A LOOK BACK FROM AGING

by Tricia Knoll

I wore a peace symbol bandana on my arm

when I received a professional degree 

from the Yale graduate school in 1970. 

I marched with candles in California,

put my butt down in an administrator’s office

at Stanford. I did not know then the extent

of my privilege. 

 

We walked. We assembled, chanted

simple words to a drumbeat. We saw

villages destroyed, lives ripped from

ancestral homes. Some of our parents

agreed with what we were doing, but

not all. Not mine. Despite the deaths,

the endlessness of destruction,

hopelessness, despair. 

 

I began to teach high school and met 

refugees. The first to arrive spoke

French, English and Vietnamese. 

A teen described the airlift from the embassy.

How he left his white dog behind. Later

I met Hmong and Mien whose lives

started harder.  

 

I cannot assume that to be pro-Palestinian

is to be an anti-Semite. I’m old enough

to know that flinging slurs gets us nowhere. 

I cry over young children starving to death

in Gaza, mothers giving birth in rubble. 

The clashing words of our leaders seem weak.

Money speaks, what must say do not kill

any more innocents. Insist money be spent

for humans wrapped inside carnage to live, 

eat, shelter, sleep, learn, grow. Open

the walls to food, good food.  

 

Arresting the protesting young enflames.

Horses, soldiers in camo, zip ties. Gaza

is filled with tent cities. Torn tents. 

 

I live in Vermont. My electeds oppose spending

more money for lethal weapons for Israel.

I thank them. When we hear support for Israel

is ironclad—that must not mean only bombs

and guns, the weapons of metal. Our mettle

must stand for the children, the men and women

who have nowhere to go, yet hear threats

that more and worse is yet to come.

Tricia Knoll, an aging Vermont poet, understands what drives campus protests. Her poetry collections often focus on eco-poetry (One Bent Twig) or personal responses to feminism and privilege (How I Learned to be White and The Unknown Daughter).

AMERICAN SENRYU: FRAMED DIPLOMAS ON THE WALL

by William Aarnes

Despite PhDs,

administrators will fail

the test of protest.

William Aarnes lives in Manhattan.

SEARCHING

by Karen Warinsky

I type “Is Bisan” in the search bar

and the next two words appear automatically

with their furtive question mark, “still alive?”

 

Bisan, a Palestinian journalist popped into my Facebook feed

one morning during this latest Mideast roil,

her fresh, round face full of promise 

her troubled brown eyes alert as she posted

cell phone videos of the wreckage of Palestine, the slaughter of the people.

The videos are raw, wound the eyes, sear the soul.

She posts each time she must flee, relocate,

so many displacements now she’s lost count.

One day she shows us her favorite flower

the passionate poppy, Hannoun, red, alive

pushing forth in the spring air,

another day she videos a small boy selling homemade potato chips.

“Delicious, tasty!” she says, almost smiling,

boys flying kites on the beach behind her.  

These moments are her sustenance 

as she shares pictures of her home in the Gaza ruins,

a video of the day a bomb at Al-Shifa hospital just missed her

by two minutes,

her refugee life in Rafah,

stories of others spit out by this war

hundreds of thousands with no safe place to go,

their way home stalled, like the peace talks.

 

Bisan is 27.

She is forthright, emotional, outraged, 

bewildered.

She wonders, "Where is help?  Why is this allowed to go on?"  

Seven months now.

 

She looks into the phone’s lens. Begs, “Don’t get used to

what is happening in Gaza!”

She is searching for rationality, for assistance.

I will keep searching for her, 

pray she can send more videos of children flying their kites, 

sending up wishes,

pray that those wishes get answered.

Karen Warinsky is the author of three collections: Gold in Autumn (2020), Sunrise Ruby (2022 Human Error Publishing), and Dining with War (2023 Alien Buddha Press); a former finalist of the Montreal International Poetry Contest; a Best of the Net nominee; and runs Poets at Large.

