NO BAD DAYS AT THE FOOD PANTRY

by Deb Freedman

for Lucille Clifton’s “Good Times”

The poet and colleague volunteer at the food pantry.

people drive up

and we put food in their cars

we run hauling bags

meat produce bread desserts

food for dogs and cats

sundry items people choose from the cart

we welcome everyone

greeting people we know like old friends

 

James and Ava have a corner store and a new granddaughter

2 months old

i bought 5 onesies cool for the summer with my friend’s donated $20 kohls cash

and gave Ava a pretty one with a fish on it

for her namesake

she was so excited

she promised she’d take a picture of Baby Ava in it to show me

 

and a woman with a 2-year-old

who just had a baby girl

came for food and diapers

so i gave her a yellow striped onesie

i think she cried behind her glamorous dark sunglasses

 

Jesse said he couldn’t drive himself today

because the surgeon sawed him in half

so we finally met his wife Dina

he brought us a little cardboard bakery box

of his delicious homemade mini cupcakes

like always

and thanked us for helping his family

 

the Steelers fans with rattly truck and 3 cats

got extra cat food

we joked we like them

even though they aren’t Eagles fans

 

there were these 2 guys on bikes

who pedaled over the Calhoun Street Bridge from Trenton

trying to figure out how much stuff they could carry

in their ragged backpacks

even with our reusable bags

they ruefully left a few pounds of their food on the table

and told us to give it to people who needed it

 

after 3 hours I'm sweaty tired

my face sore from smiling at folks

and that was just today

Deb Freedman finds joy in volunteering at a local food pantry as well as writing poetry and hopes to spark recognition, compassion and solutions to the increasing food insecurity of both people and pets in this country.

ALL PARENTS WANT THEIR KIDS' DREAMS TO COME TRUE

by Tamara Kreutz

Foto Prensa Libre, July 17, 2022: Elmer Vargas

I.

Last Sunday at breakfast in San Martín, 

a Guatemalan bakery chain, my husband and I 

sipped our coffee and tea, as our three children 

raced up and down the indoor jungle gym.

While watching them, we thumbed through the paper. 

This story’s fucking awful, my husband said. 

The body of Juan Wilmer Tulul Tepaz, 

a fourteen-year-old Guatemalan boy who died (trapped 

in an abandoned truck in summer San Antonio heat)

was returned home to a village outside Sololá. 

The story showed pictures of his parents. The father’s 

hand covered weeping eyes as he sank into himself—

back bowed, arms pressing a crease in his middle.

The mother’s brow was squeezed into the shape

of a moth’s wings spread across her forehead.

She wore a purple huipil and a black bandana, 

and her hand caressed her son’s casket—the tips 

of her manicured fingers pressing into the wood, 

her thumb stroking the edge as she would her son’s cheek.

II.

My family just moved to Guatemala

to give our kids the life America 

couldn’t. Its dream had chewed us up, leaving the gnawed 

gristle of debt and burnout—the cost of gas

and rent and medical care. But in Guatemala, 

opportunity would unfold like a rug 

before our children’s feet—piano, dance, 

and horseback riding lessons—because the dollar

goes so much further here. In Guatemala,

I can pay someone to clean my house and watch my kids,

and if we’re sick and need labs, I won’t worry

the bills will hollow out our savings account. 

Our first day here, my toddler son locked himself 

into a second-story bedroom with an open 

window. He screamed for fifteen minutes, then went silent. 

I panicked, pounded the door, then raced out the house

and up and down the street, asking everyone 

I saw if they had tools to pick a lock—

until someone called the fire department.

Back in the house, I kicked the door, I paced, doubled

over, hunching in circles around the family room,

crying, I just want my baby back, now.

When the locksmith came with wires and screwdrivers

to take the doorknob off, and I finally burst through

to find my son sound asleep in bed, I pulled

his little body to my chest. He woke,

startled, but nestled his silky head under my chin,

and I felt his heart beat against mine. In the nine years 

I’ve been a mother, this was the first time

I couldn’t reach my child who needed me.

III.

I keep thinking about how I felt, locked away

from my son, wondering if he was hurt or even—

(I can’t bring myself to write it, I’ll leave the word 

unsaid). And I keep thinking about Juan Wilmer— 

the ten thousand dollars his parents paid 

the coyote for safe transport, his dream 

of education, the pictures of him alive 

and smiling placed on the family altar.

