Sara Basrai
Stephen Jarrell Williams
Sara Basrai
.
.
Street Baby
I’m born and I’m born
Honduras
To
Mother can’t care
4 me
She
Thirteen
thirteen
Sniffing yellow glue
Am born in a shack
By a dump
Am growing up
Aged 2
Working on the dump
Breathing in bad air
sniff
Kicked by dump's
boss
Making friends
Growing up
Police hate
Stealing and running
Man is grabbing
Hurting
hurting
Hurting
Train to
América
Train to America
Hanging on the roof
Digging with nails
faster
Through tunnels
Lowering head
Faster
heat of the day
Thirsty
Faster
Hungry
Holding on
holding on
Kid overboard
faster
Killed on the rail
Dying
Faster
gone
In America,
Walking through the desert
Hot
Police
police
Papers
Hot
Police
Papers
Crying
Crying
Hot
Police
papers
Back Home
Working
On the dump
Working on the
Dump
Garbage
sniff
Junk
Sniffing yellow
Glue
Having a
Baby
Sniff
I’m born and
I’m born
To
Mother can’t
care 4
me
me?
Bio:
Sara Basrai is a UK citizen who lives in NYC with her husband and two young children. She used to teach in London schools. She grew up collecting money for Amnesty International with her mother. Her writing appears in 34th Parallel, Outwardlink.net, the Cloud anthology. Her poetry will appear in Grey Sparrow Press and Nefarious Ballerina.
(author retains copyright)
.
Street Baby
I’m born and I’m born
Honduras
To
Mother can’t care
4 me
She
Thirteen
thirteen
Sniffing yellow glue
Am born in a shack
By a dump
Am growing up
Aged 2
Working on the dump
Breathing in bad air
sniff
Kicked by dump's
boss
Making friends
Growing up
Police hate
Stealing and running
Man is grabbing
Hurting
hurting
Hurting
Train to
América
Train to America
Hanging on the roof
Digging with nails
faster
Through tunnels
Lowering head
Faster
heat of the day
Thirsty
Faster
Hungry
Holding on
holding on
Kid overboard
faster
Killed on the rail
Dying
Faster
gone
In America,
Walking through the desert
Hot
Police
police
Papers
Hot
Police
Papers
Crying
Crying
Hot
Police
papers
Back Home
Working
On the dump
Working on the
Dump
Garbage
sniff
Junk
Sniffing yellow
Glue
Having a
Baby
Sniff
I’m born and
I’m born
To
Mother can’t
care 4
me
me?
Bio:
Sara Basrai is a UK citizen who lives in NYC with her husband and two young children. She used to teach in London schools. She grew up collecting money for Amnesty International with her mother. Her writing appears in 34th Parallel, Outwardlink.net, the Cloud anthology. Her poetry will appear in Grey Sparrow Press and Nefarious Ballerina.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Stephen Jarrell Williams
.
.
The Pelican
Near sunset,
sapphire sea streaked with black ooze.
On shore the pelican sits
covered in oil,
eyes staring, unseeing.
An old man standing above it,
poking the pelican with a sharp stick.
“What’s wrong you ugly bird?
The world got you down?”
He snickers,
the bird still breathing.
“Should I put you out of your misery?”
He pushes the stick into the pelican’s back.
The bird flinches, too weak for escape,
its wings closed, coated in sticky goo.
“Yeah, you’re close to dead,” says the old man.
“I’ll be like you in a few years,
lying in my room, gurgling, all alone…”
He pulls the stick away, blood mixing with oil,
the pelican still alive…
“You’re a tough old bird like me.”
The old man tightens his jaw, “Damn world.
I hate it here.”
He shakes his head, takes off his coat,
wraps it around the pelican,
takes it home to clean and nurse it back to life.
Bio:
Stephen Jarrell Williams has been called "The Poet of Doom," "A Voice in the Wilderness," and "A Minstrel for Love." He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California.
(author retains copyright)
.
The Pelican
Near sunset,
sapphire sea streaked with black ooze.
On shore the pelican sits
covered in oil,
eyes staring, unseeing.
An old man standing above it,
poking the pelican with a sharp stick.
“What’s wrong you ugly bird?
The world got you down?”
He snickers,
the bird still breathing.
“Should I put you out of your misery?”
He pushes the stick into the pelican’s back.
