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Showing posts with label support. Show all posts
Showing posts with label support. Show all posts

Saturday, July 04, 2026

THE ARCHITECTURE OF DEMOCRACY

by Jim Kelly



To replace a house,
it is ill-advised
to randomly weaken
the foundation.

To tamper with gas lines
while informed only
by ignorance.

To pull wires
without knowing
where they lead
or what they serve.

To rip out windows
and collapse
the hand-designed,
custom wooden frames.

To remove the roof
during rain
before the expensive,
antique floors
are protected.

To pull down walls
without understanding
how weight is distributed—
how each beam,
each brace,
each hidden support
helps hold up
the whole frame
of Democracy.

And some now shout:

“Damn the building codes.”
“Damn the building plans.”

As if survival itself
were an inconvenience.

As if restraint,
inspection,
and measured repair
were enemies
instead of protections.

Forgetting:
a reckless demolition
does not always end
with open sky.

Sometimes
it ends
with collapsed Democracy.


Jim Kelly is a California poet whose work explores democracy, race, and social justice. His poetry has appeared in Litro Magazine, Urban Pen Magazine, and Urban Poems.

Monday, January 26, 2026

MY AMAZING INVESTMENT

by Pat Davis




I think they are sheep at first
but they’re corpses
wrapped and tied in white shrouds.


I wish they were low clouds
laid out in a row

but they’re my purchases,
femur, tibia, wrist
tied up for delivery.

I bought the rubble,
the bulldozers, too.

Israel lets in chips 
and Coke.

Children are dying of hunger.
Children are dying of cold.

Our papers blame the wind.
Blame the rain. 
Aid is blocked, the doctors

forced out.
By the toe-end of a corpse 
as long as my forearm 

is a puddle of muddy water in which a star
was lost


Patricia Davis’ poems appear in Smartish PaceImageSouthern Humanities ReviewHayden’s Ferry Review, and other journals. Also a playwright, she earned her MFA from American University. She is translations editor for the literary journal Poet Lore and lives in the Washington, DC area, where she works in human rights advocacy.

Monday, December 23, 2024

LETTERS TO LUIGI

by Andrew Romanelli


Luigi Mangione, suspect in the killing of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson, departs after a hearing at Blair County Courthouse on December 19 in Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania. Mangione has received dozens of letters and emails as well as monetary support while in prison, a report by the New York Post has revealed. Photo: Gene J. Puskar-Pool/Getty Images via Newsweek, December 21,2024



are about what you’d expect Jesus to receive

if he had mail privileges 

at Mount Zion, near Holy Sepulcher or Calvary.

 

I work for a company that prints letters, 

photos, and books for inmates that people 

upload and purchase for us to send.

I fold the letters, put the photos in envelopes,

noticing the names of inmates, the patterns

of image, of word, what gets sent and said.

 

Every letter to Luigi begins with an endorsement of full support.

Some just want to connect, say where they’re from

what they do for a living. They include a phone number,

a few photos of them hiking, walking a dog at sunrise,

a post gym ab showoff shirt lift, a night out on the town.

 

Most letters contain stories about illness.

How they lost their child, father, brother, mother,

wife, sister, best friend, high school crush, how

they have lost themselves to denials

of treatment plans, medication, surgeries.

There are pictures and pictures of X-rays,

pedicle screws for spine fusion and support,

scars on backs, calves, bellies, breasts, pictures

of phantom limbs gone to the time waiting for an approval.

 

The letters often close with:

“For the first moment since my diagnosis I feel

like you understand what I’m going through.”

Or “I’d do anything to be healthy again, 

thank you for giving me hope that things will be different.”

 

These are people who:

Have stopped writing and calling their leaders.

Understand that statistics have no effect in making a point.

That murder is wrong but wonder what do you call

the death of millions in the name of profit?

 

Last week I was processing mail for Puff Daddy.

 

Now its Luigi, a man-made avatar,

expressing the ignored collective suffering of the people.

 

Jesus was a guy in jail on charges of terrorism.

 

These are days in which we are able

to reach more people than any other time before.

 

Yet look what we are doing:

To be seen.

To be heard.

To be validated.

 

We have been taught the alternatives.

Yet our fracture, 

bound by violence,

gets the attention.

 

Can you begrudge the people for cheering? 

 

 

Andrew Romanelli was born and raised in Las Vegas. His first poetry book Rotgut was published by Zeitgeist Press. You can find him @downcharleston and at andrewromanelli.com .

Friday, March 15, 2024

THE COMEBACK KID

by Marshall Begel


Figure skater Alysa Liu, seen here at the 2022 Winter Olympic Games, is to come out of retirement and return to competition.


