Lynn Ciesielski
Simon Peter Eggertsen
Bridget Nutting
Scott Owens
Robert Verdon
Lynn Ciesielski
.
.
Jesus Didn't Carry A Rifle
Buy in bulk. They're throwaway weapons,
multi-million dollar contract.
And the scopes are scribed with Jesus
so the soldiers blame his words.
They take a downright twisted view
through cloudy smeared up lenses
with their dry and arid conscience
in an empty barren land.
They see cross eyed through the scopes of
a days long gone by prophet.
Their beliefs are sinking faster
like the sucking of the sand.
And he needs some wet refreshment,
a replenishing oasis.
He's longing to be nourished
with the values of his youth.
The scriptures that were coded
on the one way rifle eye-scope
have nearly turned him into
a cynic not a saint.
He points the barrel at his brother,
not an enemy or a bully,
just a human when he sees him
and looks into his eyes.
If he shoots the bullets now
he knows he'll never go to heaven.
The light his scope refers to
casts a shadow on his sin.
There are no verses in the shrapnel,
only sacrilege on Jesus
and in feeding this hypocrisy
we grind our rock to sand.
We shoot scriptures at this jihad
and if words don't penetrate it
we'll stop it with our Jesus rifles,
make them see our way.
Author's note:
You may be familiar with a phenomena that the Muslims and some other non-Christian groups are terming "Jesus Rifles". The U.S. military signed a $600 million multi-year contract with a company called Trijicon. They purchased rifles for use in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Naturally, many people were very concerned by this and implied that we were simply perpetuating a Holy War and likened the situations to the Crusades. Apparently, there was enough flack for Trijicon to end this procedure.
Bio:
Lynn Ciesielski is a recently retired Special Education Teacher. During her eighteen year teaching career she raised her daughter who is now nineteen years old. Now Lynn spends most of her time writing, publishing, performing and traveling. Her poem "Ruling Through Terror" appeared in a June, 2009 edition of Protest Poems.
(author retains copyright)
.
Jesus Didn't Carry A Rifle
Buy in bulk. They're throwaway weapons,
multi-million dollar contract.
And the scopes are scribed with Jesus
so the soldiers blame his words.
They take a downright twisted view
through cloudy smeared up lenses
with their dry and arid conscience
in an empty barren land.
They see cross eyed through the scopes of
a days long gone by prophet.
Their beliefs are sinking faster
like the sucking of the sand.
And he needs some wet refreshment,
a replenishing oasis.
He's longing to be nourished
with the values of his youth.
The scriptures that were coded
on the one way rifle eye-scope
have nearly turned him into
a cynic not a saint.
He points the barrel at his brother,
not an enemy or a bully,
just a human when he sees him
and looks into his eyes.
If he shoots the bullets now
he knows he'll never go to heaven.
The light his scope refers to
casts a shadow on his sin.
There are no verses in the shrapnel,
only sacrilege on Jesus
and in feeding this hypocrisy
we grind our rock to sand.
We shoot scriptures at this jihad
and if words don't penetrate it
we'll stop it with our Jesus rifles,
make them see our way.
Author's note:
You may be familiar with a phenomena that the Muslims and some other non-Christian groups are terming "Jesus Rifles". The U.S. military signed a $600 million multi-year contract with a company called Trijicon. They purchased rifles for use in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Naturally, many people were very concerned by this and implied that we were simply perpetuating a Holy War and likened the situations to the Crusades. Apparently, there was enough flack for Trijicon to end this procedure.
Bio:
Lynn Ciesielski is a recently retired Special Education Teacher. During her eighteen year teaching career she raised her daughter who is now nineteen years old. Now Lynn spends most of her time writing, publishing, performing and traveling. Her poem "Ruling Through Terror" appeared in a June, 2009 edition of Protest Poems.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Simon Peter Eggertsen
.
.
Mass in Arabic
In the language of Islam, I imagine, mass is called
for the charcoal faces from the Nubian Mountains—
near El Obeid, praises in Arabic.
Bism Ellah al Rahman al Rahim.*
Or so I heard it. An unexpected oddity. An estranged cant.
