poem

The Problem with Holidays | Catherine B. Krause

They’re hard on seven hundred fifty-seven dollars a month. Pennies must be squeezed instead of wished on. Big stores induce quick escapes and fits of heavy breathing, but the small and cheap ones are nice when there aren’t too many people who stare. They used to mock and beat you, now they hand you their number because they don’t know who you really are. It’d be over if they found out, so it’s best when there’s no crowd. If Amazon treated their workers like humans, then the Internet would be what you used to think it was, but they don’t, and you know what that’s like. That’s the problem, I guess.

The Artist | Michael Kagan

the artist is the heart of the world
beyond the spin
beyond the soothing rain
the artist is the sensing feeler
the flickering tongue
crawling in dense underbrush
the world grows darker
the artist is a glimmer of light
words and pictures
sounds and visions
paintings of an inner life
in the ruination and thereafter
the promised gardens
that you deny ever happened
defy you in an unchanging frame
an iron figure
fixed in original damage
its original painful husk
and the stubborn monster
the essence of mystery
for the rest of your life

Coming to a Head | JD DeHart

All the images and the sounds
of a long day of striving came
to an imminent head, waking
up no less than four times, burning
sour stomach, heart palpitating
image, all to be surrendered
for a more long-lasting peace,
remnants of political propaganda,
crossbow murder mysteries,
sad siren folk music.
More at https://jddehartpoetry.blogspot.com.

Nooning Tree Estates | Keith Hoerner

$10,000 down
Gets you in
Your choice of
Ranch or two-story
In prestigious Nooning Tree

“Is there one, a Nooning Tree?”
“Of course,” the saleslady answers
Loose strands of hair catching
The corner of her mouth
Like a lie

Tempered by talk of tradition
She motions; I follow
Slipping on the deceptively
Green sod
Outside her display home

She points, arm outstretched
Fingers fanning
In a ta-da moment
“There …
The Nooning Tree”

Under that very shade (weather permitting)
Noon meals were served
To plantation workers
Every day

Quaint, now, isn’t it?”

Yes, if
It were true

If *only* it were *true*
For a few of us
Still know fact from fiction
About this suburbanized
183-year-old black walnut

Its gnarled branches
Leafingthroughsecrets

Midday laughter filtered
Not
Through this centurion’s autumnal rush
Frenetic excitement hung thick in the air
Frozen families, slack-jawed gawkers, jeering landlords *gathered*

On what is now
Premium
Lot 241 (backing to woods)
Where a barbarian’s buffet
Was laid

Bulging
Blood-shot eyes
Subtle smells of rope-
Burned flesh
Slaves *lynched* on the strike of *noon*

On a *tree*
On
A
Bountiful
S  t  r  e  t  c  h  o  f  L  a  n  d

Sermon | Stan Morrison

Good relationships are healing
So go clean up the bad ones
You’re bound to feel better

Envy and grudges are weighing you down
So toss’em in a bonfire watch all the smoke
Be much lighter in the realm of absurdity
Farther along we may understand why

Lows | JD DeHart

Don’t be brought low,
rise. Remember you have
purpose. Your voice
is one of billions but it’s
still a voice that matters.
Don’t let anyone tell you
that your place in life
brings you low. That your
skin or culture brings
you low. Tell them your
story – proudly.
Existence precedes recognition.
A diamond still lives
in the earth even if no one
knows to dig it out.
Be the diamond you are,
sharp or loving edges,
glistening or rough.

Lackadaisical | Cattail Jester

Don’t worry sweetie
the world will come to you

Except it doesn’t
and that is not how this works

The world can be a savage
despotic place where we have
to struggle just to be

Ransoms and rampages

Still it’s nice to believe
there’s an easy going good
in some people.

Passion for the Work | JD DeHart

They rise early, busy
hands scribing, visiting
then revisiting,
coding cautiously,
each small sound caught
in the filter of the exchange,
straining at verb, glimpsing
at meaning, hinting
at overall patterns, painting
findings in paragraphs,
poems, brush strokes, then
starting the process
all over again for clarity.

The “Backfire Effect” – Untruth versus Poetry | Howard Richard Debs

So Chicken Licken believes the sky is falling
because an acorn drops upon his head; he
tells his close associate Henny Penny who
is flabbergasted at the thought and the
two march off to warn as many as possible
as quickly as they can, those such as
Goosey Loosey, Turkey Lurkey, Ducky Lucky,
all greatly concerned about their pending
doom and wondering how they
might ward off this catastrophe. They
urgently go together to see Cocky Locky,
known to be a problem solver without compare
and after presenting their case, he responds
in his usual measured and steady manner:
“The facts are these my friends” he begins,
“look up and see the sky is still in its place
on high above, the clouds still sail by
following the winds aloft, there
is nary a piece of firmament displaced,
the evidence is as clear as the day itself.”
But the others are unconvinced, even more
so do they fear their time has come, it is the end.
Instead of being comforted by the logic given, they
yet more staunchly conclude they are in harm’s way.
They start to run wildly about, trying to escape many
are trampled in the melee, and blindly fleeing
the remaining horde falls off a cliff and dies.
“Belief is the stronger of the truth.”

More at https://communicatorsandcommunications.com/muse-ings/.

The Sea | Mary Anne Zammit

When I open my eyes

Waking up from my dreams.
I felt shocked,
to learn that men have not changed.
That war is still man’s struggle.
Everywhere, around me.

When I opened my eyes,
I only saw women suffering, children misplaced.
In a world where equality and Justice are forgotten words.
So, I closed my eyes and returned to my dreams.
Yes, I still dream that man is compassionate and that one day he will be open to the light.
To peace.
Then, I would open my eyes.

I like to paint the sea,
And write a poem for its beauty,
its moods fascinate me, high, low, loving, destructive.

Still, when I look at the sea,
I see other waves, the countless souls of immigrants perished in sea.
Women, men, children and so I do not feel like painting it.
How I long to embrace the waves hoping to put an end to this ongoing tragedy.

The sea and all the souls behind it.

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