I keep thinking about his mother’s hand

that clutched his casket, her fingers spreading 

over its edge—exactly how my hand

had clutched the arm of my live and dreaming child.

Tamara Kreutz is an English Language Arts teacher and a poet who resides in Antigua, Guatemala. She began writing poetry early in the pandemic, and through poetry, she found order, peace, and joy in a turbulent, uncertain time.

SHARING THE ROAD

by Bill Aarnes

Davy Crockett called his flintlock Ol’ Betsy

 

 

The traffic has slowed to a stop 

on the West Side Highway,  

my Lyft now going nowhere. 

 

The gun lover driving the pickup 

stuck just a few feet ahead 

in the lane to the right 

 

must take pride that someone 

as ignorant as me has never bothered     

to learn by heart the brands    

 

of the five firearms shown 

on the decal on his back window 

above the words "My Family." 

 

I wonder if the guy goes home 

to a flesh-and-blood family, 

if they approve of the decal. 

 

I guess maybe his wife 

found it for him in a gun shop.              

Then I make up some names 

 

for the weapons: cute Little Lethal 

(or is it Pocket-Sized Bullpup?), 

older brother Son of a Gun, 

 

big sister Knock-em Dead, 

a less motherly than steely 

Femme Fatale, and the cock-sure 

 

Ready to Unload My Load. 

Car and pickup both inch ahead. 

I fear I’ve made up names   

 

he—and his family—would like. 

Bill Aarnes now lives in New York, where he is recovering from COVID.

THE POLITICS OF FAITH AND CULTURE

by Cecil Morris

At the corner of faith and culture in Southern Washington,

the Christian conservative congressional candidate 

says that she will bring Scripture-filled and Spirit-infused Prayers 

for the Battlefield to the halls of congress to fight for faith, 

to make us kneel in the benevolent and delighted light of Christ.

She says that she is MomStrong and homeschool smart, 

the author of a bunch of books celebrating bibles

and moms. She says that she puts babies first, that they are her first

and most important constituents, both gift and purpose.

She says that she stands for gun rights and ammo. She says

that she is unapologetic, which means, I suppose,

that she does not ask for or need forgiveness, does not know

contrition. She says that there are just two genders, that God

created them in his image male and female, and I think

that she believes in a hermaphroditic deity,

a god of two genders at once, that she worships a god

with cock and cunt. Or maybe her god is gender fluid,

a male today, a female tomorrow, a god who goes back

and forth as it pleases or as it is necessary

like His perfected creations the Lythrypnus dalli

or Crepidula fornicata or Cornu aspersum.

Or maybe her conception of god is genderless,

more idea or ideal than body—disembodied

and beyond gender concerns. Is creation wrong

or is God or is this Christian candidate mistaken

in her understanding of what God meant or means?

I don’t know. But here, amid the multiple wonders

of this world, amid the incredible diversity

of this life, would God have given us just two genders,

a paltry coin-flip two, an either-or, a binary choice,

a mere dichotomy, a language of only two words

while all around us hums such a rich abundance.

I do not know the mind of God (if such a thing exists),

but I do know for certain sure that I do not want

this person to have the power to govern over me.

Author's Note: The italized portions of lines 3-4 and 13-14 come from (first) Heidi St. John’s website promoting her books, podcasts, and ministry and (second) from her campaign ad aired on KGW Portland on July 22, 2022.

Cecil Morris, a retired high school English teacher, divides his time between Oregon and California.  He has poems in or forthcoming from 3Elements, Ekphrastic Review, English Journal, Evening Street Review, Hiram Review, Hole in the Head Review, The New Verse News, Scapegoat, Talking River Review, and other literary magazines.

THE SECRET SERVICE

by Charles W. Harvey

Bill Bramhall | Copyright 2022 Tribune Content Agency

The Secret Service’s 

Sacred secrets slipped away 

Like love from the unloved. 

Servers went silent, 

Data vanished like vapor. 

Oh, where art thou 

Lover of secrets? 

Lend me your ears, 

Let me whisper sweet nothings. 

 

Charles W. Harvey is a native Houstonian and a graduate of the University of Houston. He writes fiction, poetry, and plays. “Writing began for me as a way to respond to the world around me, growing up in "Sunnyside" Texas. The world has not changed. There’s no shortage of awful people and horrendous examples of their awfulness. But there’s also an abundance of beauty, love, and life. All of it must be chronicled for future generations.” Charles is a former Cultural Arts Council of Houston Grant recipient and a prize-winning author. He has been published in many anthologies and collections.

