Crucify! Crucify! Yes they crucified Jesus again 

Do you know Jesus 

After dying in Georgia, she moved up to Kentucky 

Asleep in her own bed the police shot her dead

Crucify! Crucify! Yes they crucified Jesus again 

Black lives matter 

Finally a cause worth dying for 

Black lives matter 

Finally a chance to do what Jesus would do

Do you know Jesus 

Dead in Kentucky, on up to Minnesota 

Policeman put a knee on his neck, he died

Crucify! Crucify! Yes they crucified Jesus again 

Black lives matter

Do you know Jesus

4. Little Jimmy’s Eatin’ Some Crow Now

Awake this morning before the cock crowed             

I worry, worry, worry bout my battered soul                       

I can’t stop seeing that black child’s blood

Puddled neath his body and his toy gun

2020 air still stings my eyes

It’s summer 21, now who will die

Don’t know why some folks continue to hate

And take delight in passing it along

It’s the damnest way to live in this world

Bowtie man telling cute jokes

“Why’d the little negro bring his toy gun to town?

To give police some target practice.”

“Whooowee,” says the bowtie man, “...that little Jimmy’s eatin some crow now.”

Why? Why? Why?... Hell, I don’t know

And he laughs and laughs into the online sky

Bowtie man with the crazy eyes

Living to spread hate as far as he can

He’s the darling of every other Christian man

“When should a black man jog down the street.”

“If he’s in south Georgia... never. “

“How do you celebrate Black History month.”

“Watermelon, breakfast, supper and lunch. Whooo Weeee.”

It’s the damnest way to live in this world

Bowtie man telling cute jokes

“Why’d the little negro bring his toy gun to town?

To give police some target practice.”

“Whooowee,” says the bowtie man, “...that little Jimmy’s eatin some crow now.”

The work of Richard Lawson of Brunswick, Georgia has been published in Fine Lines.

WHALE SONG

by Barbara Parchim

Probing the structure of the ocean crust requires a wave source. The most common source is an air gun, which is effective but potentially harmful for ocean life and not easy to use everywhere. Václav M. Kuna and John L. Nábělek found that fin whale songs can also be used as a seismic source for determining crustal structure. Fin whale vocalizations can be as loud as large ships and occur at frequencies useful for traveling through the ocean floor. These properties allow fin whale songs to be used for mapping out the density of ocean crust, a vital part of exploring the seafloor. —Science, February 12, 2021

now that seismologists know

that different frequencies of whale songs

can map the layers of the ocean floor

to help us study sediment and rock

in areas where earthquakes occur—

can we pause?

 

when their beauty and sentience,

curiosity and gentleness,

is not enough—

has never been enough—

to awaken compassion

 

when the “harvest” of these giants,

some with their young alongside

does not engender adequate empathy

 

now that we have a “use”

for these beings,

for scientific research,

that requires a living, breathing, body

 

now—

can we, finally, stop the slaughter?

 

 

Barbara Parchim lives on a small farm in southwest Oregon. She enjoys gardening and hiking and volunteered for several years at a wildlife rehabilitation facility. Her poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Isacoustic, Turtle Island Quarterly, Windfall, and Trouvaille Review. Her first chapbook, selected by Flowstone Press, will appear in 2021.

HOLIDAY MUSIC IN THE BLEAK MID-WINTER

by Mary K O'Melveny

Each time one hears Bing Crosby sing

"White Christmas," the virus has likely

claimed five lives. Last night we listened

to Ella’s version. I always wondered

if each time she sang it she thought

about racial irony or just conjured

up a view of snowy flakes on

the down low, sleigh bells providing

a back beat. I always preferred

the music rife with magical thinking,

chorale harmonies and swelling strings –

"Ave Maria," "The Little Drummer Boy,"

"Do You Hear What I Hear," "O Holy Night."

 

"We Three Kings," another standout,

spins its tale of faith burning beneath

a diamond sky. Those wise travelers

were my favorites. They radiated

intrigue enveloped by chilled air thick

with scents of cinnamon, clove,

licorice, citron and amber smoke.

Years after my mother died, she returns

whenever I hear "Silent Night." Each

December, we sat in an old Georgetown

church decorated with beeswax candles

and pine garlands, listening to a flute

rendition as delicate as a flock of doves.

