by Charles Frederickson
Hoodwinked neighborhood under occupied siege
Unruly no man’s corrosive wasteland
Dreaded fear and hopeless distrust
Stoking desensitized raw nerve trepidation
Daytime slayings become routinely common
In once-prosperous normally quiet havens
Fortified compound gates slammed shut
Temporarily sealing off unspeakable violence
Concertina wire thwarting rogue demons
Barbed promises infecting unhealable wounds
Rumors spread like decomposing garbage
Mangled corpses sewage ditch dumped
Abandoned shops barred windows shuttered
Shortchange trading places storefronts defaced
Petrol stations running on empty
Disillusioned outcasts rescinding overstayed welcome
Remotely uncontrollable militia roadside bombs
Drive-by shootings no exit dead-ends
Phony checkpoints targeting shell-shocked convoys
Maneuvering potholes spewing upchucked asphalt
Uncivil war undermining booby trapped
Stratagem adversarial chessmen cutting corners
Droves fleeing anywhere else bound
Checkmate forcing victimized pawn moves
Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai 4midable, 10acious, cre8ive 1derer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on http://www.imagesof.8k.com. This maverick uniquecorn is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with 100+ poetry publication credits on 5 continents, such as: Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, Blind Man's Rainbow, Both Sides Now, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Dance to Death, Fullosia Press, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, Language & Culture, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Madpoetry, Melange, Newtopia, New Verse News, Planet Authority, Poetry Canada, Poetry of Scotland, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, Pyramid, Sz, Ya'Sou, and Ygdrasil.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Sunday, November 12, 2006
URBAN STORY: A SYNOPSIS
by Jan C. Snow
There are only two characters.
One has more than the other, therefore
one has less. One is taken from, one given to.
Each begrudges the other’s lot.
One strikes, the other retaliates.
Hard envy and hot anger well between them.
There may be a robbery, perhaps a killing,
no more or less brutal than any other,
although not necessarily a murder.
One is the victim, one the perpetrator.
Repeatedly, one flees, the other pursues.
Injury is strewn like grimy litter on a spring sidewalk.
What we cannot know is,
who holds the gun?
Jan C. Snow teaches and writes in Lakewood, one city west of Cleveland on Lake Erie.
There are only two characters.
One has more than the other, therefore
one has less. One is taken from, one given to.
Each begrudges the other’s lot.
One strikes, the other retaliates.
Hard envy and hot anger well between them.
There may be a robbery, perhaps a killing,
no more or less brutal than any other,
although not necessarily a murder.
One is the victim, one the perpetrator.
Repeatedly, one flees, the other pursues.
Injury is strewn like grimy litter on a spring sidewalk.
What we cannot know is,
who holds the gun?
Jan C. Snow teaches and writes in Lakewood, one city west of Cleveland on Lake Erie.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
GERANIUM SCENTS
by Wayne Crawford
In the lower cabinet
near the oven, a bloated
mouse has expired in a trap.
I scrape particles of its
hind leg from the metal shelf.
A truck driver enters
the exit lane of Interstate10,
crashes into a van, kills
one, hospitalizes two others;
third time this month someone
has driven the wrong way.
Our country is at war again.
I wonder if the demand
for geraniums will slacken
their scent of funeral homes
already hanging in the air.
Wayne Crawford's poetry has appeared in many journals, Sin Fronteras, Las Cruces Writers and Poets, Language Arts, and Aethelon: Journal of Sports Literature, among them. He is the Editor of Lunarosity.
In the lower cabinet
near the oven, a bloated
mouse has expired in a trap.
I scrape particles of its
hind leg from the metal shelf.
A truck driver enters
the exit lane of Interstate10,
crashes into a van, kills
one, hospitalizes two others;
third time this month someone
has driven the wrong way.
Our country is at war again.
I wonder if the demand
for geraniums will slacken
their scent of funeral homes
already hanging in the air.
Wayne Crawford's poetry has appeared in many journals, Sin Fronteras, Las Cruces Writers and Poets, Language Arts, and Aethelon: Journal of Sports Literature, among them. He is the Editor of Lunarosity.
