CIVIL WAR: ACT 2
Three hundred years ago,
Europe wasn’t white.
Men were French, Polish, Italian, Greek,
Swiss, Danish, Ukranian, Turk,
Finns, Spanish, Austrian, Swedes,
Dutch, Irish, German, Serbs.
Not white.
Three hundred years ago,
Africa had no blacks.
They were Maasai, Himba, Zulu, San,
Dogon, Yoruba, Berber, Bantu,
Kikuyu, Ndebele, Ashanti, Hausa,
Fulani, Samburu, Hadzabe, Igbo.
Not black.
Then slave traders came with guns and ropes,
buying and selling.
Captured Africans filled boats
stacked like cordwood.
Now they were black.
Auctioned off to customers
who matched every shade on the gray scale,
but had the power to be white.
Opposites. Duality.
Authority vs. slavery.
Slavery endorsed by church-going whites.
After all, black property wasn’t Christian.
Nor truly human.
When the world is black and white,
individuality is erased.
Only poles remain,
like goalposts in a football game.
Immigrants jockey for a place on the yard line.
But the poles are not equal.
The balance is off,
and imaginary goalposts
flash like ghosts.
Tremors of change shake the field,
and those who own nothing but whiteness
lash out,
afraid they will lose their grip.
Those whose blackness is matched
by talent and ambition
see a new day on the horizon.
But many hang on to the old days,
days when Jim Crow kept order,
kept the lowest white
a degree above the highest black.
Along comes a TV name with a slogan:
Make America great (white) again.
The second Civil War begins.
Shots ring out.
Hate crimes multiply—
against Muslims, Asians, Jews, Hispanics, Blacks…
The first skirmishes in a war we thought was over.
Democracy dies first.
A foot on the neck, until life is snuffed out.
We should have seen this coming.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
nerve damage i can feel the nerve damage in my middle finger i guess the knife went deep enough part of me knows that many people are chuckling knowing they wanted the knife to go deeper all i can preach is patience your day will be here before you know it ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- fogs up my glasses another morning in some medical center scribbling poems in the waiting room as my mask fogs up my glasses i doubt the pandemic ever ends and i'm sure this will be my life until my mother dies not much of a life by the usual standards but i do what i can with what i have i can't say the same for everyone else --------------------------------------------------------------------------- a little less gentle soft black skin connecting the tubes explaining this is going to hurt a little i chuckle and explain my high pain tolerance, hoping she knows to be a little less gentle she starts the procedure and i imagine her naked i believe she noticed or that was my imagination having her lick her lips and start to open her sweater up for a better view -------------------------------------------------------------------------- laughing at the hard times i learned a long time ago that laughing at the hard times will take you much farther than the endless misery of complaining now, my laughter has turned more to sarcasm as i have grown older the joys of becoming an old cynical fuck it does have some perks no one tends to fuck with you or bother to talk to you or most days, if you can get so lucky, they will forget you exist talk about a good day ------------------------------------------------------------------------- make me find the joy contemplating suicide again it always comes up around the holidays there's an angel out there that hopes to cure me make me find the joy i applaud and admire her effort but she's old enough to know there is no escaping certain tragedies
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Poetry from Hong Ngoc Chau
THE POET AND LIFE Authoress: HONG NGOC CHAU Leaving the school podium, I process my dream Literary career desire still lingers me, I write poems About life, my feelings spread everywhere I take the standard of human love as the ruler The true, the good, the beautiful are my desires Living for people, I respect this value as ever Originally literature helps me sublimate my soul And music, painting with glittering feature halo I reflect on human life from the reality Getting humanities to lead the journey I always look towards the spiritual world Teaching offsprings as the basic words With virtuous behavior, I keep morality To know mutuality, love, I live sincerely Subjectively wrong or right as my own mind Not many words, cunning I don’t mesmerize For my career, I keep my words indeed In my heart, the enthusiasm of the poet I love life, days by days increasing vitality Love my country, my people, and humanity
Her true name is NGUYEN CHAU NGOC DOAN CHINH. Her Pen name is HONG NGOC CHAU, her Facebook name is NGUYEN CHINH.
