by David Radavich
I am the sub-total
of what I buy.
Nothing personal,
but that’s what matters.
What corporations
are keeping track of.
Almost like the eye of God
weighing sins and merits,
positioning
for potential profit
in competing schemes
of doctrination.
I hardly know
what to say.
Perhaps: Watch me,
study my every
expenditure
and know
the partner of this dance
will step on ice.
David Radavich's new book of poems Middle-East Mezze (Plain View Press, 2011) focuses on Iraq, Palestine, and Egypt. Previous poetry publications include Canonicals: Love's Hours (Finishing Line, 2009), America Bound: An Epic for Our Time (Plain View Press, 2007), Slain Species (Court Poetry Press, London), By the Way (Buttonwood Press, 1998), and Greatest Hits (Pudding House Press, 2000). His plays have been performed across the U.S. and abroad, including five Off-Off-Broadway productions. He also enjoys writing essays on poetry, drama, and contemporary issues.
___________________________________________
Monday, June 13, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
LAISSEZ-FAIRE
by Esther Greenleaf Murer
Laissez-faire maissez-faire,
Senator Goldwater
wanted the government
out of our hair.
Fifty years later the
neoconservatives
poison our minds, food,
water, and air.
Esther Greenleaf Murer's new poetry collection Unglobed Fruit is now available.
_____________________________________________________
Laissez-faire maissez-faire,
Senator Goldwater
wanted the government
out of our hair.
Fifty years later the
neoconservatives
poison our minds, food,
water, and air.
Esther Greenleaf Murer's new poetry collection Unglobed Fruit is now available.
_____________________________________________________
Saturday, June 11, 2011
YOU CAN BANK ON IT
by Bill Costley
When bankers wail
workers should wonder
Q: What happens next?
A: When bankers wail
they communicate like
wild animals caught in
regulatory traps, crying:
“Regulate us less!” &.
“Keep the workers out
of our deep pockets!”
Bill Costley has served on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco Bay area chapter of the National Writers Union. He lives in Santa Clara, CA.
_____________________________________________________
According to JPMorgan Chase CEO Jamie Dimon,
the recovery has stalled because of strict banking regulation. --Robert Reich
the recovery has stalled because of strict banking regulation. --Robert Reich
When bankers wail
workers should wonder
Q: What happens next?
A: When bankers wail
they communicate like
wild animals caught in
regulatory traps, crying:
“Regulate us less!” &.
“Keep the workers out
of our deep pockets!”
Bill Costley has served on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco Bay area chapter of the National Writers Union. He lives in Santa Clara, CA.
_____________________________________________________
CHICKEN LITTLE
by Jean Thurston Liebert
“The sky is falling!” he cried as he ran.
Panic spread quickly across the land.
Paul Ryan assured him it wasn’t so.
He would use a little ‘Sleight-of-hand.’
Entitlements had to go.
Social Security and Medicare
Cost more than we could bear.
He would put an end to this nightmare.
Soon Chicken Little will have vouchers galore.
Privatization will be here to stay.
My advice to all chickens I know:
Stay alert. Your vouchers are next to go.
Jean Thurston Liebert, age 92, lives in Corvallis, Oregon. She writes poetry, short stories and a novella, Another World. Her published work is included in Apricot Memories, a non-fiction history of the apricot industry in California; Linn Benton Community College’s Collections; the Oregon Writers Colony anthology, Take a Bite of Literature and The New Verse News. Her 2010 fiction was cited as notable by Oregon Writers Colony.
_____________________________________________________
“The sky is falling!” he cried as he ran.
Panic spread quickly across the land.
Paul Ryan assured him it wasn’t so.
He would use a little ‘Sleight-of-hand.’
Entitlements had to go.
Social Security and Medicare
Cost more than we could bear.
He would put an end to this nightmare.
Soon Chicken Little will have vouchers galore.
Privatization will be here to stay.
My advice to all chickens I know:
Stay alert. Your vouchers are next to go.
Jean Thurston Liebert, age 92, lives in Corvallis, Oregon. She writes poetry, short stories and a novella, Another World. Her published work is included in Apricot Memories, a non-fiction history of the apricot industry in California; Linn Benton Community College’s Collections; the Oregon Writers Colony anthology, Take a Bite of Literature and The New Verse News. Her 2010 fiction was cited as notable by Oregon Writers Colony.
_____________________________________________________
Friday, June 10, 2011
MAN DIES TODAY IN DUBAI
by Elizabeth Cleary
Today, in Dubai, a man jumped off the world’s tallest
tower. He worked in the building; his job taking him
thousands of miles from his home and over a mile
into the sky; he asked for time away from his glass
cage full of corporate high flyers but his boss said No.
He could have called in sick or quit or cut off his leg
but being a responsible employee, he jumped from
the 147th floor; he could have winged himself from
the roof or the top floor, 160 levels above ground
adding 13 accomplishments to his total but he didn’t
and then he landed on the roof of floor 108, below
corporate suites and above the residents still at work,
so in all he only fell 39 flights without wings, far below
the world record and one has to ask if someone goes
to all that trouble to make a statement about personal
leave and leaves by leaping from the tallest perch
like a bird without a parachute, golden or otherwise,
wouldn’t it have been worth going for the record, maybe
make his sacrifice notable so they’d bother to mention
his name in the morning paper or maybe he did think
of that and left some room to beat his personal best,
as if daring his coworkers to follow him home.
Elizabeth Cleary is an American poet employed by a multi-national IT firm. Her poems are published in many journals including Tipton Poetry Journal, Boston Literary Magazine, Off the Coast. Recently nominated for a Pushcart, she is co-chair of The Poetry Institute-New Haven.
_____________________________________________________
An unidentified Asian man jumped to his death on Tuesday
from the 147th floor of Dubai’s Burj Khalifa. --Al Bawaba
Today, in Dubai, a man jumped off the world’s tallest
tower. He worked in the building; his job taking him
thousands of miles from his home and over a mile
into the sky; he asked for time away from his glass
cage full of corporate high flyers but his boss said No.
He could have called in sick or quit or cut off his leg
but being a responsible employee, he jumped from
the 147th floor; he could have winged himself from
the roof or the top floor, 160 levels above ground
adding 13 accomplishments to his total but he didn’t
and then he landed on the roof of floor 108, below
corporate suites and above the residents still at work,
so in all he only fell 39 flights without wings, far below
the world record and one has to ask if someone goes
to all that trouble to make a statement about personal
leave and leaves by leaping from the tallest perch
like a bird without a parachute, golden or otherwise,
wouldn’t it have been worth going for the record, maybe
make his sacrifice notable so they’d bother to mention
his name in the morning paper or maybe he did think
of that and left some room to beat his personal best,
as if daring his coworkers to follow him home.
Elizabeth Cleary is an American poet employed by a multi-national IT firm. Her poems are published in many journals including Tipton Poetry Journal, Boston Literary Magazine, Off the Coast. Recently nominated for a Pushcart, she is co-chair of The Poetry Institute-New Haven.
_____________________________________________________
Thursday, June 09, 2011
TOO EARLY, TOO LATE
Poem by Charles Frederickson; Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote
Tug of paix pull pushed
Comes to shove might underpowered
Forever branded acid Coppertone etching
Blurry indelible dreams eternal tattoos
Parchment scribble crops gone unharvested
Fishnets torn divining rods retracted
Aborted fetuses swaddling manger tombs
Embalmed mummy felines grave reminders
Droopy morning glories tilt bowed
Heads withered edges forsaken leaves
Unanswered happiness prayers begging salvation
Dead Sea corpses floating face-down
Wailing concrete walls bullet riddled
Whitewashed bloodstains shameful humiliation cover-up
Sprig poking through jagged crack
1948 preoccupied claims unsettled grievances
Unveiled threats averted parting glances
Glossy manes brushed by Fate
Unkissed chap virgin flesh violated
Flutter lashes blurry mascara focus
Last chance garbage heap scrapped
Soiled stench pleas cavalierly ignored
Pesky flies hovering over refuse
Thumbsucker chewing nails swallowing pride
TOO LITTLE, NOT SOON ENOUGH
No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote together comprise PoeArtry. Flutter Press has just published Charles’ new chapbook fanTHAIsies.
