WHAT COLOR WAS THE SKY THAT DAY?

by Susan Cossette

Impossibly clear, painfully blue.

 

So much sun, the perfect morning,

then all changed irrevocably.

 

Humanity raining from the sky,

down to the bedrock,

down to the Hudson’s slurry wall.

 

Your lives now confetti.

 

22 years later I regard the bloody eye

of tangled and twisted steel,

the fraught echoes of last calls home.

 

There is no light 70 feet below ground,

in this place,

where we will always remember you.

 

Bagpipe music pumped in,

Amazing Grace, how sweet the contrariety.

 

I take my sandals off.

root into the bedrock,

my small white hand pressed to your tomb.

 

2,977 lives.

 

No day will erase you from the memory of time.

Susan Cossette lives and writes in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Author of Peggy Sue Messed Up, she is a recipient of the University of Connecticut’s Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, The New Verse News, ONE ART, As it Ought to Be, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Amethyst Review, Crow & Cross Keys, Loch Raven Review, and in the anthologies Fast Fallen Women (Woodhall Press), Tuesdays at Curley’s (Yuganta Press), and After the Equinox.

UNNATURAL TIMES

by Renee Williams

KFF

After the pandemic, it’s natural to come out of hiding

to share wine with friends at a photography opening

 

to hug and greet one another after years of trepidation

to see faces and smiles and to hear that delicious laughter of life

 

to be reminded that this is the stuff that makes all the toil worth it

to gather, to enjoy art together, to see depictions of our 600-year-old oak

 

that has lived through the Spanish Influenza and so much more during its time on this earth

and is still standing, as our photos show, from spring to summer and covered in snow.

 

Later the sniffles start, sore throats appear, and the slow headaches emerge.

It cannot be. It cannot be. Allergies, yes, sinuses, of course, but no, not that, not again.

 

The test shows the faintest line of positivity… and all doubt disappears. 

Another person from the group becomes ill, and another, and another. 

 

Once more we find ourselves communicating via text, email, or Facebook Messenger

sharing our lives in the most unnatural way possible once more. 

Renee Williams is a retired English professor, who has written for Of Rust and Glass, Alien Buddha Press, and Fevers of the Mind.

NEXT WEEK—DEO VOLANTE

by Joan Leotta

I’m supposed to drive to Raleigh,

2.5 hours from here and stay 

in a hotel alongside a creek

that sometimes floods

(as does the creek behind my house), 

to immerse myself in 

a sea of poety.

 

All of these plans could 

be swept away by the winds

and water of the pending hurricane.

 

So, why do I still plan?

Life had  taught me

all can change sooner than

the weatherman predicts,

sooner than my doctor thinks.

In an instant, crossing the street,

or stumbling on a sidewalk crack,

a new virus,

waiting at a bus stop

shopping in my favorite grocery

Someone’s car, my clumsiness,

germs, someone’s gun fueled anger,

all of these can take me

to the “other side.”

I know because my son

was hit by a car on a night 

he had plans,

so as I plan, I add, God Willing,
Deo Volante, to my notes,

knowing all could end now

but not worrying because once I step

to that other side, there will 

be loved ones who await me there.

Joan Leotta. Author, Story Performer

TREESILIENCE

by Deb Freedman

While the Lahaina banyan tree has yet to rebound back to its pre-fire splendor, signs of life are very much there, according to landscape contractor Chris Imonti. “We did root samples last week and we had very good news as far as new life in the roots. A lot of new roots shooting off. We tested the moisture and arborist Steve Nims, who is the unofficial leader of the Banyan Tree hui has analyzed all the treatments and he is out today putting sensors on the tree to measure growth rates. With the compost tea we are seeing good results and as long as we give it enough love, I think it’s going to be fine,” Imonti commented. Additional measures have been put into place by the hui (group) who are caring for Lahaina banyan tree and working towards its restoration. The ground and soil around the tree is being regularly aerated, and it is often being treated with a “tree-loving soup,” a mix of nutrients Imonti himself formulated for the recovering banyan. Additionally, volunteers are spreading chopped up alfalfa, a legume—a soil enhancing green manure—around the base of the tree to aid in its recovery. —Hawaii Magazine, September 6, 2023

In Tallahassee,

Hurricane Idalia hurled

a 100-year-old oak tree.

The tree’s fall

fractured

Governor DeSantis’ mansion

in his absence.

Notified of its collapse,

the governor was optimistic.

He told reporters,

if the entire tree needs to be cut,

“…that’s just going to be more room

for my kids to hit baseballs in.”

In Lahaina, Maui,

a 150-year-old banyan tree,

the heart of the town,

devoured by

fast-spreading wildfires

spurred by human error

stands

scorched

living tissue at its core.

Kanaka

in grief,

some homeless,

some looking for lost loves,

nourish the banyan tree

with water

and organic compost

in a town burnt

but not of love nor hope.

