Michelle Smith

 “We are the Flowers that Bloom”

 

We are the flowers that bloom

Behind the gate

Planted firmly

There should be no sorrow

At night they will close and open again tomorrow.

Incredible they are brighter, bountiful, and beautiful to share

In the Morning Glory of God’s care.

Not to be divided and conquered

Equal opportunity for the shrub

As in Genesis the beginning of God’s Love.

And this is America

Not all of sovereignty,

The home of the brave and certainly not the free.

These flowers came from the ancestors of Africa

Grown in a new and strange land

Chained and beaten

Slavery, bravery, and in graves

America is their home

401 years from 1619-2020

Many of our sons were not born in April 1992

The 28-year-old Rodney King riot and revolt

Mine was nearly six years old

Injustice continues

And the blooms are forlorn

To tell you about

Medgar, Malcolm, and Martin

Is not enough

Protect yourself

If someone bothers you, we are told

But you are not able to

For he may wear a badge

And the colors of black and blue

In the color of authority

Those flowers no longer grow and glean

In the Morning Glory

Another statistic,

Another story

The shrub is my son

The bud is my son

And so are countless others,

Someone’s uncle

Cousin,

Friend,

Neighbor,

Father or brother

He is not a criminal

But in this country

And like Ralph Ellison’s book

He is treated as invisible

Where does the flower grow now?

Where can it thrive?

Did you know that the flower is autistic

And stereotyped?

Has a hidden disability and a gentle giant to be described

The flower grows and reaches to a new height

I don’t want to be a mother

Crying tears to heaven

For the rest of my life

Wondering who plucked my flower

And allowed him to die

Genesis is the beginning

God loves all

Protect my son

My Flower

My God

Word on the Street

 

Word on the street

is the discarded masks

on the road,

bike path,

or concrete.

It's festering COVID 19 in public.

 

And what about the city?

Increase the trash

receptacles on the street

corners! Instead of cluttering cross-

walks and side

walks!

 

The medical blue

issued brand box

from China and on the MTA

public transportation is all

too common now.

 

Please discard them

when finished safely

somehow. Littering

There's no excuse. Who

wants to see your yellows

or blues? A pity and not

so pretty as the colors

of daffodils, hydrangeas

in my neighborhood.

 

The global pandemic

is on the increase. Find a way

to rid of them on the discrete. A face

mask should not be touching

the tip or soles of my shoes.

 

These germ-filled items cannot exercise

social distancing on their own.

 

Who's responsible?

Yes, you.

 

Can you not afford

to clothes-pocket your mask?

Put it in a Ziploc

bag? Cannot be

bothered with a trash

disposal task?

 

Definitely that's not word

on the street. Have some respect

you creep! Your decorum is:

Inexcusable.

Flagrant.

Filthy.

Forgetfulness.

Unacceptable.

And can be seen

with yours and mine spectacles

Fireball Whiskey

Feeling the Red-Hot Wrigley's

chewing gum in my mouth

Is the flame that won't burn out

because I want too cinnamon flavored.

Raise sand with words. The kind that cannot be buried in the sand like an ostrich does its head.

Endangered species to me he is and eagerly I speak with no regret. Enough to have the last word until their eyes blur with grit and suffocation.

Black Male Autistic quiet! Your big bear weighty man hands down!

Ask questions later and shoot first. Another stereotype statistic: athletic criminal drug dealer and not a creative diligent artist.

Look at him there's no cane, wheelchair, nor almond shaped eyes to prove he is differently abled; but he's behaviorally perceived to become ballistic.

Law enforcement racist cowards behind the uniform wearing badge, when will you realize

my son is not cowering prey to be hunted.

 

Water fueling may not cool or calm me

the red dragon of Fireball Whiskey

utterances spiced, flame breathing.

He is my only child, my Creative, Happy, Righteous, Intriguing, Social Soul.

"Injustice anywhere is here is a threat to justice everywhere" said MLK Jr.

 I love you to the moon and back,

Son.

Keep us as family Lord, him, us, & me.

