By Cheryl Caesar

Wednesday they shot the poet in her car.

The bloody airbag hit me in the face.

I pulled in like a tortoise. I dug far

into the frozen ground, as surface air

was roiling with a noxious orange gas.

I dug so deep I had no voice to hear.

By Margaret Roncone

When cedars loosen 
their green hold on you 
 
when skylarks write 
your name in cursive
across heaven 
 
when red tulips remind 
you of the lipstick 
your mother wore 
 
when the riling sea
nudges your spirit awake 
 

By Becca Lavin  

We haven’t come this far
On legs and shoulders 
exposed
to good truths and possibilities
For self determination
To sit down now 

To sag with exhaustion at the long,
sure to continue,
niggling at our rights and responsibilities
in the face of greed for power and
whatever else? 

You did not sit down nor fail us 
You hung on ‘till your 
Very     last      drop
Was spent from you
With the courage and the grace
Of your convictions

 And ours

By Craig Kirchner

To conduct a democratic experiment required men,
men of vision and courage, there was comradery and grandeur.
We learned that any humanitarian cause does not include
slavery and we are learning now it does not include cowards.

We are a land of immigrants who were all running from ugly
but are now running ugly up the flagpole to get rid of immigrants.
The spirit that brought our forefathers here is the same spirit
that brings these victims, some of our best citizens now,
who are being attacked in the name of patriotism. 

Ugly and crass are embedded. Something disastrous is coming.
Everyone can feel it, everyone knows the fear
they are supposed to. As we prepare to celebrate the flag,
the Liberty Bell looks poised to ring in the unimaginable.

By Christopher J. Jarmick

I load words

into the barrel

of this traceable

but unlicensed

poem.

When I pull the trigger on this poem

the words will hit their target

without any innocent bystanders

being hurt.

It is superior to the gun.

By Todd Matson

The meth-fueled
lab rat is utterly
insatiable.

Can’t refrain
from self-seeking
behaviors.

Has no
frustration
tolerance.

Can’t delay
gratification,
never sleeps.

By Mohamed Mbougar Sarr and translated by Alison Anderson - Europa Editions, 2017

Reviewed by Mary Ellen Talley

The novel, The Silence of the Choir, by Mohamed Mbougar Sarr immerses readers in a tale of 72 immigrant men after they survive their journey from several African countries to immigrate to Sicily. Although this book is nearly ten years old, the story rings true and is relevant for the USA now.

There are many voices in this novel. Early in the story, some residents of Altino, the town that welcomed the refugees, are growing edgy and resentful. They are afraid refugees, the “ragazzi,” (the guys), will take their jobs. Why are the ragazzi given free housing, food, education, and health care when the citizens can hardly afford their own? They are also afraid of possible refugee violence.

By Phillip Shabazz

The night she served us cereal for dinner because the gas was cut off,

she lit candles like it was a birthday party. Said grace over Cheerios.

We believed her when she called it a feast. Seven of us around

that table, bowls chipped at the rim, milk stretched thin with water,

and she sat there smiling like she'd pulled off a miracle. Maybe she had.

By Marjorie Sadin

Behind the curtain is the puppeteer.

At this time, there are arrests we hear about. By people with masks. People disappear. Others lose their jobs. They are the ones who don’t cheer for the puppeteer.

The audience watches the puppets to see what they will do next. It is mysterious how the puppets hold such sway over us. People are frightened by what they see, but it is dark and they are silent for the most part. Occasionally someone protests the puppets and they are dragged out of the theatre.

By Cheryl Caesar

In that oval office, white

and bilious yellow, like the eye

of a jaundice case,

trump crinkles his fat and bleary eyes

for the cameras. His right

hand grabs the left hand

By RW Mayer

So, Tillie. When people ask you how old you were

when you went to your first

protest demonstration—what will you tell them?

You could say that you were in the neighborhood

of 300 days old. You might also tell them

that your mother MADE you go.

Stuffed you into her backpack like a Hoagie sandwich.

By Mary Ellen Talley

I try to stand balanced on one foot  

to the count of one hundred.

Granted, I make an unsightly stork.

The stork once brought me two babies

and I try to balance my schedule 

that they may know how useful

balance is. I used to agonize

over balancing our checkbook,

but now all is online and I check

our running balance. I don’t run

on hiking trails anymore, not only

for the sake of balance    

By Leopoldo Seguel

This is the story of an old man

sitting on the couch with his wife

watching the news, night after night

Listening to people trying to make sense

of the senseless and outrageous

they both like seeing people, lot of people

all across the country, in big cities and small towns

out in the streets, carrying signs,

inflatable costumes, frogs and dinosaurs

pushing back, pushing forward

By Sharon Brown

While they tear things down,

I build

miniature houses,

with little wooden chairs,

gingham curtains and tiny books

on brightly painted shelves.

By Craig Kirchner

It is essential to care about friends,

not so much about money.

It seems relevant if you have too much,

drive two cars, or have none, and walk -

don’t know much about either mode.

The philosopher liked having a roll,

slight bulge in his pocket, it wasn’t

a big deal, the pants fit the same -

it made it hard to sit in on the game

and play a hand without it.

By Ali Ashhar

Beneath the far horizon there’s a ground;

beyond propaganda and prejudice,

between rain and sunshine,

where we assemble under the sky of art.

The rainbow portrays seven different shades

the sky knows—

all shades must come together

to make the world a splendid landscape.

By Craig Kirchner

I went to a small Lutheran church 

next to an old black cemetery. 

I was nine, assumed that meant only 

blacks were buried there. 

I had never seen anyone there, it was big, 

full and old, old, bordered on three sides 

by the yards of row houses in a white neighborhood 

and Mount of Olives Church.

There was a big announcement, Two Guys discount 

department store opening on Belair Road.

By Neil Vincent Scott

it’s not a matter of if
       it’s a matter of now
the precious weapons of resistance
are loaded with hope and promise
we the people
       standing in defiance
of political oppression
standing shoulder to shoulder
                 heart to heart
on the front lines of change

we the people
       Seattle strong
fueled by resilience
disciplined and unruffled
         together as one
         together as we
destroying the barriers
artificially created
                   by unleadable leaders
the scum of the earth

By Raul Sanchez

Brown angels are everywhere

We observe them mowing lawns

raking, blowing leaves

dangling from tall buildings

washing windows, painting

roofing houses

They are in your kitchens.

serving, smiling

They park your cars

Out in all kinds of weather watch

them picking fruits and vegetables

breaking their backs

By Sharon Brown

The poet turns her head

to the muttering addict

on the street corner,

the girl behind the dirty window

her hands against the glass,

the woman in the head scarf

hurrying past masked agents

poised maliciously

outside the factory door.

The poet heeds

all things wanting and broken

in shadowed alleyways

or open streets

where others look away.