In the midst of those sounds the lights sputter,
darkness grabs out, worship obscures in night-black.
In shadowed silhouette still, a response rises.
An orphaned tutorial line, clear as water from snow,
from the thinning, timbrel frame of the choral master.
The note strikes. Who will aid? Who will assist
in the tune carrying? Above the shaky rhythm beat,
another language's words loft, shaken loose from
some believers by a beaded drum’s questions—
the first notes an irritating shrill uulalaying,
feminine voices. The misses have amassed this night.
After the clamor, a solitary flame fights alone
to revive the spoken scripture sound. Again,
a strangeness. Arabic, I imagine, or was it Latin,
from a white European mouth? Then,
comes the single light, first haloing a head,
then glazing from the page, reflecting from the face
of the white bishop onto the gathered black.
The Allelujah! rises feather light. Allelujah!
Allelulu! Allelulu! Allah akbar. Allah akbar
God is Great, or so all present would want to believe.
Nothing is said of the smoldering, dark, body-shaped
spots of ash flaking the desert floor in Darfur, to the west.
The lights have gone out there also. Who will condemn
the jagged edges of worry only for their own salvation,
......not that of other’s?
Someone, even God, should say something, loudly in
......the dark. Any language will do.
*In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate
Bio:
I was born in Kansas, raised in Utah, educated in Virginia and England, now live part of the year in Montreal. I have degrees in literature, language and law. I spend most of my time working and teaching in the field of international public health. My pedigree in poetry is recent and modest. The word "emerging" comes to mind. Poems have been published, or will be, in Nimrod, Atlanta Review, Vallum (Canada), Salt River Review, Dialogue, Lunarosity, The Writers Post, Istanbul Literary Review, The Catholic News (Trinidad), and Wordbridge.
My work has won 1st Prize for Poetry at the Whidbey Island Writers Conference (WA, 2008), been named a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize in Poetry (Nimrod International, 2009), received a Publication Prize from the Atlanta Review (2009), and been a semifinalist for the Barthelme Prize at Gulf Coast (2009).
(author retains copyright)
.
Mass in Arabic
In the language of Islam, I imagine, mass is called
for the charcoal faces from the Nubian Mountains—
near El Obeid, praises in Arabic.
Bism Ellah al Rahman al Rahim.*
Or so I heard it. An unexpected oddity. An estranged cant.
In the midst of those sounds the lights sputter,
darkness grabs out, worship obscures in night-black.
In shadowed silhouette still, a response rises.
An orphaned tutorial line, clear as water from snow,
from the thinning, timbrel frame of the choral master.
The note strikes. Who will aid? Who will assist
in the tune carrying? Above the shaky rhythm beat,
another language's words loft, shaken loose from
some believers by a beaded drum’s questions—
the first notes an irritating shrill uulalaying,
feminine voices. The misses have amassed this night.
After the clamor, a solitary flame fights alone
to revive the spoken scripture sound. Again,
a strangeness. Arabic, I imagine, or was it Latin,
from a white European mouth? Then,
comes the single light, first haloing a head,
then glazing from the page, reflecting from the face
of the white bishop onto the gathered black.
The Allelujah! rises feather light. Allelujah!
Allelulu! Allelulu! Allah akbar. Allah akbar
God is Great, or so all present would want to believe.
Nothing is said of the smoldering, dark, body-shaped
spots of ash flaking the desert floor in Darfur, to the west.
The lights have gone out there also. Who will condemn
the jagged edges of worry only for their own salvation,
......not that of other’s?
Someone, even God, should say something, loudly in
......the dark. Any language will do.
*In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate
Bio:
I was born in Kansas, raised in Utah, educated in Virginia and England, now live part of the year in Montreal. I have degrees in literature, language and law. I spend most of my time working and teaching in the field of international public health. My pedigree in poetry is recent and modest. The word "emerging" comes to mind. Poems have been published, or will be, in Nimrod, Atlanta Review, Vallum (Canada), Salt River Review, Dialogue, Lunarosity, The Writers Post, Istanbul Literary Review, The Catholic News (Trinidad), and Wordbridge.
My work has won 1st Prize for Poetry at the Whidbey Island Writers Conference (WA, 2008), been named a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize in Poetry (Nimrod International, 2009), received a Publication Prize from the Atlanta Review (2009), and been a semifinalist for the Barthelme Prize at Gulf Coast (2009).
(author retains copyright)
Return
Bridget Nutting
.
.
Rebuttal
You say you speak for me
and countless others;
your perverted words hung loosely
on a wooden cross stained with the blood of innocents…
You lie.
No parent who truly loved his children
would wreak devastating death and destruction…
punishment for sins past…
tremors thrust violently into the earth…
Quivering…
Shaking…
Trembling…
Vengeance fraught with fear.
What loving god would rob
husband from wife,
child from parents,
or parents from child,
leaving behind emptiness and sadness
to forge fault-lines through the purest hearts?
Do not cast your cloak of joy at someone’s suffering,
all the while claiming others do also.
I personally and vehemently renounce any perceived connection
to your Robertsonism or Limbaughism cults –
Pseudo-religions professing retribution as a godly act.
You hide behind our first amendment.
You pretend to defend holy covenants.
You rejoice in the suffering of others.
Do NOT speak for me…
Your hate is a poison…
Your arrogance a travesty…
Your ignorance of all that is pure, and true, and holy
screams loudly each time you speak.
Where is your compassion?
Where is your empathy?
Where is your love?
The greatest of these is love.
I choose Love…
You do NOT speak for me!
Bio:
I am a high school English/Language Arts teacher and visual artist. I especially enjoy teaching at-risk students to use their writing and art as a means of reclaiming their power and voice. I have personally been writing poetry and lyrics since I was four. I continued writing throughout my teens as an escape from the horrors of daily abuse. Much of this writing was purposely destroyed by my mother. In addition to poetry and art, I currently dabble in short stories and non-fiction. I am slowly gaining the courage to share my writing with the world. Most publications have been along my journey in junior high, high school, and college literary journals.
(author retains copyright)
.
Rebuttal
You say you speak for me
and countless others;
your perverted words hung loosely
on a wooden cross stained with the blood of innocents…
You lie.
No parent who truly loved his children
would wreak devastating death and destruction…
punishment for sins past…
tremors thrust violently into the earth…
Quivering…
Shaking…
Trembling…
Vengeance fraught with fear.
What loving god would rob
husband from wife,
child from parents,
or parents from child,
leaving behind emptiness and sadness
to forge fault-lines through the purest hearts?
Do not cast your cloak of joy at someone’s suffering,
all the while claiming others do also.
I personally and vehemently renounce any perceived connection
to your Robertsonism or Limbaughism cults –
Pseudo-religions professing retribution as a godly act.
You hide behind our first amendment.
You pretend to defend holy covenants.
You rejoice in the suffering of others.
Do NOT speak for me…
Your hate is a poison…
Your arrogance a travesty…
Your ignorance of all that is pure, and true, and holy
screams loudly each time you speak.
Where is your compassion?
Where is your empathy?
Where is your love?
The greatest of these is love.
I choose Love…
You do NOT speak for me!
Bio:
I am a high school English/Language Arts teacher and visual artist. I especially enjoy teaching at-risk students to use their writing and art as a means of reclaiming their power and voice. I have personally been writing poetry and lyrics since I was four. I continued writing throughout my teens as an escape from the horrors of daily abuse. Much of this writing was purposely destroyed by my mother. In addition to poetry and art, I currently dabble in short stories and non-fiction. I am slowly gaining the courage to share my writing with the world. Most publications have been along my journey in junior high, high school, and college literary journals.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Scott Owens
.
.
Letter to Ahmadinejad
It will never be time to forget.
In Rwanda, they forgot,
and a million died.
In Darfur half that many.
In Bosnia a mere 50,000.
It will never be time to forget.
But even more, how dare anyone
commit the unspeakable sin of denial.
None would deny Pahlavi torture
and executions, Khomeini’s dis-
solution of political prisoners,
Iraqi gassing of Persian and Kurd.
Hush! I want to say.
