New Published Poems

Happy Sunday! It’s pouring rain here right now, but I hope it will be ending soon.

I have poems out in two anthologies. I’m waiting to receive both of them.

My poem, “The Cure is Us” is in These Poems Kill Fascists, compiled by Fin Hall. Available here.

I have three poems in Unhoused from Prolific Pulse Press. Here’s the trailer:

It’s available on Amazon or through the Prolific Pulse Website.

Where We Are Now (Less than a Week In)

BERJAYA
William Trost Richards, On the New Jersey Shore, 1897

Where We are Now (Less than a Week In)

I want to upend the eve,
un-reflect the sun sinking in ice-topped river,

let it rise again, undo
the done, the rue, the rule

of not the best, not the brightest,
not the kindest, nor the caring,

not those bound by logic, wisdom,
or common decency—or sense–

the world burns, the brownshirts come,
more die—greed trumps grief–

will the sun not come again tomorrow,
they say,
this is the best of all possible worlds,

but I want to read the hours backwards,
like words seen in a mirror

now the crows wake,
now the fish dance in dawn’s light,
now you are here beside me still.

A poem for dVerse. The prompt is to use negation. “The best of all possible worlds” was a deliberate reference to Candide, Voltaire or Bernstein.😉

It took me awhile to get a proper poem, instead of a rant. I’m determined to let the light in, but I’m not going to overlook what’s going on, such as:
the pardoning of violent criminals, including those who injured police officers; pardoning a drug trafficker (more than $200m worth through his dark web site); the elimination of caps on prescription drugs; the constant barrage of disinformation, and the trampling on the Constitution. How about Nazi salutes? There’s just so much to love, especially if you admire fascism and oligarchs.

Shattered

BERJAYA

Shattered

Sometimes it takes an earthquake
to turn the world upside down,
other times,
a chain of ragged men,
wed to false nostalgia–
the obedient true believers and the deranged
crack the engines of progress, flatten tires,
apply the brakes

till the cracks widen and inequality grows,
it is simple arithmetic,

the slippery slope of beneficial deals,
the ahistorical fiction fed to a leader
and his brethren,
unfulfilled dreams—

there is no utopia.

In the aftermath, the masks slip
the enchantment vanishes,
the prince is a cockeyed monster, not dashing,
the wishes are merely that—
the men are still ragged, still waiting,
their countries shattered

ancient wishes spray the sky like clouds

and vanish.

I don’t typically write such political poems, but the random words that Jane generated—Oracle II—demanded it.