UNDER FOSTER GRANTS

by Tom Bauer

Joni Mitchell Performs Surprise Show at Newport Folk Festival: The 78-year-old artist performed a full set, her first in about two decades, at the renowned festival in Rhode Island on Sunday. —The New York Times, July 25, 2022

Joni at the Newport Folk Fest sings "Both

Sides Now." Anyone else remember that one?

Is that the first time you saw her face? The

album with her face on it? Was that the song

you first heard by her? Your first impression?

How a voice splits and changes over years,

through all kinds of stages, shaped by time

and keeping time. It can be a long long way

to go to recognize a lilt that’s aged in

a paint box of mellow feelings and thoughtful

remonstrances, lilts, dances. So like a book

that opens, one each side, beginning to end,

making her way, flitting along, hearing

her turn the words one chapter at a time.

Tom Bauer's an old coot who lives in Montreal and plays a lot of board games.

ON GRAND SLAM BREAKFASTS (AT DENNY’S) & FRESH OCTOBER HITS (AT BAT)

by Jen Schneider

On Sunday, nearly six years after he took his final ferocious cut for the Red Sox, Ortiz reveled in his crowning baseball moment. An iconic figure in two nations—Red Sox Nation and the Dominican Republic—Ortiz was formally inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in his first year on the ballot. This, on the strength of a 20-year career that included 541 home runs. —MLB, July 25, 2022

imagine a morning meal / at a table of wood – oak or maple / of eggs over easy & bacon over done / imagine a stack of flapjacks, three pats of butter, cut in squares / all corners rounded, all linens tucked / imagine a mug of coffee, freshly brewed / bottomless pots / imagine a bleacher seat / freshly dusted, storied & stamped / of fingertips that wriggle then wrestle with cloudless skies / imagine a collection of wooden bats / of ash or maple / mahogany no longer in favor / imagine a man at bat / made of designated grand slam moments / and designer cleats on bases / mostly first / imagine five hundred & fifty-eight home run hits / of which eleven are grand slams  / fingers grip lumber, palms cradle knobs / balls tightly stitched / wriggle then wander / under and of cloudless skies of wonder / all souls soar / into an october night / imagine a man bigger than any moment / at bat

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

I DREAMED LAST NIGHT

by Gordon Gilbert

I dreamed last night of seasons of unrest that lie ahead:

Saddled on nightmare steeds with fiery nostrils,

eyes of cold blue light and blood pouring down their heaving flanks,

apocalyptic horsemen rode over our lands,

setting farms and fields ablaze and poisoning the wells;

pestilence, drought and famine followed in their wake.

Monstrous firestorms swept across tinder-dry forests,

consuming all, obliterating every living thing  in their path;

whirlwinds that followed gathered up the dust and ash

and blotted out the sun.

Insufferable desert heat by day, 

unbearable desert cold by night.

All of our tomorrows, 

only the broken promises

of those who too long led us in denial.

All of our future days, 

each and every one in turn,

fading away into a long parade 

of sad and sorry yesterdays.

This morning I awoke to the radio:

The meteorologist was saying 

it’s unseasonably warm for this time of year,

and the temperature is rising.

Long-time NYC west villager Gordon Gilbert has found solace and inspiration during the pandemic in walks along the Hudson River, photographing and writing about the wildlife, flora, and river traffic as the seasons change. It gives him hope in these terrible times, but he knows that is not enough. Change only comes when we act to make it so.

THE WEST IS BURNING

by Steve Deutsch

On the rise above 

Route 80, by a trickle

that was once 

a river

 

I watch a line

of traffic

a thousand miles long 

going nowhere.

 

The road has 

buckled and a semi

sits on its side

steam still boiling.

 

One by one

the cars and trucks

run out of gas—

dream irony

 

I suppose,

and people stand

beside their behemoths—

afraid at last.

 

The pine

and hemlock forest 

that lined the road

has turned

 

a sickly brown

and trees light up

like candlesticks

one by one.

 

Children fight

the fire

with blankets

and spit.

 

And the dust

and smoke 

and ash

make breathing

 

an occupation.

The west is burning

and few if any

will make it out.

 

I wake with a gasp—

heart escaping.

Smoke colors the moon

the west is burning.

Steve Deutsch has been widely published both on line and in print. Steve is a three time Pushcart Prize nominee. He is poetry editor for Centered Magazine. His poetry books: Perhaps You Can (2019), Persistence of Memory (2020),  and Going, Going, Gone (2021) were all published by Kelsay Press.