SHE WAS NOT MY PATIENT

by Kelley White

Philadelphia toddler dies after shooting herself in the eye with father’s unsecured gun: police. —New York Post, April 8, 2024

But I don’t want to give her name
or the specifics of her case. I don’t want
to invade her family’s privacy. They have already
suffered more than I can imagine. Worse, I’m a grandmother, I can
imagine it. Have imagined it. Have seen other children 
shot. So many. Too many. I will not list their names or ages
only, imagine, this one shot by his brother over a video
game, this one shot by his friend during a game
of spin-the-bottle, this one ‘playing,’ this one
angry for a moment. This one whose grandmother
claimed the gun was safe. Oh, my dear ones
how much I imagine. I see your five year
old hands wrapped around the barrel.
I see the gun tossed casually on a
couch cushion, the gun left on top
of the refrigerator. The gun
on the dashboard of the
abandoned car. I hear
the shots, sometimes,
when I leave the clinic
for lunch. I see the 
crossing guard so
careful with her
charges at the
school just down
the road. I see
the children’s
faces. Their
hands on 
a trigger, 
my own 
old
empty 
hands. 

Pediatrician Kelley White has worked in Philadelphia and New Hampshire. Poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her most recent chapbook is A Field Guide to Northern Tattoos (Main Street Rag Press.) Recipient of 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant she is Poet in Residence at Drexel’s Medical School. Her newest collection, No. Hope Street, was recently published by Kelsay Books.

A WOMAN SEES A REDBUD TREE ON EARTH DAY

by Ilene Millman

Bloom summoned by spring rains 

has summoned her— 

she stands on her patio square 

  

stretching up in her sleepy gray sweats, 

morning sun slowly climbing the arc of sky. 

From where she stands, all rosy 

  

blossoms up and down the redbud 

like pink freckles 

on tanned arms 

  

the woman watches 

the sun curve 

up around the tree’s branches  

  

like a playful kitten, 

and at the touchy tips 

she sees tiny heart-shaped leaves 

  

almost translucent 

as the eyelids of newborns. 

A cardinal hops from pinked arm to arm 

  

to the top of the tree 

his raucous ring of birdie, birdie, birdie 

ending in a slow trill. 

  

It was the whistle of this songbird 

rising on the gaunt wind that caught her— 

  

Aren’t we all susceptible? 

Her mind draws the details— 

  

disappearing species 

melting icecaps, rising seas 

  

and the redbud 

offering its hearts 

  

and the redbud offering 

its hearts.

Ilene Millman is a retired speech/language therapist who spent more than thirty-five years teaching children who learn differently. She published two language therapy games. Millman’s poetry received a Pushcart nomination in 2022 and is featured in print and Net journals including , The New Verse News, Potomac Review, Healing Muse, Nelle, The Journal of New Jersey Poets and others. Her first poetry collection, Adjust Speed to Weather, was published in 2018; her newest collection, A Jar of Moths, was published by Ragged Sky Press in March, 2024.

FAITH RINGGOLD WITH MY DAUGHTER, AGE 9

by Alice Sims-Gunzenhauser

in memoriam: Faith Ringgold, October 8, 1930 - April 13, 2024

Part I, #4: Sunflowers Quilting Bee at Arles by Faith Ringgold

We sit among the adult
audience, you with your pigtail
I with my arm around you. 
Her new French Collection, placing
African American figures in 
white European bastions of art
within her glorious quilts
disconcerting one or two
of the art historians present.
 
When it is time for questions
she calls on you first of all
from among the many raised hands.
You ask why she decided 
to be an artist. 
Faith Ringgold, world famous,
hears the importance of this to you
locks onto your gaze
and says, 

Because when I make art,

then I'm free.

 

Alice Sims-Gunzenhauser is a visual artist and poet who lives in New Jersey. Her art has been included in regional and national exhibits. Her poetry has been published in the Kelsey Review. 

DECLAIM

by Mark Svendsen

for the children

PBS, March 8, 2024

Standing at the crossroads, black with traffic

Waiting for the little green man to tell me I could go

When a child, quick as a nightmare, broke from its mother’s hand

Ran beside me, looking back at her, shrieking, into the road.

Without thought I dived, catching at the child

Bringing it to me and to its mother,

Just as you in my place would have done.

Sometimes, my people, your child becomes my child

Your love becomes my love

Your blood is mine.

But now! What are we thinking now, my people?

For years the children have played, been pushed

Into the middle of the road

And we have turned our face away.

But now, when we are forced to see them

When we are forced to see

We turn our face again?

What are we thinking my people?