She was graduated Master degree in Education Management. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Ho Chi Minh City (Vietnam), the Honorary Foreign Advisor, Ambassador of the Suryodaya Literature Foundation (SLF) From- Vietnam; the member Admin of W.U. P (World Union of Poets), the level of GENERAL COUNCILOR of the World Union of Poets with COORDINATORS SILVER MEDAL ( 14th medal of the World Union of Poets), Contributor of VISHWA BHARATI – India (The Vishwabharati Research Center), Administrator, moderator, group expert of many literary forums around the world…
She got a lot of rewards and diplomas such as World Literary Prize World poetic Star 2019; Diploma of II ND Level “Temirqazyq – the Best Poet – Writer of the World,2019”; Certificate of honor is a Gold categorized member in Motivational Strip showing outstanding qualities in global literary excellence and contributions 2019. Premio Mundial A La Excelencia Literaria 2019-2020; COPPER CROSS of The World Union Of Poets for promotion of art 2020; Honorary Diploma 2020/2021: Literary Luminaries Award of The School of Art and Poetry; S.L.F Literary EXCELLENCE AWARD 2020, Certificate of appreciation of TOP TEN WRITER 2020; HAVEN FOR THE WORLD WRITERS, Certificate of honor 2020 of WORLD AWARDS “CÈSAR VALLEJO 2020”, for education, culture, academy, art, reporting, communication, TV, business, civic, human rights…; “THE ODER OF SHAKESPEARE” MEDAL (23/4/2021) of MOTIVATIONAL STRIPS; Certificate of author recognition presented to NGUYEN CHINH – 2021, Poetic warriors Award of excellence 2021; CASA POETICA Magia y Plumas, Primio De Arte Y Literatura Universal 2021, RHYTHM OF THE HEART, Certificate of appreciation is awarded as TOP CONTRIBUTOR (2021), GENESIS WORLD WRITER COMMUNITY Global Certificate of Excellence (World Wide Platform to Elevate Outstanding Global Writers) 2021, Queen Zenobia Award for Global Culture 2021, Perfect Attendee Award GOLD A 2021-2022 of POETRY CENTER;
CULTURAL AND ARTISTIC ACTIVITIES Books of poems published: Vietnamese Contemporary Poetry (Volume 1); The road to the true heart, Pitiable or Blamable… and many works have been published on world literary forums, newspapers, magazines of English Literature, USA, India, Poland, China, etc., global publications; honored to receive the Excellence Award of the European Poetry Championship 2021, honored to participate in the 2nd World Literature Festival 2021, honored works selected by Indian Educators to be published in a multilateral anthology Global convenience, honor to attend the World Poetry Championship 2021, Inner Child Press International-‘building bridges of cultural understanding’ 2019, 2020, 2021. v.v…
Poetry from Lorraine Caputo
WASHES I stretch out across the white-sheeted bed in my sea-colored room dappled with filtered sunlight I fall asleep, Don Quijote’s spine splayed above my head & I awaken to the sound of rain I peer through the open wooden slats of my window The sky is solid white with low clouds laying upon the sea grey & rolling, rolling white Thunder tumbles through this early afternoon This morning I sat out in the sandy courtyard to eat & could not I sat out here to write & could not I watched the white sun play tag with the clouds I wished it would rain, that it would so I could hide away within these blue walls where no-one could disturb me I feel like delving into this poetry to flesh out the sketches I have begun to give life to them I want to give birth to more & more poems But I am filled with hesitancy to hold my poems within these hands & to shape them My journal looms with its fleshless events Fear I may forget washes into me & I shrink away Then once more I expand to embrace the words & once more I contract A TOWN AWAKENING In the morning twilight, a pair of women washes dishes on a corner. Then one places the oilcloth over the tables where soon they’ll serve pupusas & coffee. She stacks the plates in the rack, recounts the silverware. The second checks the swelled corn before taking it to be ground. The beans are on the fire. A drunk stumbles & sways past on the other side of the road. In front of a shop, a man sweeps yesterday’s trash into the street. The broom’s swish is lost on the rumble of a passing bus. Pigeons swoop down from the tops of buildings. They peck along the ground. A skinny golden dog sniffs the garbage in the gutter. A graying-haired woman in experienced haste sets up her general store stand. The tarp overhang is stretched, items placed on shelves. A woman stops to buy eggs & sugar. A pick-up truck drives towards the market. Baskets & crates stack a-back, full of bananas, cabbage, tomatoes. Wood boards clank as they build make-shift stalls. Mangos & melons, green-topped onions & braided garlic mound. The rattle of a dolly, the groan & hiss of bus brakes, the