LIFE AND DEATH IN ALABAMA

		A fertilized egg is a treasure,
		a boon to the barren, a gift of hope.
		But in sweet home Alabama,
		the latest law gives embryos a bonus:
		eternal life.

		A judge decreed an egg fused with a sperm
		is now a U.S. citizen, with rights.
		If kept quick-frozen, zygotes live forever.
		Sperm donors will pass on.
		Parents will pass on.
		But grandchildren, great-grandchildren
		must keep potential ancestors in liquid nitrogen
		forever and ever. Amen.
		Any careless spills or thaws are murder.
		Any cells lost in the implant process-- serial murder.
		And murder is a capital offense.

		These microscopic cells don’t look like people.
		No face, no bones, no blood, no lungs;
		no organs, tissues, gender. 
		But one dogmatic judge decreed
		these cells are fully human. 
		That’s what his Church believes.
		Our founders erred-- Church ought to rule the State!
		His Church, of course. 

		Living children aren’t the law’s concern.
		In Alabama, school-aged kids 
		can work in factories— child labor. Cheap.
		Children of asylum-seekers? 
		Routinely ripped from parents’ arms
		and locked in cages. 
		Children of the poor are grudged food stamps,
		must fight red tape for every scrap of health care.
		And every day more kids are shot and killed.
		No, real youngsters aren’t priorities. 


		
		But embryos—now there’s a righteous cause!
		Eden’s tree, that bore enticing fruit,
		has sprouted in the courtroom, promising 	
		knowledge of good and evil.
		Alabama’s judge has tasted insight;
		his laws prevent Eve’s needy daughters
		from seeking IVF—lest cells be wasted. 
		Decrees deny a babe in arms to parents
		out of respect for life. 

		He reads God’s mind, this Alabama judge. 
		Or speaks, perhaps, for someone else
		that lurks in Eden, hissing… 


		Copyright 2/24               Patricia Doyne

The Past As Prologue: Why We Still Need Black History Month

 BY JACQUES FLEURY

[Excerpt from Fleury’s book: Chain Letter To America: The One Thing You Can Do To End Racism: A Collection of Essays, Fiction and Poetry Celebrating Multiculturalism]

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be. This is the interrelated structure of reality. ” — Dr.  Martin Luther King Jr.

A 2006 article by Mema Ayi and Demetrius Patterson from the Chicago Defender reported that “actor Morgan Freeman created a small firestorm…when he told Mike Wallace of “60 Minutes” that he finds Black History Month (BHM) ridiculous.” Freeman goes on to say that “Americans perpetrate racism by relegating Black history to just one month when Black history is American history.”

I agree with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. that as Americans we are tied together “…in an inescapable network of mutuality…Whatever affects one [of us]…affects [all of us] as Americans in this country.

As you can clearly see, the month of February dedicated to Black history continues to stir controversy. However, we can’t continue to ignore the fact that although we have made progress towards racial unity, we still have ways to go towards racial harmony, understanding and tolerance, if not acceptance.

Scholars and historians such as Conrad Worrill, chairman of the National Black United Front, agree that Black Americans still need February, and every day, to reflect on the accomplishments of Black Americans who contributed countless inventions and innovations to society.

Radio personality Cliff Kelley notes that capricious historians conveniently leave out certain parts of the story that do not corroborate their version of history, which consists mostly of White men. Blacks are virtually removed from the narrative to substantiate the White historical agenda. Plenty of Black youths do not know their history. Most of them think that their history begins and ends with slavery.

Former State Representative David Miller (D-Calamut City, Ill) asserted that Freeman was right in saying that Black history should be a year round thing. “We’ve shaped America,” he said, “but that Black History Month should serve as a reminder of our legacy.”

The recently deceased Howard Zinn wrote in his book A People’s History of the United States, “There is not a country in world history in which racism has been more important than the United States.” He poses the question, “Is it possible for Blacks and Whites to live together without hatred?”

When it comes to the evolution of racism, he had this to say: “…slavery developed into a regular institution of the normal labor relations between Blacks and Whites in the New World. With it developed that special racial feeling — whether hatred or contempt or pity or patronization — that accompanied the inferior position of Blacks in America…that combination of inferior status and derogatory thought we call racism.”

He goes on to say, “The point is the elements of this web are historical, not ‘natural.’ This does not mean that they are easily disentangled or dismantled. It only means that there is a possibility for something else, under historical conditions not yet realized.”