Let tears wound our cheeks

For what we’ve done.

Let fear wound our minds

That we think so.

Tell me you love them my people, or I am lost.

Show me you love them my people, 

Or all we are together is gone.

Mark Svendsen prefers concrete to other more porous materials with which to pave his mind but, even then, cracks eventually appear and poems, like weeds of the mind, take root and must be dealt with summarily. He lives in Zilzie, Australia with his partner. There, she writes music, and he writes things – in an attempt to maintain homeostasis.

RUNAWAY TRAIN

by Lavinia Kumar

The first parents convicted in a U.S. mass school shooting were sentenced to at least 10 years in prison Tuesday as a Michigan judge lamented missed opportunities that could have prevented their teenage son from possessing a gun and killing four students in 2021. —AP, April 10, 2024

The judge says, 

These convictions confirm 

repeated acts, or lack of acts, 

that could have halted 

an oncoming runaway train—

the parents who’d purchased

the weapon, 

the unstable son who had killed

with the weapon,

 

the genocide in Gaza

the US and UK giving

the weapons

repeatedly,

the unstable Israel which kills

with weapons,

repeatedly,

a runaway train

that could have been halted.

 

Will anyone be convicted?

Lavinia Kumar’s latest book is Spirited American Women: Early Writers, Artists, & Activists—very short prose of near 90 amazing women writers, poets, publishers, painters, artists, abolitionists, early suffragettes, and activists.

THE BLUE ENVELOPE PROGRAM

by Matthew E. Henry

State police in Massachusetts have begun implementing a program to improve interactions with people on the autism spectrum, building upon legislation that won Senate approval in January and remains before a House committee. —WBUR, April 10, 2024

the purpose: to support drivers with autism spectrum disorders 

during traffic stops. to ensure more sensitive communication

by law enforcement, drivers with ASD will hand a blue-backed 

envelope containing their license, registration, and a checklist 

of tips for the officer(s) on scene.

 

as a teacher, I wonder how this new social skill is scaffolded—

who reviews and instructs in advance of the practical exam. 

being Black, I wonder if this effort to reduce anxiety and 

enhance understanding, gave any thought to differentiating 

for ASD motorists of color. who carefully cautions them on

 

 

how to avoid and maintain eye contact 

and knowing the inherent dangers of both

 

how to calmly comply with contradicting orders

 

how to remain silent while being screamed at 

 

how to contend with the confusion of sarcasm 

or being called “boy” when over the age of 12 

 

how to hold hands at 10 and 2 until told otherwise

 

how and where to store their blue envelope

 

how and where to store their blue envelope for safe retrieval 

 

how to retrieve their blue envelope safely

 

how to remain safe while retrieving their blue envelope

 

how to make no sudden movements while retrieving their blue envelope

 

how to retrieve their blue envelope while making no sudden movements

 

how to forget Steven Washington, Stephon Watts, 

Dainell Simmons, Troy Canales, Osaze Osagie, 

Matthew Rushin, Ryan Gainer, and…

Matthew E. Henry (MEH) is the author of six collections, including the Colored page and The Third Renunciation. He is editor-in-chief of The Weight Journal and an associate poetry editor at Pidgeonholes and Rise Up Review. The 2023 winner of the Solstice Literary Magazine Stephen Dunn Prize, MEH is an educator who received his MFA yet continued to spend money he didn’t have completing an MA in theology and a PhD in education. You can find him at www.MEHPoeting.com writing about education, race, religion, and burning oppressive systems to the ground.

WHERE NO ONE COUNTS

by Lynn White

Source: The Guardian

When will we count the dead in Gaza?
Those buried in named graves we know, 
all the tens of thousands of them,
those buried in the rubble,
the disappeared 
with no one left to name them,
are still unknown
uncounted.

Then the other Disappeared,
prisoners of war
if it were a war,
but with only the rights
of terrorists
who have no rights at all
in this unequal conflict
that some call ‘war’.

And how can we count the injured in Gaza
when there are no hospitals left
and its people don’t count
so no one can count those numbers.
and perhaps no one will
in a country where people don’t count.

Now the starved and starving 
have joined them,
the bags of baby bones
the unaccounted numbers
of intentional famine
in Gaza where still
no one counts.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes.