WHILE ON FACEBOOK

by Andrea Murphy

I’ve become obsessed
scrolling and clicking
to read the obscene
blood splattered justifications
of racism in blue,
in blue with
bullets and badges.

One says: “Black Lives
Matter. Blah, blah, blah.”
Another says, “Kill the
blue rat bastards killing
us.”
SCROLL
CLICK
BREATHE

And I am black scrolling
And I am blue scrolling
And I am filled with
the numbers
of the mentally ill. Killed.
Of little black boys
with toy guns. Killed.
Scrolling and clicking
in terror, I beg my
husband to be a
loyal puppy,
docile dog when in a car
with expired tags
or broken tail light
or when caught making an
illegal turn. We have
a five year old daughter.
He’s sworn to wear
his license as dog tags.
SCROLL
CLICK
BREATHE

They dog-tag toes
of black men at
the morgue five times
more often than whites
killed by blue men.
SCROLL
CLICK
BREATHE
“Don’t shoot;
hands up.”
SCROLL
CLICK
BREATHE
And gasp
And grieve
at death and hate because
I am obsessed with the
loss of our humanity.



Andrea Murphy is a fifteen year educator, who is currently on hiatus. She has taught English at both high school and community college. During this hiatus, she has decided to focus on her passion for creative writing and is an emerging poet in the St. Mary’s of California MFA program. Recently, she published a poem on Moonglasses.com. If asked what she plans to do with her degree, she would tell you that she intends to enjoy it.  She loves the lyrical expression of language and has made it her primary intention of study as she writes about family, legacy, illness, and blackness from a “womanist” perspective.  

WHAT ELIE WIESEL KNEW

by John Guzlowski

Death is the air we breathe.
The bread we chew.
The brother and sister
who stand by us always.

Elie Wiesel knew this
And taught us this
Everyday.

Don't be afraid.

John Guzlowski's writing has appeared in Rattle, North American Review, Ontario Review, Nimrod, Salon.com, and many other journals and reviews.  Garrison Keillor read his poem "What My Father Believed" on The Writers Almanac. Guzlowski's 5th book of poems Echoes of Tattered Tongues was a highlighted book in this year's Publishers Weekly Poetry Month issue. 

NO CLOUDS LEFT TO COVER US

by Allie Long

Into orbit around Jupiter. Lockheed Martin built the Juno spacecraft for NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Photo credit: NASA/Lockheed Martin via UniverseToday.

The god Jupiter drew a veil of clouds around himself to hide his mischief, and his wife, the goddess Juno, was able to peer through the clouds and reveal Jupiter's true nature. —NASA explaining how the space probe Juno was named.

Jupiter covers his infidelity
with thick clouds, masquerading

behind an entire atmosphere
as something we’d want to discover.

He surely looks at Earth and laughs
at the colorless vapor that veils

the outlines of land and sea, at how
we are tilted in constant bow to the sun.

We cannot cover our sins like a god.
The façade of our planet is cracked

like the skin that surrounds a laceration,
framing a picture for the Universe

of our uniformed men sweeping our black
bodies away in a flood of blood-spatter

while we choose to read lists of their crimes
as eulogies. They must die a thousand times

on our televisions and a thousand more behind
the eyelids of loved ones. We turn blue fabric

purple, soaking it in the holes our bullets dig
into the men who resemble killers. We are unable

to grant that lungs still rise and fall below
badges, that no offense can hide a dead body

as it rots without reverence in the street,
that no cloud can clot bullet wounds.

Soon, Juno will peer through Jupiter's curtain
and crash to her death on his surface,

and we will finally be forced to recognize
that a guilty man never becomes the victim.

Allie Long is an economics and English double-major at the University of Virginia. Her poetry appears in Ground Fresh Thursday, Yellow Chair Review, and Bird's Thumb.

NOT READY TO BE SILENT

for James Baldwin

by Carolyn Gregory

“The week started with scenes from a cellphone video of an African-American man lying on the ground being fatally shot by a Louisiana police officer, and an astonishing Facebook Live feed of a woman in Minnesota narrating after her African-American boyfriend was killed by an officer during a traffic stop. It ended with horrific live television coverage of police officers’ being gunned down by at least one sniper at what had been a peaceful march protesting the police shootings.” —The New York Times, July 8, 2016 Photo: A spray-painted mural on a building on Foster Drive in Baton Rouge, La., on Thursday, where Alton Sterling was shot to death by a police officer two days earlier. Credit William Widmer for The New York Times.

No, I do not want to be integrated
into a burning house
where the roof collapses
and firemen die in the rubble,

forced to stay silent when
the sirens fly by in the dark
and guns shoot the innocent.

I do not want to live
in a field of burning red poppies,
shocking in their color
against fallen gray homes
bombed down to bedrock.