In a 2010 article in The Boston Phoenix, “Is There Hope in Hollywood?” Peter Keough extrapolates the medium of film is making an effort to bridge the race gap. They do this by portraying Blacks as heads of state — in movies like Transformers 2, 2012 and Invictus — although the contexts in which a Black man becomes president is often created by a catastrophe in which the White leader is killed. Or Blacks are still being portrayed in glaring stereotypical roles such as in Precious, with racist clichés like Precious stealing and eating an entire box of fried chicken.

The undercurrent of racism is evident even from well-meaning Whites like President Biden, when he ran against Obama for president. Biden declared that “[Obama] is the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean, and a nice looking guy.” Similarly, another fellow Democrat, the former Senate majority leader Harry Reid wrote in his book Game Change, about Obama that America is ready for a Black president, particularly because he is “light skinned and speaks with no Negro dialect.”

This leads me to extrapolate that despite all that Blacks have contributed to the making of America, this becomes extraneous compared to the first impression our colorful appearance makes. I am compelled to recall what Dr. King, Jr. so eloquently stated, that Black people should be judged “by the contents of their character” and not their skin color.

Many modern conveniences spring from the inventions of Black inventors: blood banks facilitating life-saving transfusions, the bicycle, the electric trolley, the dustpan, comb, brush, clothes dryer, walkers, lawn mower, IBM computers, gas masks, traffic signals, the pen, peanut butter…The list goes on and on.

Thanks to the Academy Award nominated film, Hidden Figures, we’re now all familiar with the amazing contributions of mathematical geniuses Katherine Johnson, Dorothy Vaughan, and Mary Jackson, whose work helped make Neil Armstrong the first man on the moon! All of these achievements have become part of our daily lives here in America and around the world as the result of African-American contributions to the economic and scientific stronghold known as America.

Sadly, we still need Black History Month to remind us!

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…He has been published in prestigious  publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him here.

Bubbles

I see through bubbles that are blown everywhere.
Some are protestations of undying love,
others, a screen 
between the public and their leaders.

Some journey towards afflicted regions,
but burst before they reach their destinations.

Some are a kaleidoscope 
of a happy childhood,
which is no longer available.

Some evoke an ocean 
that is now at enmity
with its immediate neighbors.

Some are a display of historic arrogance
that will be the plight 
of every nation.

Some are at variance
with their own ingredients,
so turn against themselves
in a hysteric self-annihilation.

Some perform the Danse Macabre
and foretell the transience of the human species.

 
An Eye Contact

Two hours after midnight,
a pair of fluttering stars
that steadily looks me in the eye,
shortsighted as I am,
has finally established an eye contact.

The thread of light that now ties
my irises to their flickering white
is my daily exit from Hades.

I do not need to climb a ladder to reach the skies
or to fly an extraterrestrial spacecraft,
I mount my own eyesight.
 
I was born into so many wars

I was born into so many wars, I pause
with shortness of breath
that has nothing to do with respiratory throes,
but with Fear
that was injected into my system 
during my earliest years.

I was only four when the 1967-war
violently shook my cardiac chords.
Lightning and thunder became a metaphor
for the fireworks
of Israeli bombardments of land and ports.

Then came the 1973-raids
on the harbor which was only yards away
from our street which filled with tanks, 
military trucks, 
and soldiers with helmets.
Shell-shocked, I was launched into my teens.

Before I became eighteen,
a civil war bequeathed numerous assassinations
and odd forms of sectarianisms.

2011 was the ominous date,
heralding rockets,
displacement,
and an everlasting siege
that brought inflation and darkness in its wake.

And now I am sixty years of age.
I find myself in the grip of a War 
that has shattered my dreams
of a long-lasting peace.


 
The Massacre of Penguin Chicks

I was in Sydney in the early nineteen-nineties 
when I first heard of people who endanger their lives, 
clinging to the masts of massive ships, 
to hinder the pollution of soil, air, and seas. 

Those activists are trouble-makers 
in the eyes of legislators, 
merely for attempting to save our planet 
and its endangered species. 

With my TV screen recently gone out, 
having been electrocuted by a surcharge of electricity, 
I now read the news instead of watching it, 
which spares me a lot of psychological harm 
and lingering grief. 