Steve Nims, arborist tree tender,

says it is “kind of in a coma…

There are good signs the tree will recover…

It’s up to the tree.”

Deb Freedman is a poet living in Pennsylvania. Her poems have been published in The New Verse News and DVP/US 1’s Worksheets 67. She hopes the oak and banyan trees survive and thrive.

EDUCATION EVISCERATION

by Felicia Nimue Ackerman

"The principal of a Georgia elementary school apologized to parents last week after a guest author who was discussing his research into a co-creator of Batman told a group of fifth graders that the co-creator’s son was gay. The author, Marc Tyler Nobleman, said the principals of two other elementary schools in the district where he was speaking had asked him to stick to 'appropriate' material and omit that detail of his research. When he refused, his remaining presentations were canceled." —The New York Times, August 29, 2023

Save the kids from candid speech.
Push such frankness out of reach.
Don't give kids a chance to smarten.
Keep their minds in kindergarten!

Felicia Nimue Ackerman is a professor of philosophy at Brown University and has had over 260 poems published in places including American Atheist, The American Scholar, Better Than Starbucks, The Boston Globe, The Chronicle of Higher Education, Down in the Dirt, The Emily Dickinson International Society Bulletin, Free Inquiry, Light Poetry Magazine, Lighten Up Online, The Los Angeles Times, The New Verse News, The New York Daily News, The New York Times, The Providence Journal, Scientific American, Sparks of Calliope, Time Magazine, The Wall Street Journal, and Your Daily Poem. 

THINGS I DIDN’T DO WITH THESE EYES & THINGS I DID

by Gil Hoy

The Witness by Matt Paw

1.

I didn’t witness the iceberg-flanked passageways of Antarctica, didn’t spot a kangaroo giving birth to a joey, didn’t see the Beatles live, didn’t descry a proton or an electron, didn’t read all the best books, didn’t see my best friend’s wedding, didn’t read the physics texts that my father taught, didn’t see the world explode in a thermo-nuclear war, didn’t witness democracy crash and burn as of yet, didn’t watch the last polar bear step off the last piece of melting arctic sea ice and drown, didn’t spot God, and didn’t see any sign of Jesus. Instead, I squinted and stared, focused and buckled down, and managed to

                                                                                                              
2.

See a hummingbird at my feeder fly close to my face, spilled tears with them, closed them in rooms filled with smoke, closed them in rooms filled with bigotry, opened them when instructed to do so, opened them when I couldn’t see the forest for the trees, saw too many 100 plus degree days, saw a police officer put his knee on a man’s neck, saw a criminal become President, saw sycophants flatter him, saw the brainwashed follow him, saw Republican challengers afraid to challenge him, saw his fingerprints taken, saw a mugshot taken, and generally witnessed the greatest threat to American democracy since the founding of the Republic with no way yet to see with what effect and what result.

Gil Hoy is a Best of the Net nominated Tucson, Arizona poet and writer who studied fiction and poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program and The Writers Studio in Tucson, Arizona. Hoy previously received a B.A. in Philosophy from Boston University, an M.A. in Government from Georgetown University, and a J.D. from the University of Virginia School of Law. Hoy is a semi-retired trial lawyer. His poetry and fiction have previously appeared in Bewildering Stories, Literally Stories, Tipton Poetry Journal, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Chiron Review, The Galway Review, Right Hand Pointing, Rusty Truck, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, The Penmen Review,  Third Wednesday, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, and elsewhere.

HIGHLIGHTS

a Back-to-School Abecedarian

by Jen Schneider

as vape pens shaped like highlighters 
bait back-to-school shoppers, and
calendar dates countdown to zero while 
   consumer price indexes shoot for the moon, I
doodle, dabble, and deliberate on 8.5 X 11 
evergreen notepad paper (Cornell pre-prints too costly),
factoring when, if ever, I might be able to retire.
 
gone are the days of happily-ever-after endings, the
hazmat team conducted their first of three scheduled exercises as the
ice cream truck, full of artificially flavored red, white, and blue rockets, circled
just in time for the teaching team’s fifteen-minute extended recess.
 
knowledge always much more than arithmetic, fiction novels, and crafting, but
lately my elementary teacher training (fully laminated) has been saturated with 
metrics and mandates for safety drills, evacuation plans, and 
naughty lists (I inadvertently neglected to submit my PD hours on time). 
 
obscure classroom updates (air conditioning still unaccounted for) battle exhaustion as
prep for required curriculum standards span 3,200-page, unillustrated documents—
    pronouns, prayers, and phonetics sources of persistent debate

quiet time cancelled along with Gender Queer, The Handmaid’s Tale, and Maus,
required reading heavily regulated. the school board’s pencils more pointed than
standard stick-figure sketches. with all of us stretched thinner than Silly Putty,
terrifying wars against AP African American Studies and critical race theory intensify. Sigh. I
 
used to fear bee stings (but now plan for virulent viruses) and I
used to trace united states outlines (but now track threats on social media pages). as
 
verified accounts confuse and Matchbox cars, Lego trucks and resident gerbils 
veer off course (circular cycles and run-ons spiral), while weekends are spent prepping to
 
welcome a new set of smiles in rain slickers, with fresh boxes of Crayola crayons and
X and Y graph paper stocked and stacked like formidable towers—what’s
 
yesterday is now         suddenly  today, and with no available substitutes and

zero room for error, I hope and pray, for a year of highlights, none of which are newsworthy.

