DISPATCH FROM GAZA

by Carolyn Martin

Palestinians make long trek back to their demolished homes in Gaza —USA Today, January 28, 2025. Photo by Mahmoud Issa (Reuters via USA Today)

The father writes he’s home again 
with wife and three kids.
Ceilings, walls, and floors still here, he says.
Our souls were kept safe.
The garden is green, he says: 
a color gone from their eyes for years
and his three-year-old is confused.
She falls on stone pathways and, rising up,
can’t find sand to brush away. 
His sons lie in bed at night 
where ceilings block stars
in the cloud-curated sky. 
He asks them if they’re afraid.
They dig up bravery and ask,
Our tent. When are we going back?
After their lifetime away, the father wonders,
How will I ever teach children of war
to live in a house again?

Author's Note: This poem is based on a message I just received from a contact in Gaza.

Carolyn Martin is a recovering work addict who’s adopted the Spanish proverb, “It is beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards” as her daily mantra. She is blissfully retired––and resting––in Clackamas, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in more than 200 publications throughout North America, Europe, and Australia.

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.

THROUGH DESERT CLOUDS

by David Chorlton

An Ariane 5 rocket second stage deployed the James Webb Space Telescope shortly after launch on Dec. 25, 2021. It's 'humanity's last view' of the new observatory, says NASA PAO Rob Navias.

A cloud filled with shadow

floats up towards the gods

veiled in shades of cold

who look out from the mountain

and talk among themselves

about creation and energy

channeled to become this slender ridge

as the first step to infinity

and home for the coyotes

who come out every night to ask the stars

for guidance through the dark.

Word has it

 

from the hawks ascending

that a rocket has left the Earth

to go so far back in time

that all remaining to be seen

are the final ashes from

the cosmic dawn. What

a flash and what an echo

must have issued from the moment,

they reflect. And yet

 

not a single mockingbird

and no woodpeckers flew

from the crash. The day

is chilly but beautiful in how

the sheets of rain drift past

each other, and crossing

the peaks are the souls

the fates could never capture for themselves.

David Chorlton is a longtime resident of Phoenix, who continues writing, painting, and keeping track of the local bird life. His newest book is Unmapped Worlds, a collection of rehabilitated poems from his files of the past.

CAN YOU TELL ME?

by George Salamon

As a tribute to the first responders, victims and families of those missing in the partial condo collapse, Miami Beach announced Thursday it will replace its originally planned fireworks celebration with a moment for residents to “shine a light in a symbolic gesture of unity,” according to a city press release. ... Miami Beach residents will have the option to mark Independence Day in a way that may feel more reflective of the ongoing tragedy and families’ grief and hope. —Miami Herald, July 2, 2021

Digging into the smoldering

ruins, looking for lost people,

their ashes have drifted into

the crushing water by now,

the rescuers are seeking

shadows, do their souls

enter the spirit of our

language, will we hear

them inside any thought

we utter?

George Salamon survives in St. Louis, MO and contributes to The Asses of Parnassus, Dissident Voice, and The New Verse News.

FIRE THE NEXT TIME

by George Salamon

“Severe heat and drought the hallmarks of a changing west… Unless people drastically reduce planet-warming emissions, the world faces a future of increasingly frequent and severe environmental disasters: coastal flooding, mass extinctions, deadly hurricanes, uncontrollable wildfires.” —The Washington Post, June 20, 2021. Photo: Boats sit unused in Lake Oroville, Calif., on Tuesday. A severe water level drop in the lake has forced about 130 houseboats to be removed. (Melina Mara / The Washington Post)

The worship of money

and machines made us

vile and ugly, nobility

and beauty live in

inanimate things, in

flowing waters and in

moving clouds, in

animals of the wild

green and blue depth,

we sold our souls to

delusions that kept the

people marching down

to nothing at the end of

their dream.

A poet wrote that he'd

"burn his right hand in 

a slow fire to change

the future." The future

has arrived, and we'll 

burn in its fire.

George Salamon lives and writes in St. Louis, MO.

SARIN WORK

by Alejandro Escudé

Volunteers wear protective gear during a class of how to respond to a chemical attack, in the northern Syrian city of Aleppo on September 15, 2013.JM LOPEZ/AFP/GETTY IMAGES via Wired.

The mood is sarin and the light is sarin
there are sarin children dancing in the air
convulsing skyward, there are sarin trees
and sarin ships firing sarin missiles
at sarin airports where sarin helicopters
sit ready to traverse sarin lands, over sarin
rooftops, blanketing a country of sarin,
a language of sarin, the sarin of resorts
where the leaders of sarin meet to discuss
treaties over sarin and ice cream. But one
needs two chemicals to form sarin, and sarin
lasts a short time, sarin is short as life itself,
meaningless really, unless it is packaged
just right; still, a world without sarin is a world
flooded in sarin, with sarin dreams like those
of the sarin children who felt it rain down
on them and saw their fingers turn to roads,
their lungs become mountains, their hearts
pumping sarin into their sarin souls.


Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

TECHNOPHOBIA

by Howie Good

They say the day is coming –
and pretty soon, too –
when the souls of the dead
will be uploaded to the Google Cloud,
and God, if He even still exists,
will be able to rest,
drenched in dire purple
and reclining on plush snow,
until needed as an excuse
in whatever year of whatever war.


Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of five poetry collections, most recently Cryptic Endearments from Knives Forks & Spoons Press. He has a number of chapbooks forthcoming, including Elephant Gun from Dog on a Chain Press. His poetry has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthology. goodh51(at)gmail.com.