DONALD TRUMP’S BIRTHDAY PARADE AS IF CELEBRATED IN GAZA

by Roberta Batorsky

U.S. Army photo by Bernardo Fuller • Public domain

In orderly formation 

the parade’s vanguard 

advances:

a scrawny teen carries 

a flag depicting an empty bowl,

leads a battalion of stiffly marching, 

starved children.

The main detachment 

follows. These children, 

missing various limbs, 

some aided by crutches or 

in wheelchairs sport head bandages,

slings, plaster casts or eye patches,

proceed down the fairway 

in wobbly, uneven rows.

The rear guard, made up of

several pint-sized caskets,

is solemnly wheeled 

past the reviewing station,

its tail end brought up 

by a lone small girl

soulfully bugling “Taps.”

These casualties-

heart-rending results

of senseless war;

We must break ranks 

with our generals,

blend into their procession,

embrace fully their humanity;

no other way.

Day is done

Gone the sun

Thanks and praise

For our days

As we go

This we know

God is nigh

Roberta Batorsky is a Biology teacher, poet and freelance science writer. She has published poems in Fine-lines and Heron Clan and is working on her first poetry book. Her science blog is https://solipsistssoiree.blogspot.com and her instagram is RobertaBatorsky_poetry.

TROMPE-L’OEIL

by Suzanne Morris

Whenever I look at the

portrait of him 50 years ago

peering out from beneath

the smart billed cap

of his U.S. Army

dress uniform,

his eyes seem fixed on

grim reality:

he was drafted just before

his 25th birthday

during a war that he

already suspected

we should not be fighting,

and the casualties were

mounting at an alarming rate.

What a relief when he was made

a levee clerk in the Medical Corps,

posted at Fort Lewis, Washington.

Yet... sending others into action

while remaining safely behind

left its own set of scars.

Long after the war was over,

he suffered nightmares

of being under fire in Viet Nam.

I would lay beside him in the dark,

transfixed as he described

in terrifying detail

the first-hand experience of

a combat veteran.

This year I watched the

Memorial Day Concert on PBS,

with patriotic music and

stories of valor—

a resounding tribute to all who had died

defending American ideals

over the last 250 years.

By the time the show closed

with a haunting rendition of Taps

I was clutching his picture

against my heart,

knowing how grim

his face would be

had he lived long enough to see

the abdication of those ideals

by a President afflicted with

gilded bone spurs,

and thinking ahead to the

taxpayer-financed military parade

scheduled in Washington, D.C.

on June 14th,

a faux tribute to the U.S. Army that is

sure to make Trump’s pal Vladimir

red-faced with envy.

Anyone who dares to crash Trump’s

45-million-dollar birthday party

will be met with great force

as in the case of the protests

against his immigration raids in L.A.,

drafting U.S. troops

to engage in a war

they should not be fighting.

Suzanne Morris is a novelist with eight published works, and a poet. Her poems have appeared in online journals including The New Verse News and Texas Poetry Assignment, and anthologies including The Senior Class - 100 Poets on Aging (Lamar University Literary Press, 2024). A native Houstonian, she has resided in Cherokee County, Texas, since 2008. 

TOSSING DICE IN FLORIDA

by Mickey J. Corrigan

"Florida Hurdles" — Claytoonz by Clay Jones

You flip a seven and—

the day hatches bright, shiny

new penny in the white sand

bronze bodies washing off 

emptiness at the azure shore.

Morning brings no escape

from one's and two's

wild gaze, rocky wonders

a better hand today

to grasp straws with claws.

The afternoon overheats

hard scowls over face cards

erasing your winnings

double-crossing the house.

Happy hour obliterates 

all of tomorrow's concerns:

another wave of cool luck

or a fast ride under glass

flashing lights ablaze.

Night sounds simmer down

squelched by humid air 

the eerie cries of coyotes

nosing barrels of scraps

soaked in fresh blood.

The unknown lingers:

that you awaken again

to another day of play

fate on your side… 

or you're forced to fold

beating, beating

like bones on a drum—

taps, not reveille.

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes tropical noir with a dark humor. Her poetry has been widely published in literary journals and chapbooks. In 2020, Grandma Moses Press released Florida Man. Her novel The Physics of Grief puts the fun back in funerals while taking a serious look at the process of mourning (QuoScript, UK, 2021).