Friday, November 10, 2006
PRESIDENTIAL DREAM
by Donald Illich
Sometimes I dream FDR
rises from his wheelchair
turns our ship back to harbor,
while we tie ourselves
to masts, so sirens adorned
in glitzy suits and watches,
don’t keep us from the shore.
In the same fantasy I hear
Lincoln laughing behind me,
pointing to the Liberty Bell
healing its crack, while
an elephant stomps past me
chased by mice dancing to
echoing peals of joy.
Then Nixon apologizes inside
a pool of Agent Orange,
Cowboy Reagan ropes
himself to a nuclear weapon.
The mediocrities of our present
are stuffed with mines that’ll
explode if they try to speak.
A map of my country grows
beneath my feet, and I mix
separate and unequal cities
with a quick stir of my hands,
welcome the cheering crowds
massing in buildings and parks,
waving their arms like flags.
Donald Illich has published poetry in The Iowa Review, Fourteen Hills, Roanoke Review, and New Zoo Poetry Review. His work will be included in future issues of Passages North, Nimrod, LIT, and The Sulphur River Literary Review. He received a Prairie Schooner scholarship to the 2006 Nebraska Summer Writer's Conference.
Sometimes I dream FDR
rises from his wheelchair
turns our ship back to harbor,
while we tie ourselves
to masts, so sirens adorned
in glitzy suits and watches,
don’t keep us from the shore.
In the same fantasy I hear
Lincoln laughing behind me,
pointing to the Liberty Bell
healing its crack, while
an elephant stomps past me
chased by mice dancing to
echoing peals of joy.
Then Nixon apologizes inside
a pool of Agent Orange,
Cowboy Reagan ropes
himself to a nuclear weapon.
The mediocrities of our present
are stuffed with mines that’ll
explode if they try to speak.
A map of my country grows
beneath my feet, and I mix
separate and unequal cities
with a quick stir of my hands,
welcome the cheering crowds
massing in buildings and parks,
waving their arms like flags.
Donald Illich has published poetry in The Iowa Review, Fourteen Hills, Roanoke Review, and New Zoo Poetry Review. His work will be included in future issues of Passages North, Nimrod, LIT, and The Sulphur River Literary Review. He received a Prairie Schooner scholarship to the 2006 Nebraska Summer Writer's Conference.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
RIFLING IN THE RANKS
by Carol Elizabeth Owens
“President Bush announced Wednesday that Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld is stepping down from his post.” – CNN.com [Nov. 8, 2006]
hunting
season’s open
republicans can duck
for some proverbial cover
yet there isn’t safety
in the bushes
these days
you’ll see
leaves camouflage
a natural target—
the nation’s biggest bird of prey
its call tends to carry
abroad – it kills
quickly
before
firing off
a succession of fresh
rounds – those security details
are pure peacockery
but truth shall hit
the fan
squatters
have just mounted
an attack on foreign
policy – watch capitol hill
closely as the feathers
and fur begin
to fly
Carol Elizabeth Owens is an attorney and counselor-at-law in Western New York (by way of Long Island and New York City). She enjoys technical and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in several print and virtual publications. Ms. Owens loves the ways in which words work when poetry allows them to come out and play. The poem "rifling in the ranks" is written in a form called eintou (which is West African for "pearl," as in "pearls of wisdom").
“President Bush announced Wednesday that Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld is stepping down from his post.” – CNN.com [Nov. 8, 2006]
hunting
season’s open
republicans can duck
for some proverbial cover
yet there isn’t safety
in the bushes
these days
you’ll see
leaves camouflage
a natural target—
the nation’s biggest bird of prey
its call tends to carry
abroad – it kills
quickly
before
firing off
a succession of fresh
rounds – those security details
are pure peacockery
but truth shall hit
the fan
squatters
have just mounted
an attack on foreign
policy – watch capitol hill
closely as the feathers
and fur begin
to fly
Carol Elizabeth Owens is an attorney and counselor-at-law in Western New York (by way of Long Island and New York City). She enjoys technical and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in several print and virtual publications. Ms. Owens loves the ways in which words work when poetry allows them to come out and play. The poem "rifling in the ranks" is written in a form called eintou (which is West African for "pearl," as in "pearls of wisdom").