The bird flinches, too weak for escape,
its wings closed, coated in sticky goo.
“Yeah, you’re close to dead,” says the old man.
“I’ll be like you in a few years,
lying in my room, gurgling, all alone…”
He pulls the stick away, blood mixing with oil,
the pelican still alive…
“You’re a tough old bird like me.”
The old man tightens his jaw, “Damn world.
I hate it here.”
He shakes his head, takes off his coat,
wraps it around the pelican,
takes it home to clean and nurse it back to life.
Bio:
Stephen Jarrell Williams has been called "The Poet of Doom," "A Voice in the Wilderness," and "A Minstrel for Love." He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Kristin LaTour
.
.
The Kaytn Forest Massacre
I.
Shots fired
to the lower rear of the head
a clean hole from a pistol
one hole for entering
another for exiting
were not enough
bodies placed side by side
officer's woolen winter coats
hats placed on their heads
covered in soil
freezing hard over winter
holding them still and grouped
a massive embrace
II.
disinterred by Germans
Polish faces still covered in white
skin, eye lids still closed
coats keeping them covered
even though warmth receeded
black and white pictures
removed from coats' pockets
held up before a movie camera
blonde and brunette ladies
white skin, curled hair
chubby babies
in bathubs, against chests, on chairs
smiling and toothless
doctors saying they had been buried for weeks
in this forest
not at the front line
or in camps, eating stale bread, drinking bad coffee
women saw their own faces
on screens in movie theaters
and probably collapsed
or stared unbelieving
III.
after first blessing and reburial
softening into food for worms and trees
shading forest floor in Russia
the ground turning to mud, promising spring
then fall, covered in leaves,
freezing again, thawing,
grass growing over large mounds
forest swallowing what it needs
IV.
years later, to be uncovered again
by Russians this time
now lacking flesh, just flaps
black and white and grey
falling away from white skulls
showing holes again
entering and exiting
doctors trying to cleanse history
with a report on white paper about dirty bodies
now mismatched
from their families
and their lives far passed by
V.
second blessing and third burial
left now to disintegrate into soil
beyond being nutrients
silent coming
and going of nature's cycles
decades pass
the forest breathes
freezes, thaws
the animals pass over
there are no headstones
bodies are beyond caring
when truth is unearthed
the blamed are as dead as the blameless
Bio:
I'm a poet living outside of Chicago in Aurora, IL. I teach at Joliet Jr. College, and am active in Chicago's poetry circles, especially by performing at open mics. I have two chapbooks, Red Beaver Lake, Minnesota published by Pudding house Press, and Blood published by Naked Mannequin press. My work has appeared in After Hours, Pearl, and online at LaFovea.org and New Verse News.
(author retains copyright)
.
The Kaytn Forest Massacre
I.
Shots fired
to the lower rear of the head
a clean hole from a pistol
one hole for entering
another for exiting
were not enough
bodies placed side by side
officer's woolen winter coats
hats placed on their heads
covered in soil
freezing hard over winter
holding them still and grouped
a massive embrace
II.
disinterred by Germans
Polish faces still covered in white
skin, eye lids still closed
coats keeping them covered
even though warmth receeded
black and white pictures
removed from coats' pockets
held up before a movie camera
blonde and brunette ladies
white skin, curled hair
chubby babies
in bathubs, against chests, on chairs
smiling and toothless
doctors saying they had been buried for weeks
in this forest
not at the front line
or in camps, eating stale bread, drinking bad coffee
women saw their own faces
on screens in movie theaters
and probably collapsed
or stared unbelieving
III.
after first blessing and reburial
softening into food for worms and trees
shading forest floor in Russia
the ground turning to mud, promising spring
then fall, covered in leaves,
freezing again, thawing,
grass growing over large mounds
forest swallowing what it needs
IV.
years later, to be uncovered again
by Russians this time
now lacking flesh, just flaps
black and white and grey
falling away from white skulls
showing holes again
entering and exiting
doctors trying to cleanse history
with a report on white paper about dirty bodies
now mismatched
from their families
and their lives far passed by
V.
second blessing and third burial
left now to disintegrate into soil
beyond being nutrients
silent coming
and going of nature's cycles
decades pass
the forest breathes
freezes, thaws
the animals pass over
there are no headstones
bodies are beyond caring
when truth is unearthed
the blamed are as dead as the blameless
Bio:
I'm a poet living outside of Chicago in Aurora, IL. I teach at Joliet Jr. College, and am active in Chicago's poetry circles, especially by performing at open mics. I have two chapbooks, Red Beaver Lake, Minnesota published by Pudding house Press, and Blood published by Naked Mannequin press. My work has appeared in After Hours, Pearl, and online at LaFovea.org and New Verse News.