___________________________________________
___________________________________________
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
SACRED PLACE
by Rochelle Owens
Drawing a straight line in the air
a baldheaded pilgrim
from Belgium
singing ‘on the road again’
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
seeing dollars
drachmas euros francs liras
marks pesos pounds
renminibi shekels yen
singing ‘on the road again’
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
hitting the thrift stores
estate sales flea markets
remembering a woman
smashing herbs
with the side of a knife
singing ‘on the road again’
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
piled up sketches
the crucified one
the scourged martyrs
slapping flying insects
insects far and near
singing ‘on the road again’
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
debeaked chickens in cages
the tracks of wild ducks
slapping flying insects
insects far and near
dollars euros pesos
drachmas francs liras marks pounds
renminbi shekels yen
a baldheaded pilgrim from Belgium
singing ‘on the road again’
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
slapping flying insects
insects far and near
tracing his nerve endings
the roof of his skull
the shape of his brain
slapping flying insects insects far and near
like passionate lovers
thirsting for his sweat
dollars euros pesos
filling his money belt
sweet lucre under his heart
like an unborn babe
in its amniotic sac
a baldheaded pilgrim from Belgium
weeping praying
spiritual soul animal hole
spiritual hole animal soul
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
weeping praying
animal soul spiritual hole
animal hole spiritual soul
journeying to some sacred place
Rochelle Owens is the author of twenty books of poetry, plays, and fiction, the most recent of which are Solitary Workwoman, (Junction Press, 2011), Journey to Purity (Texture Press, 2009), and Plays by Rochelle Owens (Broadway Play Publishing, 2000). A pioneer in the experimental off-Broadway theatre movement and an internationally known innovative poet, she has received Village Voice Obie awards and honors from the New York Drama Critics Circle. Her plays have been presented worldwide and in festivals in Edinburgh, Avignon, Paris, and Berlin. Her play Futz, which is considered a classic of the American avant-garde theatre, was produced by Ellen Stewart at LaMama, directed by Tom O’Horgan and performed by the LaMama Troupe in 1967, and was made into a film in 1969. A French language production of Three Front was produced by France-Culture and broadcast on Radio France. She has been a participant in the Festival Franco-Anglais de Poésie, and has translated Liliane Atlan’s novel Les passants, The Passersby (Henry Holt, 1989). She has held fellowships from the NEA, Guggenheim, Rockefeller, and numerous other foundations. She has taught at the University of California, San Diego and the University of Oklahoma and held residencies at Brown and Southwestern Louisiana State. This is Rochelle Owens' twentieth New Verse News poem.
_____________________________________________________
Drawing a straight line in the air
a baldheaded pilgrim
from Belgium
singing ‘on the road again’
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
seeing dollars
drachmas euros francs liras
marks pesos pounds
renminibi shekels yen
singing ‘on the road again’
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
hitting the thrift stores
estate sales flea markets
remembering a woman
smashing herbs
with the side of a knife
singing ‘on the road again’
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
piled up sketches
the crucified one
the scourged martyrs
slapping flying insects
insects far and near
singing ‘on the road again’
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
debeaked chickens in cages
the tracks of wild ducks
slapping flying insects
insects far and near
dollars euros pesos
drachmas francs liras marks pounds
renminbi shekels yen
a baldheaded pilgrim from Belgium
singing ‘on the road again’
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
slapping flying insects
insects far and near
tracing his nerve endings
the roof of his skull
the shape of his brain
slapping flying insects insects far and near
like passionate lovers
thirsting for his sweat
dollars euros pesos
filling his money belt
sweet lucre under his heart
like an unborn babe
in its amniotic sac
a baldheaded pilgrim from Belgium
weeping praying
spiritual soul animal hole
spiritual hole animal soul
journeying to some sacred place
journeying to Santiago di Compostella
weeping praying
animal soul spiritual hole
animal hole spiritual soul
journeying to some sacred place
Rochelle Owens is the author of twenty books of poetry, plays, and fiction, the most recent of which are Solitary Workwoman, (Junction Press, 2011), Journey to Purity (Texture Press, 2009), and Plays by Rochelle Owens (Broadway Play Publishing, 2000). A pioneer in the experimental off-Broadway theatre movement and an internationally known innovative poet, she has received Village Voice Obie awards and honors from the New York Drama Critics Circle. Her plays have been presented worldwide and in festivals in Edinburgh, Avignon, Paris, and Berlin. Her play Futz, which is considered a classic of the American avant-garde theatre, was produced by Ellen Stewart at LaMama, directed by Tom O’Horgan and performed by the LaMama Troupe in 1967, and was made into a film in 1969. A French language production of Three Front was produced by France-Culture and broadcast on Radio France. She has been a participant in the Festival Franco-Anglais de Poésie, and has translated Liliane Atlan’s novel Les passants, The Passersby (Henry Holt, 1989). She has held fellowships from the NEA, Guggenheim, Rockefeller, and numerous other foundations. She has taught at the University of California, San Diego and the University of Oklahoma and held residencies at Brown and Southwestern Louisiana State. This is Rochelle Owens' twentieth New Verse News poem.