laughter of men’s conversations. A radio is turned on somewhere. The sounds of this town awakening swell around the pupusa woman who sits, chin on hand, at one of the tables, waiting for her comadre to return from the mill. YEARNING THE SEA I. A child is crying when I fall into a visionless sleep … & I awaken in the dark to a voice & the perfume of a night flower my journey soon will continue wending, twisting from snowy mountains to warmer lands II. In this lower place the days grow thick with storms never to break the sky heavy the horizon hazed I long to hear the wash of rains all day, all night with a crisp explosion of thunder III. I need to journey once more in search of the rain the sea & in my fatigue as I await my near- midnight hour departure once more I smell the sweet perfume of some flower IV. This new day I awaken to flat, flat plains & nearer to another range alpenglow-bathed in the sunrise Still too far from the sea, the rain the thunder LISTENING This three-quarter moon brightens the paths & brush In the breeze of the lessening tide sway salt bush & muyuyo The night air washed with the constant whisper of waves washing upon worn lava & here I sit, listening to this night listening …
Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 300 journals on six continents, and 19 collections – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, with works in the anthologies Drive: Women’s True Stories from the Open Road (Seal Press, 2002) and V!VA List Latin America (Viva Travel Guides, 2007), as well as articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan
No freckles in a foxhole No reason to go straight with all the roads and learning on the curve. No freckles in a foxhole, that’s what I always say with no one around. Slowly spooning cubes of green Jell-O out of the Borg continuum. Wishing Hitchcock Photography was in charge of all my best close-ups. Midnight taco trucks playing greasy shell games to God. Everyone down at the Employment Center in line looking for the works. Land Bridge Once they close the damn thing down, you start to think of all the circuitry involved, that intricate green board of so many unpleasantries, a murder of crows for silicon valley, the cops on the scene with massive hangovers so you can watch your toilet water tax dollars be flushed away; truckers like lonely monks without the sash, but I could never accept the cabin like a coffin for so many miles; all those rules of the road, that carnival itch of a six day beard – how closely I resemble this land bridge of complex carbohydrates, a bedside table full of happier times I can hardly remember standing over this buzzing ice machine waiting on another glacial pull from the heavy-eyed doldrums you find west of the Rockies. OshKosh Brioche You can’t take the vaude out of the ville no matter how small the population gets and it’s OskKosh brioche, all factory stacks to smoke; the smoker of cigarettes travelling around in packs, dry-mouth nicotine armies blowing smoke rings of unholy matrimony, during those many long lunch hours that seem like they should be for more than drugs but never get there in the late-January snowshoe sense. Prayer Mats in the sprawling dry mouth desert spitting hump day camels at market going Bedouin for the long haul all those prayer mat Fridays facing the East instead of liquidation waiting for some simple scorpion sting around the fire under all those stars from the sharing fellowship heavens of the waiting galactic federation. Long Gone He said he worked at a gas chamber and it took me three hours to figure out he had said gas station, but by then I was sitting at home and he was long gone like all those shoot ‘em up extras in spaghetti westerns that don’t even live as long as the horses. She Smacks Her Lips Those ugly gusts of wind are almost enough to keep the once-friendly dog parks indoors. I threaten to drop the bomb even though I have never had the bomb and any of its known accomplices in my popular employ. She smacks her lips so you know she is preparing to say something important even if it doesn’t mean shit to anyone else. On that slippery plastic couch my grandmother once died on with a tongue so thick it could be some cement mixer ham steak the kiddies can’t bite through come dinner time. Crack a tooth and cry on command. Put all your problems to bed. Sit up in the dark on a phone that threatens to come over. Her snoring husband in the background of a movie no one will ever remember seeing. Name Plate Nevermind the name plate, you could be anyone’s failing blood feud, pick umbilical at that bacteria-laden innie half a world away from the stringy pink placenta some performance artist in Europe insists on eating to the great bemusement of a failing union – standing inside that last payphone in town for warmth, I blow across gloved hands out of habit, watch the cheesemonger with mites for legs crawl home to some seasonal flood zone in the burbs; that scratching body lice of old records along the bus route, no way to get anywhere that ever pays near enough to make it in a naked