COWBOY SONG
by Robert Emmett
medicine hat drifted into town
with a black cigar and
the brim pulled down
droning not the flood
but the fire
snuck up behind
the hair-trigger beast
slipped a stone in his pocket
whispered now you’re released
and blew a spark from the fire
the beast rolled an eyeball
on the back of his hand
saw razor lightning jump
from a tattooed sand
as he bellowed his curse for the fire
incandescent shapes
rose from the dead
wove a horse-hair noose
all ‘round the beast’s head
chanting now you’ll be with the fire
so he slung his fear
in the face of the stars
but all the king's mountes
couldn't bank on the scars
of an ever-erupting fire
the smell of his sweat
put a singe in the air
he snarled and he spat
and jumped for his lair
then spun as he hissed in the fire
when the stone did drop
and the stench did rise
red medicine hat
loosed her disguise
for none could see through the fire
Robert Emmett writes where the north wind howls at his windowpanes in the woods of Michigan.
medicine hat drifted into town
with a black cigar and
the brim pulled down
droning not the flood
but the fire
snuck up behind
the hair-trigger beast
slipped a stone in his pocket
whispered now you’re released
and blew a spark from the fire
the beast rolled an eyeball
on the back of his hand
saw razor lightning jump
from a tattooed sand
as he bellowed his curse for the fire
incandescent shapes
rose from the dead
wove a horse-hair noose
all ‘round the beast’s head
chanting now you’ll be with the fire
so he slung his fear
in the face of the stars
but all the king's mountes
couldn't bank on the scars
of an ever-erupting fire
the smell of his sweat
put a singe in the air
he snarled and he spat
and jumped for his lair
then spun as he hissed in the fire
when the stone did drop
and the stench did rise
red medicine hat
loosed her disguise
for none could see through the fire
Robert Emmett writes where the north wind howls at his windowpanes in the woods of Michigan.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
ELECTION DAY
by Mikhail Horowitz
Crossing the bridge, the
river’s brightness abides,
for the moment it takes
a Japanese car to span it,
outside of history. This,
despite the memento mori
of an oak leaf, brittle
as an absentee ballot,
affixed to the windshield
wiper. On the far side,
an already antique cluster
of campaign signs—losers all,
including the winners—is
buffeted by the wind. The
sugary maples fade with no
sense of defeat; the sumacs
redden, but not with any
shame. How deeply do I
wish that I and we
could say the same.
Mikhail Horowitz is a poet and performer who lives in the Hudson Valley. He and his performance partner, Gilles Malkine, recieved an award from Sullivan (County) Peace and Justice in 2005 for "furthering progressive causes through the arts."
Crossing the bridge, the
river’s brightness abides,
for the moment it takes
a Japanese car to span it,
outside of history. This,
despite the memento mori
of an oak leaf, brittle
as an absentee ballot,
affixed to the windshield
wiper. On the far side,
an already antique cluster
of campaign signs—losers all,
including the winners—is
buffeted by the wind. The
sugary maples fade with no
sense of defeat; the sumacs
redden, but not with any
shame. How deeply do I
wish that I and we
could say the same.
Mikhail Horowitz is a poet and performer who lives in the Hudson Valley. He and his performance partner, Gilles Malkine, recieved an award from Sullivan (County) Peace and Justice in 2005 for "furthering progressive causes through the arts."
Monday, November 06, 2006
CHENEY TO GO HUNTING ON ELECTION DAY
by Rochelle Ratner
along with his younger daughter, Mary, the same one outed
by the Kerry bastards, the daughter he had no choice but
to bring along on the campaign trail after that. Maybe
she’d help draw the liberals, his advisors told him. And he
supposes it didn’t hurt. Whatever, he’s glad not to be
running for anything this year. Delighted that reporters
will have enough other things to focus on, get off his back
for a minute or two. He can just walk in the woods and
trust his staff to keep him informed of how the voting goes.
Maybe catch himself a few grouse while he’s at it. Hunt
and peck is how he thinks of it, fondly recalling how he
used to type his school reports, looking up and seeing his
mother standing beside him. His fingers are more than a
little arthritic now, like his mother’s were. The doctors say
exercise might even be good for his heart. And he needs to
plan more days alone with his family. This time it will just
be the two of them.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.
along with his younger daughter, Mary, the same one outed
by the Kerry bastards, the daughter he had no choice but
to bring along on the campaign trail after that. Maybe
she’d help draw the liberals, his advisors told him. And he
supposes it didn’t hurt. Whatever, he’s glad not to be
running for anything this year. Delighted that reporters
will have enough other things to focus on, get off his back
for a minute or two. He can just walk in the woods and
trust his staff to keep him informed of how the voting goes.