The years since my retirement
Have left me unfulfilled—
Not meeting the requirement
For one uniquely skilled.

My body's manifested change
Since I was in my prime.
Returning to a decent range
Would be an uphill climb.

But I will muster up support—
Ambition? I have plenty.
But time to shine is running short,
For soon, I'm turning twenty!


Marshall Begel lives in Madison, Wisconsin. He has several pieces in Light and Lighten Up Online.

Wednesday, May 11, 2022

GHOULS

by Lynn White




Is it ghoulish
to think
that life 
is more
than a small collection of cells
in a uterus.

Is it ghoulish
to think
that 
the life of the mother
and the spillage
of her blood
count for less
than the small collection of cells
in her uterus
that are unable to bleed.

Is it ghoulish
to think
that infant life
needs love
as it grows
and support networks
and things that cost
society
dear
through life
if it does not supply them.

Is it ghoulish 
to ask
how 
the highest court
in the land
was taken over
by ghouls.


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.

Wednesday, June 30, 2021

SURFSIDE

by Alejandro Escudé




It looks like a frozen tsunami of ash.
And there are people in that rubble

Like fish tossed out of an old tank.
Was it made out out stiffened moths?

An engineer says it must’ve been
A column—and I’m thinking some 

Support gave way, as support often
Gives way in this country, allowing

For the sudden pancaking of people.
All oversights are finally political.

Oh crumbling moon! What must it 
Be like for the others who overlook 

The site? Am I next? Aren’t we all
In the process of collapse? Come 

Daylight, they heard the banging. 
No voices, only a nebulous banging 

Amid a jumble of metal and granite.


Alejandro Escudé’s first book of poems, My Earthbound Eye, was published in September 2013 upon winning the 2012 Sacramento Poetry Center Award. He received a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis. Alejandro works as an English teacher, having taught at the secondary level for many years. Originally from Argentina, he immigrated to California at an early age. A new collection, The Book of the Unclaimed Dead, published by Main Street Rag Press, is now available on the MSR website. Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his dog, a feisty terrier named Jake.

Friday, March 05, 2021

THE PURSUIT

by Alejandro Escudé




Once I thought it was Nietzsche’s
Übermensch crawling up the Minority
Leader’s arm, a furry man, but no 
Sasquatch, a green hue around it.
But then I came to realize it was
Aristotle, his arched beetle back 
On the President’s shoulders, 
having lapped up the milk of logic. 
A stone cave for a poet to live in
and call out of, the trees out there
appearing as just so many lies.
One enters a labyrinth of razors
in the city, having been cooped up
in the house for many months.
Ever noticed that driving fast
is a form of geekiness? I sink
into a neutral speed, observing,
as Whitman did, the dead grass
of the center median. Airliners
crisscross the sky at different
depths of air. Nothing collides.
People only collide with them-
selves these days. Conflict, if 
it takes place at all, takes place
in whispers over false transoms. 
At night, looking up at the stars,
one sees no nature, only an urban
concentration of skyscrapers
formed of galaxies, planet rings
on-ramps and off-ramps, screams
suppressed by cynical tweets, 
statues masking WiFi towers.
I’ve been wrong before, but not
about this. Truth is dead because
truth is romantic. I bring you
to the end of this long car chase
and I bail out, a chopper over me,
its lights illuminating the way 
in or out of the television screen.




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.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

SINNED AGAINST

by Kit Zak




For fifteen seconds they streaked across the TV
three gals sporting signs for Ray
boobs pressed against t’s in baiting provocation
pom-pomming their support
for Ravens’ player Rice (only the latest)

maybe it happens in infancy
ingrained in DNA
the girl-child, Adam’s cast-off rib
second best/ split tail
cheerleading their hearts out

maybe the father preferred sons
or he submerges the mother’s weak ego--
witness the daughters, their voiceless smiling
how some touchstone for female being
repeats/repeats

ritualized violation
in one hundred and twenty countries
girls as young as five
held down by fellow females
their womanhood razored or knifed
and if they survive
proclaimed pure.                                                                                                        

uncounted nuns minioned to priests
unequal for centuries
tonguing their shame
as ‘the good father’ dispenses the wafers                                                                                                  
and we, who have been tattooed to serve
smile and offer tea.


Kit Zak retired from teaching and threw herself into some environmental projects in sea-threatened Delaware. She has published poems in The New Verse News, California Quarterly, A Time of Singing, The Blue Collar Review, and The Broadkill Review as well as several anthologies.