_____________________________________________________
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
THE PERPETRATOR'S GUIDE TO THRILL KILLING: LESSON ONE--PRACTICE ON A KITTEN
by Lauren Schmidt
[Herbert] Bishop was one of three local homeless men to die violently in Eugene this year. Gerald Francis Wudarski, 53, died from bleeding inside his brain after a west Eugene man chased and assaulted him…James Pelfrey, 36, died in an August 25th stabbing near Eugene’s Washington-Jefferson Park…In another serious assault, a homeless man was set afire October 3rd as he walked on East Broadway near High Street.---The Register Guard, December 23rd, 2009
First, be a boy always too big for six:
too tall, too loud, too wide.
Wear out words like asshole, prick,
and dickhead, make your daddy proud.
Know what his beer tastes like.
Stink like cigarettes and sweat rings.
When you don’t get your way, say
Don’t be such a scaredy cat. What he said to me
when we were boys, six, with a box of matches
behind the pool. I watched my neighbor snap
the stick against the box strip. The flame hissed
into a slight blast of gold. Before long, it malformed
into a shattered face, climbed down the stick,
almost singed his fingertips. He flung it
behind the deck. I shivered, pretended to keep
warm by shaking pool water from my ear.
I tilted my head and hopped on one foot.
Be the first among us to spot her.
Watch her.
Pretend to love her, newly born,
like us, barely furred.
Squat down.
Make your shadow small.
Wait for her.
Whisper sweetness as she approaches
your hand, empty of its offering.
Watch her tongue curl against your fist
as if to open it.
Then be quick. Cat-like.
He held the matchstick to me, Don’t be such a scaredy cat.
Nearing my face, my neighbor taunted me,
I could feel the pop and purr
of the quivering flame and when I sprinted away,
my blood gunning with dread,
he clapped against me, dragged me
across the gravel drive: my stomach, scraped
and bloody. After a bath of Bactine
and water from the hose, I pulled stones
from my shredded skin, swore I’d never see him again.
Rise.
Shed a heavy darkness.
Hop to your left foot.
Cock your right.
Don’t be such a scaredy cat he said again,
this time, to his cousin at age thirteen
because None of the guns in the house
are loaded. Stones come easily when bubbled
in peroxide, but a boy can’t empty bullets
from his brain the way he shakes water
from the inner-ear. I couldn’t help but shiver.
I stood there, curious and waiting.
Draw your leg forth to lift and crush
the skull into a shattered blast of light.
Watch, wide-eyed, as blood hurls
through the sky.
Delight.
Watch the corpse crash to the ground.
Or be a boy too scared to stop it.
Editor’s Note: This poem is part of a full-length collection of poetry based on the poet’s experience volunteering at a homeless kitchen, The Dining Room, in Eugene, Oregon, where several hate crimes occur each year against homeless men. The collection, Psalms of The Dining Room, is due out next year. The collection draws attention to an otherwise silenced problem: hate crimes against homeless victims.
Lauren Schmidt’s poems have been published or are forthcoming in The Progressive, Alaska Quarterly Review, New York Quarterly, Rattle, Nimrod, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Ekphrasis Journal, Wicked Alice and other journals. Her poems have been selected as finalists for the 2008 and 2009 Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize, the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry and the Dancing Girl Press Chapbook Contest. Her awards include the So to Speak Poetry Prize and the Neil Postman Prize for Metaphor. In 2011, she was nominated for the Best New Poets Anthology. Her chapbook, The Voodoo Doll Parade (Main Street Rag), was selected as part of the 2011 Author’s Choice Chapbooks Series. Her second chapbook, Because Big Boobies Are Necessary (Amsterdam Press), and her first full-length collection, Psalms of The Dining Room (Wipf & Stock) are both forthcoming. Lauren Schmidt teaches writing at Brookdale Community College in Lincroft, New Jersey.
