ISLANDS OF FLOATING GARBAGE

                        Madison Square Garden, 1939

                        20,000 gather for a “Pro-America” Rally.

                        Flanked by swastikas, James Wheeler predicts,

                        “If George Washington were alive today,

                        he’d be friends with Adolph Hitler.”

                        German-American Bund speaker Fritz Julius Kuhn

                        rails against “the oriental cunning of the Jews.”

                        Champions an America ruled by white Gentiles,

                        free from Jewish leadership in Hollywood

and the Press. 

                        America for Americans only.

                        Madison Square Garden, 2024

                        20,000 gather to support Trump’s re-election.

                        Trump thunders against immigrants—

                        rapists, mental patients, criminal gangs

                        from shithole countries.

                        Don Jr. says they want to replace us

with people of color.

                        Tucker Carlson concurs:

                        they want to replace real Americans with immigrants.  

                        Stephen Miller sums it up: 

                        America for Americans only.

                        Who flocks to these rallies? Enjoys white supremacy

                        spiced with lies and name-calling?

                        Trump’s opponent is labeled a “low IQ” woman,

                        managed by “pimp handlers;”  “the Anti-Christ.”

                        Puerto Rico’s called “islands of floating garbage.”

                        Haitian immigrants are accused of

“eating cats and dogs.”

                        If elected, Trump says he’ll get rid of

“the enemy within…”

                        Call out the army. Detain in camps, deport, imprison.

                        So– Madison Square Garden hosted two nasty rallies,

                        Each rally heaped hate on scapegoats.

                        Both blended entitled white supremacy

                        with flag waving and singing the national anthem.

                        In our country’s history, these mob scenes stand out–

                        red, white, and blue islands of floating garbage.

                        Copyright 10/2024     Patricia Doyne          

The Sun’s Tears

I do not trust

the sun’s

tears

and Lora’s

love

I do not trust

theweight

ofher word

or the longing

I have for her.

The Drawer of Forgetfulness

I locked you up

in the drawer of forgetfulness

as the crystalline water under the earth

and the crumpled writing on the gray sheet

proof of the time spent in the studio

I saw you

in the labyrinths of the faculty

where the Alphabet’s raytwinkles

your voice can be heard in each class room

in the workbook you

are piling up the memory years.

Lora

We wander through time

like snakes in the bushes

Lora and I

in the ecstasy of the painting

I gave her Mona Lisa’s smile

I drank water from Lora’s bosom

and I lost myself in adolescent dreams,

I gave Lora a life

I gave the sky a kiss

the sun seemed to be silent

and left a free way to darkness

the rainbow lightens my way

fiery I take the stars to the bosom

I hug the sun

to feel its tenderness.

Lora is silent

and she silently speaks

in her blonde hair

I touch the love

embers in the lap

white frost

he left traces

Lora is asleep

with the fiery stars

tickling her lips

in the corrugated crown

the sounds of silence

I put her crown

and I read under her eyelids

the novel I will write

Lora with her bosom as virgin snow

lures the Talmudists’ years

Lora crystalline meteor.

WHAT TO WISH YOU TONIGHT

I am drunken with craving

of cords of your voice

I seek the canary of love

in the labyrinths of the soul

the morning messenger is not heard

nor he knits the sounds cardigan of Monastery

you, the lost one in the waves of forgetfulness.

I glaze the pictures in the museum

I doze in present time

the verb love

I conjugate in first person

Because you loved me

I track in mirative form

the time passed in lucidity

what to wish you tonight as you forgot me.

Ah, with the sweetness of the vowels

Quivered even my lake

we, like two canaries in the mountains

loosing trails in canon

me, you and the voice

tonight brings me back to nostalgia.

Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a professor of the Albanian language in the Gymnasium. He has written in many newspapers, portals, Radio, TV, and Magazines in the Albanian language and in English, Romanian, Francophone, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindu,  Spanish, and Korean.