Do not dishonor the dead.
What kind of man would rob
unmarked graves, would take the last
thing left to them, martyrdom, testimony,
the right to at least exist as symbol.
Bio:
My fifth book of poetry, Paternity, is due out in mid-February from Main Street Rag.
(author retains copyright)
.
Letter to Ahmadinejad
It will never be time to forget.
In Rwanda, they forgot,
and a million died.
In Darfur half that many.
In Bosnia a mere 50,000.
It will never be time to forget.
But even more, how dare anyone
commit the unspeakable sin of denial.
None would deny Pahlavi torture
and executions, Khomeini’s dis-
solution of political prisoners,
Iraqi gassing of Persian and Kurd.
Hush! I want to say.
Do not dishonor the dead.
What kind of man would rob
unmarked graves, would take the last
thing left to them, martyrdom, testimony,
the right to at least exist as symbol.
Bio:
My fifth book of poetry, Paternity, is due out in mid-February from Main Street Rag.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Robert Verdon
.
.
Haiti, 2010
The minutemen have slowed considerably
Since 1776
They began to falter around 1804
Were sluggish between 1915 and 1934
And comatose from ‘57 to ‘86
Their messianic President goosesteps on the water
Nothing threatens the Empire more
Than a black child without gangrene
{REDACTED}
This time they seem asleep at the wheel
Must be the Caribbean air, or the rum
Or the sales of tee-shirts and baseballs
for enemy combatants to eat
But never mind
Blame the roads and the rioters
I guess they’ll have the place all set up
In time for the election.
(author retains copyright)
.
Haiti, 2010
The minutemen have slowed considerably
Since 1776
They began to falter around 1804
Were sluggish between 1915 and 1934
And comatose from ‘57 to ‘86
Their messianic President goosesteps on the water
Nothing threatens the Empire more
Than a black child without gangrene
{REDACTED}
This time they seem asleep at the wheel
Must be the Caribbean air, or the rum
Or the sales of tee-shirts and baseballs
for enemy combatants to eat
But never mind
Blame the roads and the rioters
I guess they’ll have the place all set up
In time for the election.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Paul Barclay
.
.
“The cops can beat a man to death”
The cops can beat a man to death
in plain view
and the Toronto Scum in it wisdom
tries not to look too closely
so the issue fades away.
The cops are some tough nuts
for a city paper to deal with.
But if a beggar knows someone with a car or has a TV
they put it on the front page
so the sidewalk citizens will chase her away.
That’s a problem the Toronto Scum
is big enough to deal with.
They’re tough enough
to scare a woman in her 60s
with vigilante justice.
They don’t even know where
she lives, or who she is, for Christ’s sake.
Give us fifty cents to pay
for our phony jobs, our cars, TVs, and families, they say.
We have on our front page
the photograph of someone you can hate.
She’s the reason you have to work so hard
and why you can’t swim in the lake.
Let’s say it’s an issue
of integrity, and public safety.
And, oh yeah, why is it
we don’t have enough cops
to keep the scum away?
Bio:
I am an ex-pat Canadian living in Korea. Having studied literature at the University of Toronto and the University of Manitoba, I had a chapbook of poems published in Winnipeg in 1993 (Creole, Pachyderm Press) and at around the same time was involved in publishing zines of political poetry. Some recent work can be found online in ditch.
(author retains copyright)
.
“The cops can beat a man to death”
The cops can beat a man to death
in plain view
and the Toronto Scum in it wisdom
tries not to look too closely
so the issue fades away.
The cops are some tough nuts
for a city paper to deal with.
But if a beggar knows someone with a car or has a TV
they put it on the front page
so the sidewalk citizens will chase her away.
That’s a problem the Toronto Scum
is big enough to deal with.
They’re tough enough
to scare a woman in her 60s
with vigilante justice.
They don’t even know where
she lives, or who she is, for Christ’s sake.
Give us fifty cents to pay
for our phony jobs, our cars, TVs, and families, they say.
We have on our front page
the photograph of someone you can hate.
She’s the reason you have to work so hard
and why you can’t swim in the lake.