My life means more than this.
I am not ready to walk silent
into a cemetery to lie down
with all the unnamed dead.

Carolyn Gregory has published poems and music reviews in American Poetry Review, Cutthroat, Main Street Rag, Wilderness House Literary Review, Ygdrasil, Seattle Review. Her first and second books were published by Windmill Editions in Florida.

AFTER THE SCHOOL SHOOTING, HE SAYS

by R. Riekki

Image source: Benny on Twitter

"The killings in Dallas are one more reminder that guns are central,
not accessory,  to the American plague of violence."

—Adam Gopnik, The New Yorker, July 8, 2016

"More police officers die on the job in states with more guns." 
—Christopher Ingraham, The Washington Post, July 8, 2016

After the school shooting, he says
that the cure would be
more guns
and more schools
and more psychopaths.
If we had more guns
and more schools
and more shootings,
everyone would be safer.
He says the way that we stop
school shootings is with more
school shootings and more death
and more brothels and more spaghetti.
He says that you cure cancer
with more cancer.
That the way you prevent a cold
is by injecting yourself with the cold virus.
He says he has an Associates degree,
so he knows what he’s talking about.
We tell him to move on, that he’s made
his point.  He tells us that if we don’t want
to listen to him talk, that we should all
just shout over him.
The bartender pulls out a gun,
tells him to shut up.

R. Riekki's non-fiction, fiction, and poetry have been published or are upcoming in The Threepenny Review, River Teeth, Spillway, New Ohio Review, Shenandoah, Canary, Bellevue Literary Review, Prairie Schooner, New Orleans Review, Little Patuxent Review, Wigleaf, Juked, and many other literary journals.

#PHILANDOCASTILE

by Kari Gunter-Seymour

Diamond Reynolds (right) and her 4-year-old daughter. Both were in the car during Philando Castile's untimely death. Image source: Twitter via Ebony, July 7, 2016.

My granddaughter just turned four,
she holds as many fingers in the air and smiles,
our ancestral gap between her two front teeth,
her pearly face blushed.
She loves to sing and stands beside me
on a chair to help with food prep,
asks surprisingly complex questions
I often struggle to explain to her satisfaction.

I don’t know what to do with the headlines this morning.
I don’t want fear and hatred to win.
What words can I give you, Lavish,
that could possibly serve?

I can’t get out of my head,
your four-year-old girl comforting you,
you in handcuffs, partner dead.
Your courage, the facts, sir, the facts.
I see it. I hear it.
It's in my mouth, my lungs.
I cannot stop hearing her voice.
Four years old.
Four years old.
Four years, old.

A Pushcart nominee, Kari Gunter-Seymour holds a B.F.A. in graphic design and an M.A. in commercial photography. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in publications including Rattle, Crab Orchard Review, Main Street Rag, and The LA Times. She is the founder/curator of the “Women of Appalachia Project,” an arts organization (fine art and spoken word) she created to address discrimination directed at women living in Appalachia.

BUT IN BATON ROUGE

by John Dooley

The figure of a large
unarmed middle-aged black
skinned man drowns in a fog
of gun smoke and his own blood,
beneath two badged blue-uniformed
policemen holding guns with triggers
completely pulled, magazines empty.

An eight point buck hangs head down,
feet tethered to a large oak,
reminds me of a thing of beauty,
desiccated, emasculated, wasted, bled,
hung out to dry for the glory
of the commemorative photo;
great white hunters stand
proudly in solidarity nearby.

But in Baton Rouge, the red stick,
there are no antlers, no ruminants,
no prosecutors, and no meat lockers.
The conviction rate for law enforcement
officers murdering black men is .01%
from all white juries. Although black
skinned persons comprise less than 25%
of the population, they comprise 100%
of all officer-related murders in Baton Rouge.
Flagrant fragrance, flat line, no scents at all,
no rhyme or reason, a dead fall.

John Dooley lives in the national forest near Prescott, Arizona, teaches in the Masters in Counseling Psychology program at Prescott College, and advocates for peace.

THE VERSATILITY OF BLUE

by Tracey Gratch

The world’s newest shade of blue, a brilliantly bright, durable pigment called YInMn blue, has been licensed for commercial use and is already in the hands of some artists. The pigment was discovered in 2009 by chemist Mas Subramanian and his team at Oregon State University while they were conducting experiments connected to electronics. For one series of tests, the scientists mixed black manganese oxide with a variety of chemicals and heated them to 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit. (The name comes from the pigment’s elemental makeup, which includes Yttrium, Indium and Manganese.) —artnet news, June 20, 2016

Blue is sapphire when on fire
blue is indigo in the night sky
Blue is cobalt, elemental,
YInMn's bright – blue's latest dye

Blue is navy when it’s strong
blue is sadness in a song
Blue is the diver drown in the lake
blue's the baby miscarried for heaven's sake

Blue is turquoise tile in the bath
blue's the jay to cross my path
Blood, spent, returns through sky-blue veins –
to the heart to be renewed again.