_____________________________________________________
[Herbert] Bishop was one of three local homeless men to die violently in Eugene this year. Gerald Francis Wudarski, 53, died from bleeding inside his brain after a west Eugene man chased and assaulted him…James Pelfrey, 36, died in an August 25th stabbing near Eugene’s Washington-Jefferson Park…In another serious assault, a homeless man was set afire October 3rd as he walked on East Broadway near High Street.---The Register Guard, December 23rd, 2009
First, be a boy always too big for six:
too tall, too loud, too wide.
Wear out words like asshole, prick,
and dickhead, make your daddy proud.
Know what his beer tastes like.
Stink like cigarettes and sweat rings.
When you don’t get your way, say
Don’t be such a scaredy cat. What he said to me
when we were boys, six, with a box of matches
behind the pool. I watched my neighbor snap
the stick against the box strip. The flame hissed
into a slight blast of gold. Before long, it malformed
into a shattered face, climbed down the stick,
almost singed his fingertips. He flung it
behind the deck. I shivered, pretended to keep
warm by shaking pool water from my ear.
I tilted my head and hopped on one foot.
Be the first among us to spot her.
Watch her.
Pretend to love her, newly born,
like us, barely furred.
Squat down.
Make your shadow small.
Wait for her.
Whisper sweetness as she approaches
your hand, empty of its offering.
Watch her tongue curl against your fist
as if to open it.
Then be quick. Cat-like.
He held the matchstick to me, Don’t be such a scaredy cat.
Nearing my face, my neighbor taunted me,
I could feel the pop and purr
of the quivering flame and when I sprinted away,
my blood gunning with dread,
he clapped against me, dragged me
across the gravel drive: my stomach, scraped
and bloody. After a bath of Bactine
and water from the hose, I pulled stones
from my shredded skin, swore I’d never see him again.
Rise.
Shed a heavy darkness.
Hop to your left foot.
Cock your right.
Don’t be such a scaredy cat he said again,
this time, to his cousin at age thirteen
because None of the guns in the house
are loaded. Stones come easily when bubbled
in peroxide, but a boy can’t empty bullets
from his brain the way he shakes water
from the inner-ear. I couldn’t help but shiver.
I stood there, curious and waiting.
Draw your leg forth to lift and crush
the skull into a shattered blast of light.
Watch, wide-eyed, as blood hurls
through the sky.
Delight.
Watch the corpse crash to the ground.
Or be a boy too scared to stop it.
Editor’s Note: This poem is part of a full-length collection of poetry based on the poet’s experience volunteering at a homeless kitchen, The Dining Room, in Eugene, Oregon, where several hate crimes occur each year against homeless men. The collection, Psalms of The Dining Room, is due out next year. The collection draws attention to an otherwise silenced problem: hate crimes against homeless victims.
Lauren Schmidt’s poems have been published or are forthcoming in The Progressive, Alaska Quarterly Review, New York Quarterly, Rattle, Nimrod, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Ekphrasis Journal, Wicked Alice and other journals. Her poems have been selected as finalists for the 2008 and 2009 Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize, the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry and the Dancing Girl Press Chapbook Contest. Her awards include the So to Speak Poetry Prize and the Neil Postman Prize for Metaphor. In 2011, she was nominated for the Best New Poets Anthology. Her chapbook, The Voodoo Doll Parade (Main Street Rag), was selected as part of the 2011 Author’s Choice Chapbooks Series. Her second chapbook, Because Big Boobies Are Necessary (Amsterdam Press), and her first full-length collection, Psalms of The Dining Room (Wipf & Stock) are both forthcoming. Lauren Schmidt teaches writing at Brookdale Community College in Lincroft, New Jersey.
_____________________________________________________
Monday, June 06, 2011
TORNADO ALLEY
by Elizabeth Kerlikowske
On tv, the damage is miniature and confined
to the screen. The houses are toys that were kicked
around the sandbox, and the trees? Twigs resigned
to future campfires. Scavengers in night clothes pick
through belongings, stopping only long enough
to grant interviews that don’t conclude until they cry.