Let’s say it’s an issue
of integrity, and public safety.
And, oh yeah, why is it
we don’t have enough cops
to keep the scum away?
Bio:
I am an ex-pat Canadian living in Korea. Having studied literature at the University of Toronto and the University of Manitoba, I had a chapbook of poems published in Winnipeg in 1993 (Creole, Pachyderm Press) and at around the same time was involved in publishing zines of political poetry. Some recent work can be found online in ditch.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Michael Petshaft
.
.
Common Thieves
I am a fire in the woods
Heating thieves who stole "Arbeit Macht Frei"
Listening with my flickering ears
To their tale
History means nothing
When it can be unscrewed and torn asunder
With my orange teeth and blue fingers
I eat and snap wood
“Work Sets You Free,” they laughed
I roar but they do not run out of the Pisz Forest
But laze and cackle about my flaming breath
When I finish my work I will be gone
My heat will leave their hustling bones
When they must cash in or run cold and hungry
With my last nose of cinder
I smell iron drag across fresh dead leaves
Bio:
I am a TV Director working in Connecticut for an ABC News Affiliate.
.
Common Thieves
I am a fire in the woods
Heating thieves who stole "Arbeit Macht Frei"
Listening with my flickering ears
To their tale
History means nothing
When it can be unscrewed and torn asunder
With my orange teeth and blue fingers
I eat and snap wood
“Work Sets You Free,” they laughed
I roar but they do not run out of the Pisz Forest
But laze and cackle about my flaming breath
When I finish my work I will be gone
My heat will leave their hustling bones
When they must cash in or run cold and hungry
With my last nose of cinder
I smell iron drag across fresh dead leaves
Bio:
I am a TV Director working in Connecticut for an ABC News Affiliate.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Anne Rettenberg
.
.
Learning The Truth About 1948
Now, I have seen your exile
in black-and-white photos,
and I’ve listened
to the memories of your old people.
How their footprints were hurriedly erased,
and the places they were driven from,
renamed.
I never read those stories in the newspaper.
The stories I read had strange holes--
non-sequiturs, missing paragraphs.
Purposely prepared propaganda of
watered-down words and
deliberate digressions.
I watched an actor shout words of defiance
against the “terrorists”
in a 1977 made-for-TV movie.
He had to shout
to drown out that little voice
in the heads of the audience--
the one that asks “why?”
That’s when I knew
that I would have to seek the truth.
Now that I know,
I can see you walking, stumbling
on your journey East.
Tears blur your vision and you
carry bundles
heavy as my guilt.
Bio:
I'm a psychotherapist and occasional poet in New York City. I publish a small ezine called "Eat a Peach: A Poetry Journal."
(author retains copyright)
.
Learning The Truth About 1948
Now, I have seen your exile
in black-and-white photos,
and I’ve listened
to the memories of your old people.
How their footprints were hurriedly erased,
and the places they were driven from,
renamed.
I never read those stories in the newspaper.
The stories I read had strange holes--
non-sequiturs, missing paragraphs.
Purposely prepared propaganda of
watered-down words and
deliberate digressions.
I watched an actor shout words of defiance
against the “terrorists”
in a 1977 made-for-TV movie.
He had to shout
to drown out that little voice
in the heads of the audience--
the one that asks “why?”
That’s when I knew
that I would have to seek the truth.
Now that I know,
I can see you walking, stumbling
on your journey East.
Tears blur your vision and you
carry bundles
heavy as my guilt.
Bio:
I'm a psychotherapist and occasional poet in New York City. I publish a small ezine called "Eat a Peach: A Poetry Journal."
(author retains copyright)
Return
Chris G. Vaillancourt
.
.
Living
The streets are so full of liars
one dare not risk truth as often as
when alone.
Instead, in muted silence,
one evaporates oneself
into hollow metaphors. The seeping
words are a mockery of
praise and resentment.
One speaks them, but
one does not let their vowels
translate into emotional
declarations.
Yesterday a single thread
was strung from one deception
to another.
Uncrowned heads mumbling
their prayers into
faithless gestures that pleased
but did not appease
their individual perceptions
of God.