These recent events sound apocalyptic 
but not Biblical to me; 
however, our globe is being destroyed 
with Luciferian zeal. 
Emperor penguin chicks are the latest martyrs. 
In thousands, they have drowned 
or frozen to death 
because the sea-ice melted beneath them 
before they could develop the waterproof feathers
which would enable them to swim. 
The executioner is global warming. 
 
Millions of people have been dying in stoppable wars 
and nobody gives a damn, 
so who would care about the demise of penguin chicks?  

I once heard a conspiracy theorist speak of preparations, 
to inhabit another space, 
once planet earth has ceased to exist. 
Such a flight to a new paradise must cost billions, 
but should I get it free -
please excuse such a daydream - 
I would not want to board one of their spaceships, 
because the journey would nauseate me. 
I would rather perish here.

VOLCANO

Nowdawn. When this

grayed welldone sky

resumes to rare,

and – sudden flare! —

awakes my wife’s

night-dormant kiss.

SOLSTICES

(after Hwang Jini)

Take one half the night

of the shortest winter day

and wrap it in your arms,

a prudent negligee

to unfold one brief summer night

when you hold me in your arms.

WE GAMBLERS OF FATE ARE PLAYED BY THE JUGGLERS OF TIME

The silence of echoes is too loud to hear.

The excess deer were culled

before the hunt was closed.

We race toward that precipice we screened ourselves from.

Lazarus’ miracle

just delayed the dust.

We are partners of the same condition.

Though odds up and fall

our lots have been tossed.

The future always lies to us, but so does the past.

You get the apple

filling – You get the crust.

Paths twist and twist no matter which we pick.

You get the pedestal–

and You get the bust.

Rivers have many tributaries but only one result.

You get the sadist’s fuel,

You the holocaust.

JOINT MANEUVERS

Di dandles her tea like any grande dame

and she handles her whiskey as well

as a man.

I was a sergeant in the cavaliers.

I prized my targets

and my bandoleer,

my spurs

and my plume.

A chest of medals occupied

my room, none claimed in battle.

Di was a waitress.

She wanted to stop pretending princess

rise top.

and to the

One with ambition seeks one with regret.

“To starve the kitchen, feed a cook’s credit.”

One day when marching my tattoos

and flutes,

my eyes kept watching Di’s

bonnet and boots.

My parade dismissed,

this hungry soldier,

Sir Knight on a quest,

double-timed over to where she still stood.

As fierce

and as free

as fire from a woods,

Di saluted me

with crisp precision.

I saluted her back

stiff at attention–

never felt the flac

exploding

inside.

The wounded man

wed the ambushing bride.

And I never fled

the combat that came.

My new purple heart

marked my

rise to fame

and Di’s

state of art.

As I rose in rank it was her mission

to protect my flank and her position.

One with ambition

needs

one with regret.

“To starve the kitchen, feed a cook’s credit.”

Di’s deft riding crop

urges her stallion to boldly gallop

beyond battalions.

BELLY/MIND

Sponge draws, stone withstands

inspiration rains.

A formlessness hides

undiscovered forms;

imagination

is the belly’s mind.

Stars reign in darkness.

To pay heaven court,

astronomer’s scope

always magnifies

observatories.

But when the mind fasts,

it’s inspiration

that’s the mind’s belly.

Palaces empty

without their nobles —

poor indeed are those

whose poems outnumber

their inspirations

…

Godless Libraries

“Our duty is manifest,” Greg intoned, peering down through the bright lights and into the seats which were filled with members of Citizens Concerned for Children; this was yet another right wing group that he coveted. 

He hoped to recruit them in his unrelenting quest to ban virtually all books from school libraries.  The crowd shouted its approval.   Greg smiled.  He was happily in his element.

Greg, Governor of his state, held up his hands for quiet only halfheartedly; he adored adulation from the unwashed masses.  

“Do you know what your children are reading?” he boomed out ominously. He held up a book–“Rubyfruit Jungle”– and the crowd booed on cue.  In back of the room, Fox News filmed the address. Sean Hannity provided a running commentary.

Taking up the volume, Greg ripped it into two pieces, then cast it to the floor, where it landed with a loud splat, which echoed throughout the huge hall.

The audience went “ooh,” at the Governor’s display of outrage and pure physical strength.

“Here’s another one we don’t need,” he declared, holding up “Beloved,” to the hisses and catcalls from those assembled.

Clutching the book over his head, he ripped the book in two.  The cloud politely applauded, duly impressed. 