AMERICAN HAIKU: NEW NORMAL IS NORMAL AGAIN

by Chad Parenteau

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston's long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His latest collection is The Collapsed Bookshelf. His poetry has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, Nixes Mate Review, and the anthology Reimagine America from Vagabond Books. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine. His American Haiku appear every Wednesday on his blog, which can be found via the link on his website.

PERFECT PORTRAIT

by David Radavich

Sometimes metaphors are

too perfect for words:

 

Police in riot gear

standing in a school hallway

in Uvalde, Texas

                

doing nothing

 

for 77 minutes,

strolling, phoning,

reaching for hand sanitizer

 

while inside the classroom

the crazed gunman

mows down

 

one child after another

two teachers

 

air burning

with smoke and blood

 

and screams

only ending

 

when death explodes

or oozes out.

 

This is America in 2022:

Immobilized.  Imprisoned

in a trap of power.

Lost in the hallways

of moral evasion.

 

We can’t address

racial justice

or climate change,

enforced poverty

or violent inhumanity.

 

We are the cops

standing around

checking our phones

 

doing nothing

 

to save our children

to guarantee our future.

 

Look in this frame

and see 

 

what we’ve become.

Among David Radavich's poetry collections are two epics, America Bound and America Abroad, as well as Middle-East Mezze and The Countries We Live In.  His latest book is Unter der Sonne / Under the Sun: German and English Poems from Deutscher Lyrik Verlag.

HEAT WAVE

by W. Luther Jett

Muffled staccato—
summer voices
too distant to be
understood—I try
not to stress the
circuitry mid-day—
douse the lights,
draw the shades.
A song from fifty
years ago plays on
my radio of memory

at 103 on the dial.


W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland and a retired special educator. His poetry has been published in numerous journals as well as several anthologies. He is the author of five poetry chapbooks: Not Quite: Poems Written in Search of My Father (Finishing Line Press, 2015), Our Situation (Prolific Press, 2018), Everyone Disappears (Finishing Line Press, 2020), Little Wars (Kelsay Books, 2021), and Watchman, What of the Night? (CW Books, 2022).

HEAT WAVE

by Felicia Sanzari Chernesky

When oppressiveness becomes

the custom of the day, the news croons

its heavy jingle of despair.

 

A heady, muggy tune, so stay

inside. Abide—though taking hot advice

is like a trot on burning coals—

 

it’s captivating until the effort                                   

breaks a sweat. I think therefore I am

exhausted. So change and change the channel

 

and make me an instrument of piece

by piece, for love thy neighbor’s a-okay

when all I see is sweltering me.

 

Felicia Sanzari Chernesky has many years of experience as an editor, author, and person, but at this crossroad feels as if she’s starting anew—all bets off. Let’s see where the road travels.

WHEN THE AIR COULDN'T HOLD

by Dick Altman

Four killed in helicopter crash after assisting with East Mesa Fire 

—Santa Fe New Mexican, July 17, 2022

Northern New Mexico

I once believed the high

desert immune to fire.

Until I watch in terror a blaze

in the Jemez Mountains,

west of me, nearly consume

Los Alamos’ atomic city.

                   *

And so spin the blades

and up the chopper rises,

as if lofted by the very flames

it douses again and again

with water by the bucketful.

Until its cargo of four, lives

with every pass in peril,

points wearily for home.

                    *

Never thought a fire 20 miles

east, ignited in April, would

refuse to go out until mid-June. 

We may not have much water,

but we have countless mountains

of tinder eager to torch earth,

sear and drought-riven.

                    *

And so we resort to birds

(and planes) to siphon water

from a distance. After awhile,

the droning pulse of copters

infiltrates dreams. Smoke,

from the moment you awake,

is a never-absent cup

of acrid reality.

                        *

And today’s bird? Had I felt it

thrumming overhead?  Before

a few seconds of downdraft—

will we ever know?—transforms

it from an angel of life into one

of death. And blades that morph

into wings, caught in gravity’s net,

plunge to the bottom of a sea of air.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where,at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, riverSedge, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Blue Line, THE Magazine, Humana obscura, The Offbeat, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The RavensPerch, Beyond Words, The New Verse News, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad. A poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has in progress two collections of some 100 published poems. His work has been selected for the forthcoming first volume of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry to be published by the New Mexico Museum Press.