I was a glance that was not
thought of in advance. A second
that was swallowed and then
spit out; a forgotten shape
that had outlived its welcome.
Friends' salutations are guarded.
They do not know when to wave and
cheer in unbridled passion. They do
not know when to hold back
their warmth and replace it with
silent indifference.
We are all living
and
dying in the same
mindless manner.
We are all liars.
This sustains us and
comforts us in our
collective coffin.
Bio:
Over 200 of my poems have appeared in more than one hundred journals in the U.S. and Canada, in Japan and Australia, and the U.K, including: Real Angry Poets, Quills, Unfeigned Coffee Fiend, Detour Memphis, Why Vandalism?!, Plum Ruby Review, Vox Poetica, Outcry, The Hudson Review, Whisper, Poetry Space, Dangling Verbs, Writers Forum, Poesie, Cafe Del Soul, South Jersey Underground-Issue 6, Protest Poems, Poetry Stop, P&W, elffin&elffa, and many others. I have had a series of chapbooks published in the 1980's by 4 Winds Press, such titles as "Doors and Windows", "Dancing in the Eighties" and "Slow Burn". I have had two poetry books published, the first "Teardrop of Coloured Soul" in 2005 and my latest one to be released in Jan. of 2010 entitled "I Walk Naked into a Cloud".
(author retains copyright)
.
Living
The streets are so full of liars
one dare not risk truth as often as
when alone.
Instead, in muted silence,
one evaporates oneself
into hollow metaphors. The seeping
words are a mockery of
praise and resentment.
One speaks them, but
one does not let their vowels
translate into emotional
declarations.
Yesterday a single thread
was strung from one deception
to another.
Uncrowned heads mumbling
their prayers into
faithless gestures that pleased
but did not appease
their individual perceptions
of God.
I was a glance that was not
thought of in advance. A second
that was swallowed and then
spit out; a forgotten shape
that had outlived its welcome.
Friends' salutations are guarded.
They do not know when to wave and
cheer in unbridled passion. They do
not know when to hold back
their warmth and replace it with
silent indifference.
We are all living
and
dying in the same
mindless manner.
We are all liars.
This sustains us and
comforts us in our
collective coffin.
Bio:
Over 200 of my poems have appeared in more than one hundred journals in the U.S. and Canada, in Japan and Australia, and the U.K, including: Real Angry Poets, Quills, Unfeigned Coffee Fiend, Detour Memphis, Why Vandalism?!, Plum Ruby Review, Vox Poetica, Outcry, The Hudson Review, Whisper, Poetry Space, Dangling Verbs, Writers Forum, Poesie, Cafe Del Soul, South Jersey Underground-Issue 6, Protest Poems, Poetry Stop, P&W, elffin&elffa, and many others. I have had a series of chapbooks published in the 1980's by 4 Winds Press, such titles as "Doors and Windows", "Dancing in the Eighties" and "Slow Burn". I have had two poetry books published, the first "Teardrop of Coloured Soul" in 2005 and my latest one to be released in Jan. of 2010 entitled "I Walk Naked into a Cloud".
(author retains copyright)
Return
Steve Kissing
.
.
THE MEANING OF EMPTINESS
I am haunted by Kevin Carter’s 1993 Pulitzer Prize-winning
Photograph of a Sudanese girl - facedown in the fetal position -
On the hard, parched ground of her famished, war-torn nation.
The size of her head suggests she’s 6, her tiny, bony body, 3.
Her bloated belly and exposed ribs look like a small dirigible.
Twenty feet behind her sits a vulture, awaiting his next meal.
After snapping the photograph, Carter scared the bird away.
He said he then sat under a tree, “talked to God” and cried.
A few years later, the weight of documenting starvation, war
And other atrocities in Africa affixed a permanent lens cap:
He took his own life - proving again that the impenetrably dark
Shadow of the vulture is cast upon those who have had too little
As well as those who have had too much.
.
THE MEANING OF EMPTINESS
I am haunted by Kevin Carter’s 1993 Pulitzer Prize-winning
Photograph of a Sudanese girl - facedown in the fetal position -
On the hard, parched ground of her famished, war-torn nation.