Tracey Gratch lives in Quincy, MA with her husband and their four children. Several of her poems have appeared at TheNewVerse.News.

NEAR AND DISTANT SHORES

by Bette Lynch Husted

A German rescuer holds the corpse of a drowned baby off the Libyan coast May 27. Source: Christian Buettner/Eikon Nord GmbH Germany via Reuters and The Washington Post, May 31, 2016.

“Again! again! again!”
On our way to the Pacific
we snuggle in the back seat
with The Poky Little Puppy—
“Rice pudding,” our little traveler echoes,
“He likes it!”

At the beach, we splash through
currents, waves breaking warm
around her ankles

Bodies small as hers
wash up on other shores,
refuse of war
their families refused
safe passage

refuge

My son’s body
disappears
in green-white breakers

He resurfaces
and waves

A yellow shovel
shapes her first sandcastle
A man says he wants only
to bury his children
and sit by their graves
until he dies

Fresh from her evening bath,
her dark head emerging from a white-towel chrysalis
safe in her father’s arms
both of them laughing—

Beneath the Milky Way
the sea returns
again again again    

Bette Lynch Husted lives in Eastern Oregon, where she chairs a monthly writers’ series. Her books include two collections of memoir essays, Lessons from the Borderlands and Above the Clearwater: Living on Stolen Land, and the poetry collection At This Distance.

FOR PAT SUMMITT: NEVER FORGOTTEN

by Jill Crainshaw

Pat Summitt, who was at the forefront of a broad ascendance of women’s sports, winning eight national basketball championships at the University of Tennessee and more games than any other Division I college coach, male or female, died on Tuesday. She was 64. Her death was confirmed on the website of the Pat Summitt Foundation. Summitt stepped down after 38 seasons and 1,098 victories at Tennessee in April 2012, at 59, less than a year after she learned she had early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. —The New York Times, June 28, 2016

she sits on the edge of her bed
and laces a pair of red converse
hi-tops the toe edge on the left one
scuffed for greatness she is certain of it
and proud of that work-worn abrasion
but no one else knows or even cares
about her dream or that she spends
two hours after sixth grade math class
every day in the backyard where her
springboard to stardom has been
hanging for the last year since she begged
and begged and her daddy gave in and
nailed it to an aging pine tree
not quite regulation height
above ground now made bald from
thousands of toe dancing dribbles
behind her back between her legs
ball leaping up from red southern clay
to stain her hands forever with a passion
no one else gave a second thought to
for a too-tall scrawny girl with a ponytail
who always sat alone at the very back
of bus 81 she tugs the laces tight
the way she likes them then grabs
her rawlings from the closet and heads
out the door for the old pine stopping
as she does every time she leaves her room
to rub her shooting hand over the lady vols
program she got that one time
her cousin took her to a game and
the coach even signed it for her

Jill Crainshaw is a professor at Wake Forest University School of Divinity. Her poems have appeared in *82 Review and Five Magazine and in an anthology by Wicwas Press. She is also the author of a number of books on worship and theology.

PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE ON INDEPENDENCE DAY

by Michael Mark

"Oh, Say, Can You See (but Not Hear) Those Fireworks?"

—The New York Times, June 30, 2016

We are jamming ourselves under the couch,
far as we can. Until another blast and Jessie
crawls even deeper; her massive paws scar
the wood floor. I don’t care. Jessie’s square
head is twice as big as mine; she’s a hundred
and forty pound Newfoundland. And because
she hates fireworks I hate them more. I’d ban
the Roman candles’ machine gun bursts, wipe
out the whistle and bang of bottle rockets, defuse
all firecrackers: they celebrate war, children blow
fingers off, their stringy guts leave a mess over
our trees and lawns. Truthfully, I could live with
all of these if their noise didn’t upset Jess. I’m
with the dogs in every corner of our country tonight,
beneath dining room tables, behind winter coats
in closets, tails between our legs in hot toxic
garages. Even a juicy burger couldn’t bribe us out.
Jess hears the onslaught before me – her dozen
extra doggy ear bones picking up the frequency
of the matchsticks’ phosphorus red heads scraping
three blocks down, the flares’ whooshes, flames
climbing filaments to the climatic celebration
that makes the rest of my family, her family, ooh
and ahh and my BFF whine, burrow towards dust
bunnies, my daughter’s missing sock, MIA potato
chips. I lean into her furry heaviness, kiss her silky
ear, apologize, It’s a human thing. Her giant breed’s
heart is near bursting now—M80s shaking windows—
our quiet cul-de-sac life is under attack by enemy
artillery but I do nothing to stop it. Don’t even hush
my own kids’ screaming racket. Won’t take on the
neighborhood dads in about-faced ball caps, flag t-shirts—
grab their bics, rip their match books. I’m not as brave
as any dog, that includes yappy lap puppets—nowhere
near courageous as Jess. She’d tear into anyone who
bared their teeth at me, take apart a pack of circling
coyotes, and if a Ford F-150 was turning the corner
faster than the15mph speed limit, radio pounding kick-
ass hillbilly, she’d hurl herself between me and that All
American made in Mexico truck, leave it a smoking heap,
sidle up beside my leg and waddle me back home. No big
bad bragging bark. Just a fluffy tail in the air, like a flag, kinda.