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
Poetry from Michael Robinson
Resurrection For Dr. Stephen C. Wright In the mountain skies of Vermont were heaven reigns, Remembering the night while darkness surrounded me. Beginnings of a life of prayer with an earnest heart. Redemption always eluded me at Sunday Mass. Seeking absolution for all the sins which came upon me. Night prayers left a feeling of loneliness in troubled times. My life song came when God saved me with his grace. Easter Sunday sunrise birds flew in the open skies. Celebration of birth came in the quietness of morning. Tears of joy circled my soul for the first time. God’s beauty never fades, giving me life eternal
Poetry and Prose from Judge Santiago Burdon
She Bleeds For Brooklyn excerpt from Not Real Poetry She lives with low rent day dreams on no name backstreets. Dirty sidewalks made from quicksand concrete, There's no yellow brick road. In this city like a desert without an oasis. Hope a disease that breeds in places, Where God wouldn't go. In the air there's a stench, the smell of desperation. lives are stamped with a date of expiration. The Devil's grip on their souls. Night crashes down with the sound of a train wreck. She's on the prowl for love and everyone's suspect, But they just leave her cold. A chorus full of sirens singing life’s disasters There’s no fairy tale ending living happily ever after Reads like a Sexton poem She cries with a sound no one can hear Her eyes lost their voice Now she can't speak with tears She wonders about life on the other side of the mirror. Kneels down for one more unanswered prayer. But there's no one listening out there. She bleeds, she bleeds for Brooklyn She's hemorrhaging lies and alibis. She bleeds, she bleeds for Brooklyn. Break free Persephone Brooklyn left the front porch light on.
I Don’t Believe In Witchcraft
Excerpt from “Quicksand Highway”
When I lived in New Orleans a long while ago, my Dame de Mois at the time, Simone, gave me a Ledbury dress shirt for my birthday. It was magenta with the inside collar and cuffs in a subtle eggshell hue. I was excited to try it on and model it for her. The process of opening a new dress shirt is tedious. I have always been curious as to why they use so many straight pins in new shirts. I began pulling out the pins and putting them in a nearby empty beer can. ” Don’t throw them away!” She screamed. “Give them to me, I save straight pins!” ” Why the hell would you want to save all these pins?” I inquired ” I use them on my Voodoo dolls.” She smiled in a scary sort of way.
“What the hell are you talking about? Are you telling me you’re a witch?” ” I don’t particularly care for the word “witch,” I’d prefer Wiccan, it would describe me much better. Witch has many connotations and has been popularized in books, movies and in fairy tales. Most often we are portrayed in an evil or wicked manner, which is not the case.” ” So you practice Magic, like casting spells and mixing up potions?” ” Well yes but it isn’t sinister like you’re making it sound. Are you familiar with the Wicca Religion and practices?” “Somewhat, but I’m not as knowledgeable as I wish I was now.” “We aren’t evil or Satan worshipers, I’m a good witch not a bad witch, celebrating nature as well as the Moon and planets. ”
I appreciate your attempt to make me feel comfortable, but the good witch, bad witch reference doesn’t help, it reminds me of the “Wizard of Oz” movie. That damn movie caused me a great amount of anguish as a child ; witches, those damn flying monkeys and all those dwarfs, midgets or little people, whatever is the politically correct name for them, it really freaked me out. My mother made us watch it every Thanksgiving back in Chicago and the song “Over the Rainbow” sent me into a panic and state of fear whenever I heard Judy Temple sing it.” ” No Santi, it’s Judy Garland who sang it, not Shirley Temple, you mixed them together.” “See what I mean. A perfect example of how just talking about it causes me distress. ” It was the first and last time I wore the shirt.
His first book “Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild Cautionary Tales” was published in January 2020 by Horror Sleaze Trash Press. His next book is a collection of poems, “Not Real Poetry” published in July 2021 by Steve Cawte, Editor of Impspired Press. Arthur Graham, Editor of Horror Sleaze Trash Press released “Quicksand Highway” more short stories of adventurous mayhem in November 2021. Judge turned 68 last July and lives modestly in Costa Rica.