The money shot. Big piles of smoldering stuff:
that’s what the Twin Towers were. Even when I tried
I couldn’t make that real, but driving through Battle Creek
after the tornado, seeing with my own eyes
what winds had done, evisceration of trees, the quick
stroke of spring hell and roofs whirling into skies--
That was real. We don’t fear terrorists or earthquakes.
We fear air where the Great Plains meet the Great Lakes.
Elizabeth Kerlikowske drives to teach and listens to NPR.
_____________________________________________________
On tv, the damage is miniature and confined
to the screen. The houses are toys that were kicked
around the sandbox, and the trees? Twigs resigned
to future campfires. Scavengers in night clothes pick
through belongings, stopping only long enough
to grant interviews that don’t conclude until they cry.
The money shot. Big piles of smoldering stuff:
that’s what the Twin Towers were. Even when I tried
I couldn’t make that real, but driving through Battle Creek
after the tornado, seeing with my own eyes
what winds had done, evisceration of trees, the quick
stroke of spring hell and roofs whirling into skies--
That was real. We don’t fear terrorists or earthquakes.
We fear air where the Great Plains meet the Great Lakes.
Elizabeth Kerlikowske drives to teach and listens to NPR.
_____________________________________________________
Sunday, June 05, 2011
CONVERSATION WITH GOD #43
by John Kotula
God, Are there any Republicans in heaven?
You mean, for example,
The ones who preach a sourpuss, lock-jaw morality in public
Then in airport washrooms, DC condos and limo backseats
Do anything they can to get their dicks wet?
Yeah, those guys!
How about the ones who say
The bible is their favorite book
And Jesus is their greatest hero,
But do anything in their power
To make rich people richer
And poor people poorer.
Yeah, I’m talking about them!
Don’t forget the ones who say they want a limited government
That stays out of people’s lives
And off their backs,
But pass laws that say
A woman has to look at an ultrasound of the fetus
She has decided to abort.
Yeah, you got it!
You’re asking me are any of them in heaven?
Yeah! Are they?
Well of course they are.
What?
Of course they are.
Unbelievable!
Wait a minute. I thought you believed in a merciful God.
I thought you believed vindictiveness would be very
Un-God like.
Yeah, but, but…
I forgive them!
Yeah, but, but…
That’s why I’m God
And you’re not.
John Kotula is an artist and writer who lives in Rhode Island.
_____________________________________________________
God, Are there any Republicans in heaven?
You mean, for example,
The ones who preach a sourpuss, lock-jaw morality in public
Then in airport washrooms, DC condos and limo backseats
Do anything they can to get their dicks wet?
Yeah, those guys!
How about the ones who say
The bible is their favorite book
And Jesus is their greatest hero,
But do anything in their power
To make rich people richer
And poor people poorer.
Yeah, I’m talking about them!
Don’t forget the ones who say they want a limited government
That stays out of people’s lives
And off their backs,
But pass laws that say
A woman has to look at an ultrasound of the fetus
She has decided to abort.
Yeah, you got it!
You’re asking me are any of them in heaven?
Yeah! Are they?
Well of course they are.
What?
Of course they are.
Unbelievable!
Wait a minute. I thought you believed in a merciful God.
I thought you believed vindictiveness would be very
Un-God like.
Yeah, but, but…
I forgive them!
Yeah, but, but…
That’s why I’m God
And you’re not.
John Kotula is an artist and writer who lives in Rhode Island.
_____________________________________________________
Saturday, June 04, 2011
THERE IS A SOUND
by James Bettendorf
There is a sound in St. Paul
Like the tearing of heavy cloth
Where people make laws that snap
Crutches over their knees, that rip
Texts from small hands, that flatten
The tires of wheel chairs, crush
Safety glasses under their heels and
Red tipped white canes are broken
in pieces and thrown in the gutter.
There is a sound in Minnesota
Like the tearing of heavy cloth
Where angry men and women are bent
Their backs used as stepping stones
Feeling powerless in the face of money
Neighbors denied rights and
Darkness isn't dispelled
By the light of reason.
There is a sound in America
Like the tearing of heavy cloth
Where eyes of honest people
Are covered with blindfolds
Made from the flag, ears deafened
With tower babbling and knees
Bent by heavy wooden crosses
While more coal is shoveled
Into the furnaces of the wealthy.