Yearning to be together for infinity. He is not a goldfish in a bowl in Amerikkka. It's 2024 and is he truly Free?

Kimberly Cobian

Buried Books

I read people like banned books

Unafraid to know their secrets

And revelations printed on their faces

There’s nothing you will say that will shock me

Thrilling me to read more

If culture is only skin deep

Then your skin is made of glass

Some people say wait, you’re not dark

Enough to understand my struggle

Are you sure?

As another human in this race

We are all competing for respect

I’m an aquarium, tap the glass

I’m full of the bloods of our ancestors

Like watercolors swashed in distant shores

Buckled to memories as old as Pangaea

When I open my mouth, empathy pours out

Language is my nectar

The antidote to the monachopsis of existence 

Borders drawn there by racism

We all have a word for love

Even the voiceless

Eternal truth unspoken 

No need because it is felt by all

You know because your body gives it 

To remind us it took a pandemic

How connected we are

Standing a grave’s depth apart

To admire each other like works of art.

Rex Butters

I will no longer

be complicit in

genocide

 

humanitarian

Aaron Bushnell

did incredible work

for various mutual aid

and unhoused coalitions

spent every penny

and second

serving his community

living anarchist principles

developed

deep friendships

with people living in the

encampments

buying them blankets, sweaters and snacks

gave his cat to his neighbor

gave his savings to Palestinian

children

should any survive

 

talented USAF IT

for one of history’s

most enthusiastically genocidal

nations

engulfed in flames

flesh sizzling

preset camera recording

because 2 months earlier

a different fiery extreme protest

cancelled trivialized diminished erased

suppressed

 

cynical Western society

rigidly unable to comprehend

sacrifice to a cause

greater than

oneself

 

policeman gun drawn

repeatedly yelling

“Get on the ground”

before he collapsed

vividly demonstrating

ironically embodying the mindset

Bushnell protested

 

slumbering complicit people

 

he chose to burn

for thousands burnt

without a choice

 

“it is done to wake us up”

said Thich Nach Hanh

 

offering the body

as a torch

to dissipate

the dark

 

“Free Palestine”

he screamed

a voice of flame

his words are fire

remember his name

 

he said

“This is what

our ruling class

 has decided will be

normal”

fix it

 

maintenance required

light on

try a new garage

small shop indie

no real waiting room

5 chairs & cashier’s desk

flat screen soccer

mechanics watch monitors in the shop

women’s US vs England

old & newer air conditioners

& ceiling fan blow

warmed cooled air

around 8x8 space

phones ring & are answered

I block it with ipod

earphone jazz

Jimmy & Wes now

reread Hunter Thompson

SF Herald Examiner columns

I read new

chronicling

Reagan’s ugly demise

corrupt inept overt

greed driven

stupidity

so familiar

still

no memory mind americans

embrace

being robbed

poisoned

enthusiastically

sucked dry

exceptionally

incapable

of understanding

their insignificance

murdering the world

the last taboo

 