Unknown to the audience, Greg had had the books’ spines broken prior to the meeting.

He said, “We want to get rid of “The Bluest Eye” and “A Catcher in the Rye” and “Huckleberry Finn” and “The Hate U Give,” and “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”

With each successive declaration the crowd’s excitement grew.

“Do you know what the presence of these books in the library leads to?” he asked.

Someone shouted out, ” Black Lives Matters!” Another yelled, “Critical Race Theory!” Greg nodded somberly in agreement with each shouted statement. “It means,” he said gravely, “godlessness!”

The crowd was in a frenzy now, excited almost beyond even Greg’s expectations. “Are you with me, then?” he demanded.

“Yes!” shouted the audience and four hundred fists were thrust righteously into the air.

“All right then,” said the Governor, cuing a queue of young men who fanned out across the room.  “I’m going to ask you good folks for a love offering,  These funds will be used to finance the campaigns of candidates who agree with you, that these godless books should be removed from our libraries.  Please give generously.

As the boys avidly gleaned the riches from the assemblage, Greg appeared to grow thoughtful, leaned into the mic and said, “And tomorrow, we’ll talk about restoring prayer to our classrooms.  We’ve got a Constitution to safeguard, people!”

***

alley of non-existent views

despite the fact that the birds did not return 

from distant countries:::

spring has come

***

small misfortunes ooze from all cracks

birds die as soldiers lovers become unloved

and only the swallow flies overhead as freely as before the war

the swallow does not ask for names and secrets but simply flies

and together with the bird with a scalpel flies the potency of years forgotten by doctors

not taken into account by seconds of happiness when you are next to me

***

what are you doing while the world around you becomes dead

what do you crave

how many needles are in your skin

how much need + thirst is in your skin

we part forever as strangers

I will forever forget that you appeared before me 

as a swallow of new days 

and forever captured the long-dead

where to get the air that will no longer fill our bedroom

where to get warmth for a person with a sweater instead of a body

in what language to kill the past in which I still live stomping in the future

***

my duty is over

another boy not born in the dark sailed away to nowhere

soap bubbles of pink walls of the red night

when I came into this world fresh

and now I’m squeezed into the tea of death like an iron lemon

if my ex-husband decided to write a novel about me

then black poems of white darkness would turn out

the purity of the stars in the sky

among the hearty voids of the mountains the wind of change roams

a grown old child who will forever wait for his mary poppins

infinity murder

all in vain 

***

crunching feet and feet of foliage under our boots

trees have long wanted to punish us for our violence

but all trees can do is grow deeper into the ground and be silent

***

Drops play with their own transparency

I’d like to know what’s really in your head

I would like to know what’s really in my head

The ice grows over and acquires new scars

The hope inside me is the last to die

But outwardly I’ve been dead for a long time

Steam rises up as if there were no dreams at all

I bury birds on the pier and trample sand castles

This is how I trample and bury your portrait painted in my head

It starts to rain and your mouth opens to drink

I still love you like at the beginning

I’m still dying like the unborn Jesus

I’m still alive but in vain

***

masters of dreams

beetles hide 

in autumn leaves

***

other free birds sit in the trees

fear of freedom in feathers sits in the trees

people sit around blood and murder

people sit inside the blood and murders

***

What are we looking for instead of freedom?

a man walks alone along the road

and the road seems to him to be the road to heaven

what should we do during the war?

only to move on and seek peace

just live at any cost

What is a person in essence?

The whole gamut of despair from red to white

and that child who walks along the main road

where will the child go?

***

a storm is brewing

inside my heart

Impact [white sound] reduction


‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’ ‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’

so
[far]
{{said}}

                                  haemoglobin


                                    !


o
n

t
h
e

                          NOD




>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<

off the department



*only embarkation is the noun



(and so I dream of a blank page)


//////////////////////////////////////////////
/////////////////////////////////////////////
////////////////////////////////////////////

yet
again

 
Indifference as the (bell) (hoop) (horn)


&

     a     n     s     w     e     r

…………………………………
.
.
.
.
.
  .
    .
      . this as much as turbulence


{not{much{as{this{anymore

{{!
{{0
{{^
{{0



afternoon in the sun
afternoon--=====
after war on the run
after war--=====




and the square sits quietly
and thumbs
it’s nose


■





(thumbs its nose)  


Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and has had work appear widely both online and in print. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter/X/Bluesky @NJApoetry.