Maybe catch himself a few grouse while he’s at it. Hunt
and peck is how he thinks of it, fondly recalling how he
used to type his school reports, looking up and seeing his
mother standing beside him. His fingers are more than a
little arthritic now, like his mother’s were. The doctors say
exercise might even be good for his heart. And he needs to
plan more days alone with his family. This time it will just
be the two of them.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.
THE SNOW JOB
by Lucille Gang Shulklapper
Tony Snow lives up to his name, playing that slick political game, whitening Delay’s, and Foley’s corruption, denying allegations of the war’s disruption, claiming victory to Bush’s no plan, in a voice that asks in straight deadpan, what do Democrats strategize, when Michael Fox and Webb might tell us lies, Snow seems to ask with perfect diction, what is real, and what is fiction?
It’s Snowing all over Capitol Hill, from the President’s secretary, his personal shill, like Cheney’s “no brainer” endorsement of “dunking”, no apology needed, just one for Kerry’s “debunking,” those who are truly shafted, not those eligible to be drafted, for if there were a universal draft, Americans would quickly craft, a Snow plow to clear, that old and tired fear, of the terrorists in Iraq, of shock and awe, awe and shock.
Lucille Gang Shulklapper is a workshop leader for the Florida Center for the Book, an affiliate of The Library of Congress. Recent and forthcoming work appears in Still Going Strong, Oasis, The Mona Poetica Anthology, Poetic Voices Without Borders, and Gulfstream. Three children's stories have also been accepted for publication. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks: What You Cannot Have, The Substance of Sunlight, and one mini-chapbook, Godd, It's Not Hollywood. Recent awards include honorable mention by the Rrofihy Trophy Award, Common Ground Review, and The National League of Pen Women.
Tony Snow lives up to his name, playing that slick political game, whitening Delay’s, and Foley’s corruption, denying allegations of the war’s disruption, claiming victory to Bush’s no plan, in a voice that asks in straight deadpan, what do Democrats strategize, when Michael Fox and Webb might tell us lies, Snow seems to ask with perfect diction, what is real, and what is fiction?
It’s Snowing all over Capitol Hill, from the President’s secretary, his personal shill, like Cheney’s “no brainer” endorsement of “dunking”, no apology needed, just one for Kerry’s “debunking,” those who are truly shafted, not those eligible to be drafted, for if there were a universal draft, Americans would quickly craft, a Snow plow to clear, that old and tired fear, of the terrorists in Iraq, of shock and awe, awe and shock.
Lucille Gang Shulklapper is a workshop leader for the Florida Center for the Book, an affiliate of The Library of Congress. Recent and forthcoming work appears in Still Going Strong, Oasis, The Mona Poetica Anthology, Poetic Voices Without Borders, and Gulfstream. Three children's stories have also been accepted for publication. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks: What You Cannot Have, The Substance of Sunlight, and one mini-chapbook, Godd, It's Not Hollywood. Recent awards include honorable mention by the Rrofihy Trophy Award, Common Ground Review, and The National League of Pen Women.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
DEMOCRACY
by Luke Welch
My town hunkers low
beneath a troubled sky.
There will be a parade today,
weather permitting, and I will run
with the Democrats, smiling
past the houses and heavy faces
of my Republican town.
The new one is better
than the ass in there now,
and I am not a politician
but I will run with one's name,
like a rock star's on my chest.
I will smile at my neighbors
and ask for their votes.
I'll keep my place between the clowns,
circling in their funny cars,
and the high school marching band,
which despite the occasional stumble
and missed note, does an excellent rendition
of the Star Spangled Banner.
Luke Welch has published recently in Pemmican and Centrifugal Eye. He is always a father, often a poet, not often enough a political activist and for a living works as a sign language interpreter in northern Illinois.
My town hunkers low
beneath a troubled sky.
There will be a parade today,
weather permitting, and I will run
with the Democrats, smiling
past the houses and heavy faces
of my Republican town.