peace is the final obscenity

peace is the last humiliation

peace is not on the table

peace receives no serious consideration

peace is not an option

peace is a waste of everyone’s time

peace is a refuge of the naive

peace doesn’t make the right people rich

peace must be heavily censored

peace won’t sell

peace obstructs greed

peace undermines fear as a weapon of social control

peace unemploys special forces

peace stinks up the room

peace misses the point

peace ruins the plot

peace won’t work because of someone else

peace threatens enforced economic and social disorder

peace gets low ratings

peace gets bad reviews

peace won’t prop up a dead currency

peace looks stupid in a uniform

peace needs a marketing plan

peace remains out of reach

peace could crash the internet

peace endangers capitalism

peace creates uncomfortable silences

peace redistributes wealth

peace exposes stupid sadistic bullies

peace lacks ambition

peace can’t loot the treasury

peace requires more courage than war

peace infuriates the already angry

peace didn’t make the survey

peace raises eyebrows

peace makes you check the time

peace won’t get corporate sponsorship

peace ends entitlement

peace requires your full attention

peace bores the gossip industry

peace can’t compete with cultural myth

peace can’t hitch a ride

peace can’t get a like

peace makes the wholesale slaughter of brown people seem so psychotic          

peace can’t eradicate species

peace feels like it’s being ignored

peace asks the wrong questions

peace means mental illness in a militaristic culture

peace gets labeled a traitor

peace beheads barbarism and savagery

peace can’t get a fair hearing

peace lost control of the narrative

peace can’t get booked on a news show panel

peace suspends relations with obliterating idiocy

peace can’t be serious

peace never gets invited to peace conferences

peace won’t trade on Wall Street

peace can’t afford to bankroll Hollywood propaganda empires

peace can’t make itself heard over the ear shattering wargasms

peace won’t be born of bombs

peace taken off life support still breathes

 

peace is our only future

 

Laurie Byro

Margaret's Green Man

In summer, the stream slows enough

for the nimble to wade. River rocks

create a path for dragonflies

and damsels to rest.

Chalky blue with crazy neon eyes,

we watch them flit and hover, too

exhausted to mate.

Their eyes are like berries the Green Man

favors. You, who won't believe,

smile when I speak of his visitations.

December, he trails me, inevitably

seduces the part of me

that still believes in demons.

Watching these creatures,

I think of my mother’s mother, Margaret.

It would be simple to say nothing,

to reach for your hand.

"Listen," I say, while they fly in closer

to hear. "Margaret had six children

and seven more pregnancies.

She used coat hangers."

You lift me up, move me into sunlight.

A hummingbird lands

on a doily of Queen Anne's Lace.

"He held a gun under her breast

those nights she didn't want to.

He was a cop."

You shudder, ask me

why I am spoiling our walk, why

the Green Man must have his way.

"It's the dragons" I say,

as they chase each other, flashing red.

"She told us as kids, they could

darn our lips shut if we dared

tell on them.”

My hand covers my mouth.

Ace Boggess

Face

Each dry cough is an angel of death.

Don’t touch your face, the experts say.

I touch my face with passion-

ate nervousness. I’m a dead man

lounging in sweatpants, ghost

waiting to join the world of ghosts.

My eyes itch. I’m not supposed to

thumb them numb, but do. I do & do &

watch the neighbor check her mail

five hundred feet away. Perhaps

we will trade deaths one day.

I rub my chin—not the beginning

of the end. Prison would be easier:

there, you see the fist that takes you down.

 

 

Danger

                Statewide Lockdown, Day Twenty-three

            1.

Listened to songbirds triangulate

the focus of a hawk above.

They bounced their signals

near to far to elsewhere,

safe on branches in the nearby woods.

 

            2.

Michigan protesters marched,

denouncing their state’s stay-at-home order,

defying it, passing a ladle

of arsenic broth to see who’ll drink.

 

            3.

Hawk wrote a lowercase ‘m’ in the air,

a letter for me & mine,

demanding food from the chow line.

It circled like a mako shark.

 

            4.

 

How many will die from arrogance,

gathering to air their grievances?

Same in Kentucky & Ohio,

states so close to mine

they could lay their poisoned hands upon me here.

 

Statewide Lockdown, Day Twenty-Five

Of three readings canceled since the virus,

today would’ve been my last:

north to Morgantown where acquaintances

would buy my signature on the title page.

 

Hard to sell books by hand

when hands are nightmare serpents,

or read aloud while voice spews

rot of a corpse flower blooming.

 

Wonder if I’ll survive to reschedule,

step to the mic, offer opening words in jest,

to a packed house, people elbow-knocked in rows,

wearing hats & holding onto colorful umbrellas.