(author retains copyright)
Return
T. L. Cooper
.
.
Foreign Language
The words you speak
I do not understand
They sound like a song
But could mean anything
Please keep talking
All around me
The words continue
A fleeting sense of comprehension
Am I right?
Sometimes
In any language
Laughter sounds the same
Tears communicate clear emotions
Love flows between words
Anger bleeds through
Words still unknown
Is communication beginning?
We of two different languages
Finding a way
To reach one another
To connect
To understand each other
To bridge the gap
Between individuals
Between cultures
Between peoples
Between countries
Perhaps
Even to change the world
In a small way
So please keep speaking
I’ll continue to listen
Maybe someone else will as well
Bio:
T. L. Cooper grew up in Tollesboro, Kentucky. She graduated from Eastern Kentucky University with a B.S. in Corrections and Juvenile Services and a minor in Psychology. Her short story, Fortress, won second prize in the Professional Division of Idaho Magazine’s 2005 Fiction Writing contest. Her articles, essays, short stories and poetry have appeared in magazines, books, and online. Her essay, Common Values, won first prize in the 5th Annual Be the Star You Are! Essay Contest. She contributed an essay, The Gift of You, to Be the Star You Are! for Teens. She is the author of the novel, All She Ever Wanted. Currently, she and her husband live in Albany, Oregon.
(author retains copyright)
.
Foreign Language
The words you speak
I do not understand
They sound like a song
But could mean anything
Please keep talking
All around me
The words continue
A fleeting sense of comprehension
Am I right?
Sometimes
In any language
Laughter sounds the same
Tears communicate clear emotions
Love flows between words
Anger bleeds through
Words still unknown
Is communication beginning?
We of two different languages
Finding a way
To reach one another
To connect
To understand each other
To bridge the gap
Between individuals
Between cultures
Between peoples
Between countries
Perhaps
Even to change the world
In a small way
So please keep speaking
I’ll continue to listen
Maybe someone else will as well
Bio:
T. L. Cooper grew up in Tollesboro, Kentucky. She graduated from Eastern Kentucky University with a B.S. in Corrections and Juvenile Services and a minor in Psychology. Her short story, Fortress, won second prize in the Professional Division of Idaho Magazine’s 2005 Fiction Writing contest. Her articles, essays, short stories and poetry have appeared in magazines, books, and online. Her essay, Common Values, won first prize in the 5th Annual Be the Star You Are! Essay Contest. She contributed an essay, The Gift of You, to Be the Star You Are! for Teens. She is the author of the novel, All She Ever Wanted. Currently, she and her husband live in Albany, Oregon.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Diane Elayne Dees
.
.
Sounds
Crack of brown pelican eggs
Smash of chicks under oily boots
Crush of tern nests beneath giant tires
Sounds of BP cleanup
Splash of Corexit into the Gulf
Whoosh of oil spouting from dolphins
Rustle of marsh grass as dying birds flee
Sounds of BP cleanup
Curses of workers still waiting for pay
Gasps of crew members with no respirators
Unheard cries of widows and children
Sounds of BP cleanup
Bio:
Diane Elayne Dees lives in Louisiana. Her poems of protest have appeared in Out of Line, HazMat Review, Mobius, The New Verse News, Poetry SuperHighway, and several other publications.
(author retains copyright)
Return
.
Sounds
Crack of brown pelican eggs
Smash of chicks under oily boots
Crush of tern nests beneath giant tires
Sounds of BP cleanup
Splash of Corexit into the Gulf
Whoosh of oil spouting from dolphins
Rustle of marsh grass as dying birds flee
Sounds of BP cleanup
Curses of workers still waiting for pay
Gasps of crew members with no respirators
Unheard cries of widows and children
Sounds of BP cleanup
Bio:
Diane Elayne Dees lives in Louisiana. Her poems of protest have appeared in Out of Line, HazMat Review, Mobius, The New Verse News, Poetry SuperHighway, and several other publications.
(author retains copyright)
Return
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