America, Where Are Thou?

I used to live in a place

Called the United States of America

A republic – the first and last hope of mankind

The land of the free, the home of the brave

The envy of the world

The land of the American dream

And now, I am afraid

That the Star-Spangled Banner

No longer flies

Over the land of the brave

And the home of the free.

I wake up

The red, white and blue

Have been overwhelmed

The dark forces of the red states

Have overwhelmed the light of the blue states

Have trounced the reason offered by the Blue States

And the white forces

Lie trembling in fear

I tried to escape

The darkling night

The ever-glowing Orange alerts

And escape somewhere

The leader of the country

The new uncrowned Empire

Rules over us all

Empire Triumphant

Against all enemies

The USA is number one

We chant and scream

And watch FOX TV

As we march off to war

The rest of the world

Trembles in fear at our might

We rule – we rock and roll, and are triumphant

Against all enemies, dissenters, and foreigners

The U.S. marches on to victory

Freedom is on the march

Liberation is at hand

As the rich gather gleeful

Contemplating the plunder of the state

And the poor grow more desperate

I cry out for the country that I have lost

Whose soul has been lost

And the end of the Republic

For which I believed

The empire has won

Long Live the new Caesar

Long Live the New American Empire

Death to all its enemies

As the dream fades into a nightmare

I cry knowing that we have all lost

The last best hope of mankind

Lives buried in the ash heap of history

Tyranny in the guise of Democracy

Rules us all forever and ever

And that flag

The star-spangled banner

Does not wave anymore

Over the land of the free

And the home of the brave

One Summer Day 1970                                                                   

Angie

I’m three three three one-two-three and nobody knows I’m up up up – Mommy sleeping sad in her big bed. Daddy at work – work work work after bacon and eggs and coffee at the restaurant. Love Daddy – I’m Daddy’s little girl. Climb one-two-three shelves for cereal in the cupboard – bowl spoon milk from the frigerator sometimes smells bad. Then turn the knob all-by-myself open the big door open the screen door out the door. No shoes no socks my feet my toes wiggle in the grass wet wet wet. Run run run to the barn pee in my big girl training pants and toss em in the weeds every-Mommy’s-bad-word-morning-when-will-she-learn. Bare bottom who cares I don’t care no one cares maybe grandma cares. Horses waiting for me me me at the gate one big one nice one mean one brown one white and a pony-just-my-size. And I pet their noses oh my gosh soft so soft and I feed them green grass even the white mean-to-grown-ups one who could eat my tiny fingers anytime it wants to snap-just-like-that but it doesn’t – never never never will. My big brodder’s watching me from his window thinks he’s the boss of me but isn’t the boss of me. Face scrunched and big frown always worry worry worry.

            Then my dog friends are waiting every-morning-same-place-same-time. Smokey knows only one trick shake shake shake the neighbor boys taught him a long time ago when he was my brodder’s dog. And Sammy with curly part-poodle hair. And the next-door-neighbor’s big big big red Ireesh Sitter with eyes that say something to me. Just us we all go running in the green grass taller than me and when I fall down my dog friends wait for me to get up and catch up. I just-know-it-lunch-time and cartoons and fight-every-Mommy’s-bad-word-day-driving-me-crazy-brodder time – who’s not the boss of me. And at nighty-night time Mommy awake – not a morning mommy. And Daddy’s home – I’m Daddy’s little girl Daddy’s home! Brodder shuts up but sometimes a story. Mommy finds at bath time tics in my ears burrs in my hair from the tall green grass. Daddy mad Brodder says told-you-so. Tics and burrs just like Smokey Sammy and the big big big red Ireesh Sitter who don’t get baths or cartoons so what’s the big deal?