Dan Brook

A Haiku Sequence on Abortion

women’s rights are key

abortion should be a choice

pro-democracy

 

it seems so basic

women’s rights are human rights

yet it confounds some

 

with their ignorance

invoking their religion

without knowing it

 

no prohibition

in their so-called Holy Bible

against abortion

 

the Bible is clear

life begins at the first breath

and not earlier

 

for what it is worth

the mention of abortion

tells when to do it

 

it doesn’t matter

the Bible shouldn’t rule us

Constitution does

 

their hypocrisy

absolutely astounding

without principles

 

they want to control

typical of the right wing

we want our freedom

 

when they attack us

we must forcefully fight back

defending ourselves

 

I clearly recall 

various students of mine

had to make a choice

 

simple accidents

unintended pregnancies

shouldn’t ruin their lives

 

I’m grateful for them

and grateful for their choices

as I learned from them

 

we need to expand

women’s self-autonomy

we’re not going back!

 

rights are contingent

democracy’s a process

please stay vigilant

 

one party supports

the other one opposes

cast your vote wisely

 

Roe, Roe, Roe your vote

fiercely to the voting booth

let’s reclaim our rights!

Joseph Milosch

A Perfect Irish Grave

 

From the upstairs closet of my memory,

I removed a mason jar full of my mom’s

button collection: blues, reds, clear fasteners

from dresses, and some from Dad’s peacoat.

I reflect on these things of little consequence

and their pull on my history. After her death,

I traveled to Michigan and visited the home

of her childhood. Parking in front of the path

leading to an abandoned farm, I balanced

with care the weight of sadness with silence.

 

In the northern part of the yard, the barn

shed its paint in red flakes. Its door hung

lopsided and remained open to strays.

The corn crib slanted away from the silo

and towards the hen house. The years

unhooked the coop’s fencing from bent nails,

and the chicken wire curled like a flag.

To the west is the house with bleached wall

 as cracked as the porch steps. Pausing

on the path to her childhood home,

I stooped and uncovered a portion of the body

belonging to the broken statue of a blue

and white Madonna. Her veiled head poked

from under the root burl of a wayward rose.

 

I knelt, and with my pocketknife, I shaved

the knot away from her head and shoulders.

Loosening the dirt beneath her ribs, I dug

a tunnel to remove her from the earth

and found a glass button buried inside her.

It reminded me of Mom’s collection and

her wish to have an Irish rose planted beside

her headstone. Here, a Burgundy Rose grew over

the burial site of the Virgin’s statue, making it,

as my mother would say, a perfect Irish grave.

 

Leaving the Straights of Dover

The other thing is that the enemy planes were diving down, machine-gunning the boats and everything else. They bombed ships we were trying to get to. You might get halfway and there’s no ship there, because it’s been destroyed.  Comments after the battle of Dunkirk by private Rymer, Cheshire Regiment

 

Taking a sea cruise on The Norwegian Sun,

I watch the clouds cover the moon and turn

the North Sea into the color of ripe olives.

 

When the lights of Dunkirk become visible,

the dead from that battle reveal themselves

as foamy crests riding the waves.

 

Has too much time passed to think about

The Defenders? Does anyone remember

the ME 262s strafing the English boats

like a carpenter hammering coffin nails?

 

Without moonlight, distance is indiscernible,

and the dead rings the bell in the temple

of my ear while the wind blows white caps

away from the north shore of France.

                                                                                    1 AM  07/2023

 

A Chilly and Rainy Afternoon

 

On a chilly and rainy afternoon in late August,

the waves leave a sheen of gasoline,

leaked from outboard engines, all along

the back wall of the boathouse foundation.

 

Floating on their sides, three dead fish drift

inside the shed. One of their eye’s stares

at the beam of the roof and the other,

at the rock and seaweed bottom.

 

Creaking hoist ropes and anchor chains

add to the boredom of the cat. He watches

the fish, pushed by the waves, their heads

bumping the foundation’s wall.

 

About the boy sitting on an overturned

bucket, no problem. As he reads, he becomes

lost in the streets of Paris. Pausing he looks up

at the rain hitting the lake. Then, he turns

the page of his book, The Three Musketeers.

 

R. Bremner

The inescapable

apocalypse

collapsed

on yesterday’s

future.

 

You give

what you think

I want.

You take

what you think

you need.

 

I give

what I think

you need.

I take

what I think

I want.

At the end of the day

the moon plays hide-and-seek

while it tries to decide

what to wear for tonight’s soiree.