The size of her head suggests she’s 6, her tiny, bony body, 3.
Her bloated belly and exposed ribs look like a small dirigible.
Twenty feet behind her sits a vulture, awaiting his next meal.
After snapping the photograph, Carter scared the bird away.
He said he then sat under a tree, “talked to God” and cried.
A few years later, the weight of documenting starvation, war
And other atrocities in Africa affixed a permanent lens cap:
He took his own life - proving again that the impenetrably dark
Shadow of the vulture is cast upon those who have had too little
As well as those who have had too much.
Bio:
Steve Kissing's poems and short stories have appeared (or soon will) in such print and online journals as: THICK WITH CONVICTION, BEST POEM, POETRY FRIENDS, BOSTON LITERARY MAGAZINE, BOLTS OF SILK, BULL, BREADCRUMB SCABS and PATERSON LITERARY REVIEW. Kissing’s first chapbook, SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST (Big Table Publishing), was published in the fall of 2009.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Kristin LaTour
.
.
Processional
It’s twelve days to Christmas—
trapped in a line of cars
humming along to Joni Mitchell:
Oh, I wish I had a river,
I could skate away on....
suddenly awash in red and blue lights
glinting off the windshield,
flashing off the garland
hanging from the pines—
red flags waving
on a hearse’s black hood
the cars of mourners:
four bulky men in blue jackets with brass buttons
three more young men in dress blues
another car-full
losing count of the uniforms
barely interrupted
by women’s puffy faces and
a wrinkled man from the VFW.
It’s twelve days to Christmas—
a glittering blanket
of satin iced snow.
My traffic light
turning red—
the procession
driving on behind me—
disappearing
from the rear-view mirror.
Driving north at the green light,
my mind follows
the procession south—
three shots from seven rifles
held in fourteen white-gloved hands.
Marines who shoot blanks
at a grey winter sky.
(author retains copyright)
.
Processional
It’s twelve days to Christmas—
trapped in a line of cars
humming along to Joni Mitchell:
Oh, I wish I had a river,
I could skate away on....
suddenly awash in red and blue lights
glinting off the windshield,
flashing off the garland
hanging from the pines—
red flags waving
on a hearse’s black hood
the cars of mourners:
four bulky men in blue jackets with brass buttons
three more young men in dress blues
another car-full
losing count of the uniforms
barely interrupted
by women’s puffy faces and
a wrinkled man from the VFW.
It’s twelve days to Christmas—
a glittering blanket
of satin iced snow.
My traffic light
turning red—
the procession
driving on behind me—
disappearing
from the rear-view mirror.
Driving north at the green light,
my mind follows
the procession south—
three shots from seven rifles
held in fourteen white-gloved hands.
Marines who shoot blanks
at a grey winter sky.
(author retains copyright)
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Stephen Williams
.
.
Apathy
Crowd gathering in the rain on the street
between walls of buildings reaching up
into the dark flame of night, a helicopter coming
in the distant drum of occupation,
the Old Bearded One dead in their center,
declaring just minutes ago
the accumulation of their apathy,
their control so easily administered,
a bullet in his forehead,
a long range shot, sniper somewhere
now drinking a beer, wiping his whiskers,
notching his steel stick, well paid,
the Old Bearded One penniless,
homeless, street preacher few listened to,
finally the crowd wondering if
he had something to say.
Bio:
Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night. He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California. His poetry has appeared here and there and in-between...
(author retains copyright)
.
Apathy
Crowd gathering in the rain on the street
between walls of buildings reaching up
into the dark flame of night, a helicopter coming
in the distant drum of occupation,
the Old Bearded One dead in their center,
declaring just minutes ago
the accumulation of their apathy,
their control so easily administered,
a bullet in his forehead,
a long range shot, sniper somewhere
now drinking a beer, wiping his whiskers,
notching his steel stick, well paid,
the Old Bearded One penniless,
homeless, street preacher few listened to,
finally the crowd wondering if
he had something to say.
Bio:
Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night. He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California. His poetry has appeared here and there and in-between...
(author retains copyright)
Return
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