The new one is better
than the ass in there now,
and I am not a politician
but I will run with one's name,
like a rock star's on my chest.
I will smile at my neighbors
and ask for their votes.
I'll keep my place between the clowns,
circling in their funny cars,
and the high school marching band,
which despite the occasional stumble
and missed note, does an excellent rendition
of the Star Spangled Banner.
Luke Welch has published recently in Pemmican and Centrifugal Eye. He is always a father, often a poet, not often enough a political activist and for a living works as a sign language interpreter in northern Illinois.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
POLITRICKS
by Charles Frederickson
Democratic Republican Socialist Cocktail parties
Bridge soiree get-togethers stimulating 4-play
Tables superstitiously turned bathtub direction
North East West South NEWSmongers
Underhand sneaky peeky casual side-glances
Double-dealing from bottom of deck
Missing few cards shortchanger cheats
50 state pickup cutthroat shuffle
13 original star leopard stripes
Country club acquaintances diamond friends
Spadework domino effect chain-reacting gangs
But nobody is keeping score
Auction bridge contract trading places
Red hearts finessing black minds
Well-suited alphabetical order of merit
Royalty losing face Aces pipped
Same as whist but different
Variation of one-upmanship gone overboard
Tournaments run according to Hoyle
Competitors vying for Master Points
Politricks overbid unmakable Grand Slam
Fear jeer smear outrank trumpery
Vulnerable teammates one rubber up
Knock on Blackwood conventionally flouted
Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai 4midable, 10acious, cre8ive 1derer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on http://www.imagesof.8k.com. This maverick uniquecorn is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with 100+ poetry publication credits on 5 continents, such as: Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, Blind Man's Rainbow, Both Sides Now, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Dance to Death, Fullosia Press, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, Language & Culture, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Madpoetry, Melange, Newtopia, New Verse News, Planet Authority, Poetry Canada, Poetry of Scotland, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, Pyramid, Sz, Ya'Sou, and Ygdrasil.
Democratic Republican Socialist Cocktail parties
Bridge soiree get-togethers stimulating 4-play
Tables superstitiously turned bathtub direction
North East West South NEWSmongers
Underhand sneaky peeky casual side-glances
Double-dealing from bottom of deck
Missing few cards shortchanger cheats
50 state pickup cutthroat shuffle
13 original star leopard stripes
Country club acquaintances diamond friends
Spadework domino effect chain-reacting gangs
But nobody is keeping score
Auction bridge contract trading places
Red hearts finessing black minds
Well-suited alphabetical order of merit
Royalty losing face Aces pipped
Same as whist but different
Variation of one-upmanship gone overboard
Tournaments run according to Hoyle
Competitors vying for Master Points
Politricks overbid unmakable Grand Slam
Fear jeer smear outrank trumpery
Vulnerable teammates one rubber up
Knock on Blackwood conventionally flouted
Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai 4midable, 10acious, cre8ive 1derer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on http://www.imagesof.8k.com. This maverick uniquecorn is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with 100+ poetry publication credits on 5 continents, such as: Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, Blind Man's Rainbow, Both Sides Now, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Dance to Death, Fullosia Press, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, Language & Culture, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Madpoetry, Melange, Newtopia, New Verse News, Planet Authority, Poetry Canada, Poetry of Scotland, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, Pyramid, Sz, Ya'Sou, and Ygdrasil.
Friday, November 03, 2006
COUPLE FINDS CONDOM INSIDE BAG OF NUTS
by Rochelle Ratner
He takes the afternoon off work to be with her. They drive
from the doctor's office, having been told what they already
knew: she isn't pregnant yet. On the way home they stop at
Walmart, drooling over nursery furniture that gets more
expensive every month. They pick up a bag of loose nuts
and sit in the parked car eating them, like they did in high
school. He hasn't worn a condom since the night they
married, and he wouldn't be caught dead in bright yellow.
Crinkled up inside a filbert, that's how small it is. They'll
have to take it to the police, he supposes, though he doesn't
really see the crime here. It feels more like having his
fortune read.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.
He takes the afternoon off work to be with her. They drive
from the doctor's office, having been told what they already
knew: she isn't pregnant yet. On the way home they stop at
Walmart, drooling over nursery furniture that gets more
expensive every month. They pick up a bag of loose nuts
and sit in the parked car eating them, like they did in high
school. He hasn't worn a condom since the night they
married, and he wouldn't be caught dead in bright yellow.