Jen Schneider is a poet, essayist, and educator. She is the author of several books of poetry, with her most recent collection 14 (Plus) Reasons Why, published with free lines press, now available. If she’s not writing, you can find her teaching legal and justice courses in her favorite city.

NO ONE TOLD OLGA CARMONA HER FATHER DIED BEFORE THE WORLD CUP FINAL

by Carla Schwartz

And without knowing it I had my Star before the game started. I know you have given me the strength to achieve something unique. I know you've been watching me tonight and that you're proud of me. Rest in peace, papa

Olga Carmona scored the only goal in Spain's win over England in the Women's World Cup final... For each World Cup title, a star is added above the crest on a national team's jersey. —NPR, August 21, 2023

I had my star

I had my goal

 

I played my star

I am the goal

 

Olga, you won the game

but lost your pa

 

What

if you had known?

 

I had my star

the night before

 

the final day

of the final course

 

for my design degree

that 2 a.m. my sister called

 

to let me know

our mother    gone

 

That morning the teacher asked

why I even came to class

 

I had my star

I had my goal

 

I told myself

my mother would have

would have wanted me to

 

but my mother who was dead

wanted nothing   I won that goal

my focus soaked in grief

 

Olga will never know

Spain will never know

 

would she have achieved her goal

were she suffused with grief?

Prize-winning poet Carla Schwartz’s poems have been widely published, including in her collections Signs of Marriage, Mother, One More Thing, and Intimacy with the Wind. Learn more at  carlapoet.com, or wakewiththesun.blogspot.com or find her at (https://twitter.com/cb99videos), (https://youtube.com/cb99videos), or (https://instagram.com/cb99videos).

BROWN STONED BITCHIN

by Danielle Cowan

Top 5 Stories on Brownstoner This Week: A Bed Stuy Church Faces Demo for Apartments

Yo, bro can I codeswitch
And just bitch bout the comparatively rich
Cuz I high-key think this piece in the Brownstoner utter bullshit
Tell me why it cost the community a whole ass church for a Bedstuy block of expensive ass apartments
Maybe these canceled fried fish feasts where coconut cake recipes written in cramped  handwriting come through as a gentler form of generational wealth
ain’t mine to count
But this bum ass journalist out here jacking the space’s
Jeopardized pre-Civil War story
Like she finna bless the block
With some of that good grant-funded participatory placemaking glory
Like a  revolting remix with  alternate universe anything NOT for the culture Kendrick
Her bars broken up by
Compelling add copy, counting clout as
Antique crown molding, and picture rails which I never peeped
And probably wouldn’t know how to work
Pulls me back to my own crib
with the claw-foot bathtub that could be beautiful
Them thick ass prewar walls whose spackles put sharp ends to 10 year old skipping and 20 something Pilates pumping
We got a goofy ass Zillow page gassing up original gas fixtures
They been tryna buy us out
For some bread we would’ve bled
In  two years of local living 
Wising up with Newly rent unstabilized doubt
Shit started around the same time
Someone sued cause they seen
That unnecessary ass door knocking for landlords
instead of Power tight knocking out kingpin antics
Got Breonna Taylor dead.
Rest in peace Breonna and come back bro
My bad if you thought it was all bad
See they built these breakfast bars in the apartments upstairs
and now they be going for 5000 a pop
So I swear it was a scene
straight up from one of them papers with positive statistics
Paying respect to that low-income colored social capital
Legacies of beastie bachelors degree and first car funds lack
Sis who stay
holding 5K for them rent checks
But can’t hold doors
Switched up damn quick 
When she needed the Super’s number

Danielle Cowan is an NYC born and based, blind, queer and Blackarican native New Yorker dabbling in organizing, poetry and performance. Her work is fascinated with what it means for bodies and places to hold multiple, sometimes culturally conflicting identities and playing with ways to write and perform within shared histories and trauma. She has had poems published in Causeway Lit’s revolution issue, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, and elsewhere. She has read in The Rally Reading Series and received fellowships from More Art and Office Hours Poetry Workshop.

CHANNELING CASSANDRA

by George Salamon

The Daily Tar Heel, August 30, 2023

All values are fleeing,

there's no home for

them in a world run 

by power and money.

Only one principle

remains to which we

owe loyalty, the cry

for help, screamed

or whispered.

If we give aid, arrival

of our downfall may be

delayed.

George Salamon channels Cassandra only once in a while; doing it too often would be too depressing.