There is a sound in the world
Like the tearing of heavy cloth
James Bettendorf is a retired math teacher and just finished a two year Poetry internship at the Loft in Minneapolis, Minn., after having taken many classes over the years. He has been a member of various writing groups throughout the years and his work has been published in Verse Wisconsin, Rockhurst Review, and Light Quarterly.
There is a sound in St. Paul
Like the tearing of heavy cloth
Where people make laws that snap
Crutches over their knees, that rip
Texts from small hands, that flatten
The tires of wheel chairs, crush
Safety glasses under their heels and
Red tipped white canes are broken
in pieces and thrown in the gutter.
There is a sound in Minnesota
Like the tearing of heavy cloth
Where angry men and women are bent
Their backs used as stepping stones
Feeling powerless in the face of money
Neighbors denied rights and
Darkness isn't dispelled
By the light of reason.
There is a sound in America
Like the tearing of heavy cloth
Where eyes of honest people
Are covered with blindfolds
Made from the flag, ears deafened
With tower babbling and knees
Bent by heavy wooden crosses
While more coal is shoveled
Into the furnaces of the wealthy.
There is a sound in the world
Like the tearing of heavy cloth
James Bettendorf is a retired math teacher and just finished a two year Poetry internship at the Loft in Minneapolis, Minn., after having taken many classes over the years. He has been a member of various writing groups throughout the years and his work has been published in Verse Wisconsin, Rockhurst Review, and Light Quarterly.
Friday, June 03, 2011
ON THE EFFICACY OF MEMORIAL DAY
by David Feela
When I cut my lawn the cows
next door gather along the fence,
drawn to the fresh cut grass
like I’m drawn by my neighbor’s
grill as he cooks his holiday steaks.
What better way to describe how
we get by as neighbors, turning death
into a redolence that sustains us.
David Feela's work has appeared in hundreds of regional and national publications. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas, is now available.
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When I cut my lawn the cows
next door gather along the fence,
drawn to the fresh cut grass
like I’m drawn by my neighbor’s
grill as he cooks his holiday steaks.
What better way to describe how
we get by as neighbors, turning death
into a redolence that sustains us.
David Feela's work has appeared in hundreds of regional and national publications. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas, is now available.
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Thursday, June 02, 2011
YESTERDAY’S TOMORROWS
Poem by Charles Frederickson; Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote
Despite Obama's 'clarification' speech, neither he nor Netanyahu
succeeded in convincing the other to change his stance.
From the Israeli's point of view, that's just fine for now.
Childhood memories grow-up without within
Refugee camps blood-let rainbows drained
Eternal dusk sunset unsettling dawn
Fallen crescent stardust ember ashes
Youth wasted on disillusioned young
Eternal life stale old farts
Mortality too close for comfort
Shattered mirror image staring back
Born to somebody else’s outlaw
Becoming yet another homeless vagrant
Second-coming neither thereby nor hereafter
In-denial transfigured status displaced lost
What should’ve been chances will-‘o-the-wisp
Fugitive clouds spoiled rations disclaimed
Hardened pillars for lonesome lot
Kismet kisses smacking of salt
Green pitted olives turn black
Mulberry tree refusing to relinquish
Right to bear bittersweet berries
Overripe figs pungent coffee swirls
Marble shadows blend-in midst rubble
Borderless stonewall cracks barbs snipped
Prideful fury enraged falcon gaze
Homeland macrocosmic focus proclaiming “Salaam!”
Refugee camps blood-let rainbows drained
Eternal dusk sunset unsettling dawn
Fallen crescent stardust ember ashes
Youth wasted on disillusioned young
Eternal life stale old farts
Mortality too close for comfort
Shattered mirror image staring back
Born to somebody else’s outlaw
Becoming yet another homeless vagrant
Second-coming neither thereby nor hereafter
In-denial transfigured status displaced lost
What should’ve been chances will-‘o-the-wisp
Fugitive clouds spoiled rations disclaimed
Hardened pillars for lonesome lot
Kismet kisses smacking of salt
Green pitted olives turn black
Mulberry tree refusing to relinquish
Right to bear bittersweet berries
Overripe figs pungent coffee swirls
Marble shadows blend-in midst rubble
Borderless stonewall cracks barbs snipped
Prideful fury enraged falcon gaze
Homeland macrocosmic focus proclaiming “Salaam!”