Michael Mark is a hospice volunteer. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Cimarron Review, Cutthroat Journal, Paterson Literary Review, Poet Lore, Potomac Review, Rattle, Spillway, Sugar House Review and TheNewVerse.News. His poetry has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and The Best of the Net. 

RIFLE CLASS, DAY AFTER A MASSACRE

by Jon Wesick




Robert Dear shoots up a Planned Parenthood clinic.
A militia takes over a wildlife refuge.
The only defense against a conservative with a gun
is a liberal with a gun
so I spend weeks in rain, hail,
and desert heat learning to shoot.

Here, on this day the screams
of the wounded are far away.
Instead hands practice the choreography
of magazine changes and malfunction clearing.
I like the rented AR-15. It’s accurate,
doesn’t kick much, and it’s loose spring
goes boing when it chambers the next round.

Hot wind sucks water from my body
and even slathered in sunscreen my face burns.
Ammo belts on women’s hips distract me.
“It’s too quiet,” the teacher says.
“All I hear is pistols next door.
Let’s show them what real firearms sound like!”
With others I center my ghost ring sight
on a gray silhouette and squeeze the trigger.
Rifles’ booms alert car alarms. Dust puffs
on the berm behind paper targets.
Hot brass flies from an ejection port,
falls down my shirt, and burns.

We sling loaded rifles over shoulders only once.
“Feel something different?” the teacher asks.
“That’s the feeling of freedom!”
I don’t feel freedom.
I feel a rifle
and a heavy responsibility

Host of the Gelato Poetry Series, author of the poetry collection Words of Power, Dances of Freedom, and an editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual, Jon Wesick has published over three hundred poems in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Pearl, and Slipstream. He has also published nearly a hundred short stories. One was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. One of his poems won second place in the 2007 African American Writers and Artists contest. Another had a link on the Car Talk website. Jon has a Ph.D. in physics and is a longtime student of Buddhism and the martial arts.

THE POPE IS LIKE A REPUBLICAN SENATOR

by James M. Croteau

Apologies are like prayers
without action. Catholic claims
of intrinsically disordered and
contrary to natural law are like
allowing Sig Sauer MCXs and
AR-15s to be purchased with
no restrictions. Sorry's not enough.

James M. Croteau lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan with his partner of 31 years, Darryl, and their two Labrador retrievers. Jim grew up gay and Catholic in the U.S. south in the 60’s and 70’s and his writing often reflects that experience. His poems have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Right Hand Pointing, Queer South: LGBTQ Writers on the American South and Assaracus: A Journal of Gay Poetry among others. His first chapbook will be published by Redbird Chapbooks in 2016. He occasionally blogs about writing at talkingdogsholymen.blogspot.com.

IT SEEMS

by Kristina England

The pride flag flies at half-staff over the MB Lounge in Worcester during a vigil for the victims of the attack in Orlando Sunday. T&G Staff/Rick Cinclair. —Worcester Telegram & Gazette, June 20, 2016

there remains a bit of cockamamie in the kettle,
no matter how much we try to reshape its bitter ends.
Here, in Worcester, Mass, we lower a rainbow flag,
while, in Alabama, there is apparently a right time
and a wrong to mourn. It seems we are reading
from a very different dictionary or theirs is upside
down. Other countries look at us funny. Who could
blame them?  I drink coffee with my breakfast, enjoy
dark roast, yet I own more flavors, even a tea kettle,
to welcome visitors of any kind, because who can tell
you what beans or leaves to like?  Which one will get
you to the ultimate high?  We all have an acquired taste
and if you refuse to accept someone else's company
by way of their choice, break your kettle in angst,
perhaps I should buy two more, bright porcelain ones,
hand-made with doves, encase them in glass, dedicate
them to anyone that leaves a state that will never give
one sip of dignity a try.  Look around. See what all us
wide-eyed wakers see. There in the distance, so many
mugs that once gleamed beautifully, clinked in the early
morn, now shards of glass under a closed and brutal fist.


Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have been published in several magazines, including Gargoyle, Muddy River Poetry Journal, and Pure Slush. She can be followed on Facebook.