David

Not doing it. Not looking. Not paying any attention. I’m not the grown up this time. She won’t listen to me anyway. What do I care? Just read, read my Classic Comics – Robinson Crusoe in my bed and get up any ol’ time I want to. Glue my model B-25 Mitchell. Bikes, forts, or look for crayfish and salamanders in the creek with Tom or Joel. There’s the door. She’s out the door already. Where’s Mom? Did she eat anything? None-of-my-business. And there she is – gonna get her fingers bit off by the mean horse. Then she’ll be running half-naked around the neighborhood with the dogs. God! So embarrassing. Someone’s going to kidnap her. Good! Ugh! Okay-fine. Get up. Go find her. Dammit.

Janice

There’s his van. Dan’s gone to work. Too bright, too early. Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Last night – what was that about? First time in a month. Just needed a good, hard screw. Friggin’ cramps coming on. Just a little while longer. She’ll-be-fine-David’s-up-he’ll-look-after-her. I didn’t sign up for this shit. They’re driving me crazy – fight, fight, fight every friggin’ day. So hot. Probably pissed her pants again. Every-damn-morning-when-will-she-learn? Maybe she’ll get lost or something – or something. Just gone. How bad could it be? Christ! Stop it! I can’t. I just can’t. Lunch, laundry, clean something, endless afternoon, friggin’ TV. Maybe I’ll go back to pressing shirts all day. Which hell? Door number one or door number two? Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Supper – gotta think of it now, now – not now – now. Then, as soon as the table is cleared, Dan’s off to the garage working on that friggin’ car. Friggin’ mass on Sunday, dinner with his parents – that bitch. Friggin’ old car club. Friggin’ picnics and potato salad. Friggin’ canasta with the girls. Always someone’s friggin’ birthday. Those damn tics in her ears, burrs in her hair. Where does she pick up this shit? I swear I’ll kill myself. Can’t cry. Not going to cry today. Save it for . . . when? Huh? When?

Dan

Told her the kids are up. Down the driveway, the DMZ between everything. Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Hungry – maybe hash browns with the eggs today. Phillis will open up. Need to order dry cleaning fluid and shirt boxes. Ralph sober? Need to do something about that. Maggie needs to dump that boyfriend. Bad for her. So hot – with the presses like working in an oven. Delivery route away from the store. What am I doing picking up and cleaning other people’s clothes? Christ. Janice is what, blue? Last night – what was that about? Pick up another transmission for the ’33 Ford – makes three. Tires for the Model A. Work on it tonight after supper. No, it’s Thursday – gotta do payroll. Maybe I’ll get the part – Harry the Horse. Guys and Dolls. Podunk Ohio isn’t New York. If only I’d gotten on that bus. No wife, house, kids, cleaners, yard to mow. An apartment, ride the subway– meet a nice guy. He’d have some stupid little dog and I would love him, and I would have him all to myself. Who knows? Harry the Horse Off-Broadway. I’d be good. Maybe great. Or Hollywood. I could have been another Dean Martin. I know it. I can feel it. I got to dry clean Paul Lynde’s blazer once. That was something. Wasn’t it?

David Sapp, danieldavidart@gmail.com 

Biographical Information: David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.

A few weeks later, the mother finds her father in the hospital with a back wound. He was caught by a shard. She learned from her father that Nikolai was killed on Nevsky Pyatochk, where he was buried in a mass grave.

Hiding the pain of loss in herself, the mother throws all her remaining strength to ensure the speedy recovery of her father. She didn’t forget about us either. Now we seem to see her at home more often. Alexey said that it was caused by Nikolai’s death.

Time passed so slowly but surely, gradually my father recovered and soon they promised to discharge him and let him go home. We were all really looking forward to his return, despite the grief for Nikolai, who was always a good brother and son. It seemed that if mom and dad were at home together again, our peaceful life would return, the way we remembered it, and most importantly, the blockade and even the war would end.