No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote together comprise PoeArtry. Flutter Press has just published Charles’ new chapbook fanTHAIsies.
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Wednesday, June 01, 2011
CHEVRON ANNUAL SHAREHOLDER MEETING 5/25/11
by Buff Whitman-Bradley
The man tells us he came to the annual meeting from his tiny seaside village in Alaska to explain to the shareholders and executives that by dumping toxic chemicals into the water they are killing his people.
The man tells us he expected that once the shareholders and executives understood this they would put a stop to the dumping.
The man says that when the shareholders and executives dismissed what he told them with the wave of a hand, he realized that they had no intention of making things right.
The man speaks what is sacred. The shareholders and executives listen only to what is profane.
The man speaks in whales and eagles, in walruses and salmon and bears. The shareholders and executives do not understand him. The shareholders and executives listen only to money.
The man speaks in family and community and ancestors, in dignity and decency and tradition. The shareholders and executives do not understand him. They listen only to money and corpses. The crisp snap of $10,000 bills. The dull thud of the bodies of the poor and powerless as they are stacked on top of each other like barrels of oil to be turned into cash.
The shareholders and executives have themselves become corpses, barbered and manicured cadavers in expensive silk suits. The man assumed he would be meeting with living human beings, not with the living dead. He was not prepared for the absence in their eyes. He was not prepared to see that the lives of his people mean less than nothing to the shareholders and executives who wield such great power.
As the man from the tiny seaside village in Alaska speaks of this, we think, He must be very angry. But he is not angry. We watch him weep. We have never seen sorrow so pure and entire, like the very last sadness at the end of the world. We are watching his heart break right in front of us and all the cameras. We don’t know what to do except to say that we are sorry.
Inside the corporate palazzo, the hollow oligarchs wrap up their annual meeting, patting each others' lifeless backs, shaking each others' lifeless hands, congratulating themselves on another profitable year.
Buff Whitman-Bradley's poetry has appeared in many print and online journals. With his wife Cynthia he is co-producer/director of the award-winning documentary film, Outside In, and co-editor of the forthcoming book About Face: GI Resisters Turn Against War (PM Press, 2011). He is also co-producer/director of the documentary Por Que Venimos.
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-- for Thomas Evans of Nanwalek
The man tells us he came to the annual meeting from his tiny seaside village in Alaska to explain to the shareholders and executives that by dumping toxic chemicals into the water they are killing his people.
The man tells us he expected that once the shareholders and executives understood this they would put a stop to the dumping.
The man says that when the shareholders and executives dismissed what he told them with the wave of a hand, he realized that they had no intention of making things right.
The man speaks what is sacred. The shareholders and executives listen only to what is profane.
The man speaks in whales and eagles, in walruses and salmon and bears. The shareholders and executives do not understand him. The shareholders and executives listen only to money.
The man speaks in family and community and ancestors, in dignity and decency and tradition. The shareholders and executives do not understand him. They listen only to money and corpses. The crisp snap of $10,000 bills. The dull thud of the bodies of the poor and powerless as they are stacked on top of each other like barrels of oil to be turned into cash.
The shareholders and executives have themselves become corpses, barbered and manicured cadavers in expensive silk suits. The man assumed he would be meeting with living human beings, not with the living dead. He was not prepared for the absence in their eyes. He was not prepared to see that the lives of his people mean less than nothing to the shareholders and executives who wield such great power.
As the man from the tiny seaside village in Alaska speaks of this, we think, He must be very angry. But he is not angry. We watch him weep. We have never seen sorrow so pure and entire, like the very last sadness at the end of the world. We are watching his heart break right in front of us and all the cameras. We don’t know what to do except to say that we are sorry.
Inside the corporate palazzo, the hollow oligarchs wrap up their annual meeting, patting each others' lifeless backs, shaking each others' lifeless hands, congratulating themselves on another profitable year.
Buff Whitman-Bradley's poetry has appeared in many print and online journals. With his wife Cynthia he is co-producer/director of the award-winning documentary film, Outside In, and co-editor of the forthcoming book About Face: GI Resisters Turn Against War (PM Press, 2011). He is also co-producer/director of the documentary Por Que Venimos.
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