Crinkled up inside a filbert, that's how small it is. They'll
have to take it to the police, he supposes, though he doesn't
really see the crime here. It feels more like having his
fortune read.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
NO TRANSLATION REQUIRED
by Sue Repko
In general, we do not march
Protest
Stomp our feet
For our brothers and sisters with brown skin
Crossing deserts here and there
Who speak languages we do not yet understand,
Languages that compel our silence
And why?
A cry of pain -
A cry of loss -
No translation required.
We understand two towers collapsing
We understand the wrath of hurricanes and
Learn the science of tsunamis
Apply compassion
And give and give and give.
But why are we not moved to move our feet
Unconditionally
Across the lines in the sand here and there
And raise our voices
To say
Enough is enough,
He is my brother,
She is my sister?
The bombs and rockets
The guns of the few
On all sides
Do the talking for the many.
No translation required.
Sue Repko is a writer, urban planner, community activist, and high school girls' basketball and softball coach. Her fiction has appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Beloit Fiction Journal, Bryant Literary Review, Kelsey Review, New Millennium Writings and online. Her nonfiction has appeared in newspapers, magazines and online. Her website is www.suerepko.com and she recently started blogging at www.suerepko.blogspot.com. She lives with her family in central New Jersey.
In general, we do not march
Protest
Stomp our feet
For our brothers and sisters with brown skin
Crossing deserts here and there
Who speak languages we do not yet understand,
Languages that compel our silence
And why?
A cry of pain -
A cry of loss -
No translation required.
We understand two towers collapsing
We understand the wrath of hurricanes and
Learn the science of tsunamis
Apply compassion
And give and give and give.
But why are we not moved to move our feet
Unconditionally
Across the lines in the sand here and there
And raise our voices
To say
Enough is enough,
He is my brother,
She is my sister?
The bombs and rockets
The guns of the few
On all sides
Do the talking for the many.
No translation required.
Sue Repko is a writer, urban planner, community activist, and high school girls' basketball and softball coach. Her fiction has appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Beloit Fiction Journal, Bryant Literary Review, Kelsey Review, New Millennium Writings and online. Her nonfiction has appeared in newspapers, magazines and online. Her website is www.suerepko.com and she recently started blogging at www.suerepko.blogspot.com. She lives with her family in central New Jersey.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
EIGHTH CIRCLE
A mordant Dantean reflection on news from the Middle East
by Tom Benediktsson
When we had overpassed the twisted wood,
the flaming field, the evil ditches, then
we came upon a plain of burning blood.
Gibbering through gouts of smoke, two old men
strove. Blinded, mad, deprived of speech, they
swung their gruesome clubs again and again,
their senile faces rapt with hate and joy.
I knew them, their famous names. In the red
glare of that godless place, late on that day,
I asked my guide how they still fought. He said,
“In life they warred with lies and bombs and stones;
now stones are dust, all bombs burst, lies all sped,
they wield, not broken knives or rusted guns,
but severed limbs of their daughters and sons.”
Tom Benediktsson teaches English and creative writing at Montclair State University in New Jersey. His poems have appeared in numerous little magazines and anthologies around the country, most recently in Paterson Literary Review, Journal of New Jersey Poets, and New Delta Review.
by Tom Benediktsson
When we had overpassed the twisted wood,
the flaming field, the evil ditches, then
we came upon a plain of burning blood.
Gibbering through gouts of smoke, two old men
strove. Blinded, mad, deprived of speech, they
swung their gruesome clubs again and again,
their senile faces rapt with hate and joy.
I knew them, their famous names. In the red
glare of that godless place, late on that day,
I asked my guide how they still fought. He said,
“In life they warred with lies and bombs and stones;
now stones are dust, all bombs burst, lies all sped,
they wield, not broken knives or rusted guns,
but severed limbs of their daughters and sons.”
Tom Benediktsson teaches English and creative writing at Montclair State University in New Jersey. His poems have appeared in numerous little magazines and anthologies around the country, most recently in Paterson Literary Review, Journal of New Jersey Poets, and New Delta Review.
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