 

This year, everyone’s holidays

are dimmed, as dampened as last night’s

fire ashes. Gravesites multiply

even as frozen vaccines are

borne across state lines like exotic

gifts. As the solstice approaches,

fresh as a miracle, melancholy

pushes against our need for comfort

and joy. We want to sing, to praise

new birth, even as snow falls upon snow.

Mary K O'Melveny is a recently retired labor rights attorney who lives in Washington DC and Woodstock NY.  Her work has appeared in various print and on-line journals. Her first poetry chapbook A Woman of a Certain Age is available from Finishing Line Press. Mary’s poetry collection Merging Star Hypotheses was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2020.

JOHN PRINE

by Meghan Sterling




How fragile is the human body,
all cells and skin, tissue-thin,
light as filament in the center of the bulb,
as quick to flicker and go out.
Another one gone. Lungs to shreds,
voices done in one by one
as we lose a generation of lovers,
people with grit to bear hard things,
all that disappointment like bitters
in the throat, fire as it goes down,
medicine as it heals. O, these songs
that cradled us as we wept and were alone.
I remember a snowfall so deep
the very white of it was dark as death,
and I listened to records that sustained
my tender hold on life, each day another day
I soldiered through.  And I have you to thank
for many of the moments that I chose to go on.

Meghan Sterling lives in Portland, Maine with her family. She is co-editor of the anthology A Dangerous New World: Maine Voices on the Climate Crisis published by Littoral Books. Her work has been published in Rattle, Balancing Act 2, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Driftwood Press, Sky Island Journal, Literary Mama and others.  Her chapbook How We Drift was published by Blue Lyra Press. She is a poetry reader for the Maine Review, Featured Poet in Frost Meadow Review’s Spring 2020 issue, and a Hewnoaks Artists' Colony Resident in 2019 and 2020.

LISTLESS

by Tricia Knoll

I’ve grown weary of best of
recipes with wine
or cookie doughs
which candidate raised the most
murder mysteries
and top discoveries
must-see
movies
raw hip-hop
and alternative songs
records for longest feather
boa
lies we stopped counting
we endured
the year of fire
flood
wind
tornadoes
and can’t we just move
on
knowing what needs
to be done
and do it.

Tricia Knoll has seen dozens of media lists of "best of" in the news. The flashes of what famous people died in 2019 (without including the names of all the victims of bombings and war) and is suspicious there are also lists of the year of the most people who died by gun violence, etc. 

NORTH DAKOTA

by Carl Boon




See the snow, the fire
in the snow, a native girl
swinging through the cold.
See what happens
when the water cannons
finally turn away,
the steed retreat,
the acute limbs
of authority and order
look elsewhere.
Hear the temporary joy
of a mother, maybe
yours or mine; listen
as the wind keeps her
eyes still distant
from what we love
and often despise—
the shopping mall,
the restaurant, the news.
It is almost 1823, it is why
we write songs
that tremble in the gut
all-conquering,
that verb that needs
a thousand more
to make a story. Hear
empire’s sound
moving back again,
white hands, white
ears that finally listen
in suburban rooms
of a thousand books
and a thousand quaint
mistaken phrases.

Carl Boon lives in Izmir, Turkey, where he teaches courses in American culture and literature at 9 Eylül University. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Burnt Pine, Two Peach, Ink In Thirds, and Poetry Quarterly. He is also a 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee.

MORTIFIED BY NATURE'S BOUNTY

by Philip Lee

(CNN February 15, 2015) 'Rescuers on Saturday refloated 66 pilot whales stranded on a remote beach in New Zealand as a race to save their lives continued. Nearly 200 whales were beached Friday in Farewell Spit on New Zealand's South Island. Scores got back in the water, only to return to land -- leaving more than 100 dead. When the incident started, 140 conservationists and experts rushed to water down the giant mammals, cover them and try to refloat them back into the water. "Refloating stranded whales is a difficult and potentially dangerous job," said Andrew Lamason, the department's services manager for Golden Bay.' Photo source: BBC, February 14, 2015

conservation nuts pilot whales
stranded in shallows harder
than the decks of wooden boats
though no less shark infested

fished by a moon
they drill in lines
like infant schools
reciting quadrilles
of revolting poetry

do as we say not as we don't

such human sounds not just
their spluttered song but

of death throes letting out


Philip Lee, originally from Liverpool in the UK,  has lived in Bursa, Turkey for over two decades. The broken sonnet is his most common medium.