Based on these dreams and fantasies, we held on from day to day. However, unpleasant events continued to knock on our lives. After which Ivan and Leonid still haven’t sent a single letter, despite their heartfelt promises to write every day. For some reason, Masha was especially worried about this. After the news of Nikolai’s death and her father’s injury, she generally changed somewhat, became more silent and thoughtful, and could cry a little. Although we did not know this at the time, her hidden premonitions were not born out of thin air: in 1943, Ivan and Alexei were recognized as missing. It so happened that that was the last time we saw each other on their vacation.

The situation at home was also difficult. The younger Sasha got sick again. Remembering Lena, who died in the fall, we tried in every possible way to take care of him, went to familiar doctors, sometimes even carried him almost in our arms, always made sure that he had a slightly larger ration, so that he slept in warmth, always drank fresh boiled water. But, alas, in the end all our efforts and efforts were in vain. Later, when we leave the city, he will die in the evacuation anyway.

8

It was the month of May. Compared to winter, it has become much easier. In any case, there was no longer the bone-chilling cold and the frightening darkness of the streets. The food situation has also improved. The mother was able to get additional rations for a large family, so there was a little more food.

Since our neighbors evacuated, we were allocated another room. The father returned home, but he was not recognized. He has aged noticeably and is very weak. He lay quietly in the room for several days. But most importantly, he was home now. We also received some long-awaited letters from Ivan and Leonid. They were fine, although they were transferred to the southern front, and it was not entirely clear when we would see them again.

Nevertheless, new challenges awaited us. I don’t remember what kind of day it would have been, but Alexey and I were at school. The raid began, and after its completion we were allowed to go home. When we set foot on our native street, we couldn’t recognize it. Several houses were destroyed, including our house.

With the most terrible thoughts, we approached the front arch. Ours were there. My father, sister and brother escaped because they went out for a walk in the yard, but Baba Katya could not be saved, the bomb exploded right in her room.

We were all alive, but we were homeless. The whole family went to the local district committee, where we were accepted surprisingly quickly and without hesitation were given new housing somewhere in the Vyborg district. After receiving all the documents, my father went with us to the specified address to settle in a new apartment, and sent Masha to the hospital to her mother, tell her about what happened and escort her to a new house.

I had little idea what our new home could be like and what kind of Vyborg district it was, which years later would become my family forever. Alexey knew much more about this area, his classmate lived there, whom he visited a couple of times. Therefore, we discussed this part of the city all the way and assumed what our new home might turn out to be.

– So this is the area of old dachas? – I asked my brother.

– Yes, Pushkin was fatally wounded in a duel in those places, – he replied, – Who knows, maybe the windows of our house, I will go out just to this place!

– It can’t be! It was in the 19th century, the wooden house would not have stood so much, – I disagreed.

– There are many old houses there. You’ll see for yourself soon, – Alexei said, pointing ahead.

Indeed, it was an area of small wooden houses, comfortably located in blooming gardens and the shade of mighty forest parks. It seemed that this place was free from war and blockade. Birds were singing on the branches, locals were digging in the gardens, summer was making its way through the lively streets of the city.

One of these houses became our shelter for the next couple of months. It was a low two-storey house, slightly battered by time, but retaining some representativeness or rather attractiveness. Besides us, several other families lived in this house, so the check-in process was somewhat delayed. My father had to negotiate with the new neighbors for a long time and, referring to the permission, asked to vacate two rooms for us.

In the evening, mother and Masha also came. That’s when we started checking in the rooms and unpacking the remaining things. My parents moved into one room with the younger Sasha, and the three of us in the other. As our neighbors called it, the guest room.

All this time, moving furniture and putting things in order, my brother and I continued to argue about our house, Pushkin and the duel. By chance, my sister heard our argument, laughed and said:

– Actually, Lenin stayed in this house before leaving for Finland. It’s a shame! You should have known that!

Her words made a strong impression on Alexey and me and our arguments stopped. For the rest of the day, we silently helped to arrange the rooms. I returned to this thought again when everyone was settling down to sleep and the lights were out. Taking my place near the window, I lay all night and thought that I was sleeping exactly in the place where Lenin once stopped.