Randomness

Randomness 
by Rick Landers


I saw a little bird falling from the sky 
I felt a small rumble there beneath my feet 
Everything’s moving faster than it should 
in this universe 

A child points to a place of peace, yet unknown 
Read his lips he says, “It’s far from home.” 
While spinning into a vast emptiness 
Where no one belongs 

The light up in the sky it obscures my view 
Earth’s melodic rhythms, will return anew 
allowing me and you, 
Such innocence 

I don’t know why we cry 
I don’t know why birds fly 
I don’t know why things die 
Could this be randomness? 

We’ll build strong shelters for the vital few 
To protect our loved ones from the mighty storms 
We’ll re-awaken Nature’s fire 
like those who came before 


She said “Temptation only leads to sin.” 
I said “No, I’ve been there and back again” 
It’s just a scheme dreamed up by holy men 
lost in their wilderness 

I saw a little bird falling from the sky 
I felt a small rumble there beneath my feet 
Everything’s moving faster than it should  
Then plays repeat 

I don’t know why we cry 
I don’t know why birds fly 
I don’t know why things die 
Could this be randomness? 
Could this be randomness? 

(c) Rick Landers 2023 

Rick Landers is a multi-award-winning singer-songwriter, a poet, publisher
(Guitar International magazine) and author who fronts the Virginia-based band
Heartland which perform Rick’s original songs. The band has been selected to perform at the
2023 National Cherry Blossom Festival. Rick was recently interviewed by the respected
Nashville Voyager magazine. He is currently writing a children’s book series called, The
Adventures of Digit and Tess, about a young teen and her robotic AI cat. His first poem, “Digit the Cat,” appeared in 2018’s 30 for 30.

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I Know Sad

I Know Sad
by Lynn Strongin

It comes and go. We cannot sleep under tents, parched, starving
I don’t understand it

But it seems to have its own timing and one must accept it

In Prettyville, Missisippi, in Kabul,
I have known sad
Held its face in my hands

Cloe
Heart-shaped
Kissed its lips:
          Bayou flowers bloomed & a child drowned
          It begins to feel like life in an iron lung. Only, I have no circle cut ino my windpipe to let the requiem sound.

Copyright 2023 by Lynn Strongin

Born and raised in NYC, Lynn Strongin is well-known in the States. She has won a NEA grant in creative writing; has been published in five countries, been translated int Italian, German and French. A resident of Canada for forty-four years. She was recently nominated for a Woodcock award for lifelong achievement in writing in British Columbia.

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The Dream

The Dream
by Judy Kronenfeld

For eons, we cannot talk, my brother, my sister.
I am one of them to you; you are one of them to me.
And we each know—knives held between our teeth—
how murderous the other is, or wants to be.
Our stories calcify in isolation, yours a holy shrine
visited only by your people, mine a holy shrine,
visited only by mine.

But then, as ages pass like clouds
in time-lapse video, something you say,
my sister, my brother, pierces my armor.
A small, surprising chink has already appeared
in yours, like the sun startling at dawn
on the Summer Solstice, behind the Heel Stone
at Stonehenge.

For many generations more, we live
with the inconvenience of incomplete
defenses. And now comes the point when
the dream wants desperately to pull
the rabbit of hope out of the black
hat of horror. But the dreamers
say to the dream There is no magic. Or, How arrogant! 
You cannot possibly know my lived experience.

Still, the dream keeps beginning, dreaming itself,
fantasizing. One night, when I am dreaming,
one of my people names her first-born son
with two names, one in my language,
one in yours. One night, when you are dreaming,
one of your people names his first-born daughter
with two names, one in his language, one in mine.
Let us imagine Ezra Bassam, let us imagine Hanan Ahava—
each child born with an imaginary sibling,
a brother, or sister bound to him or her, with whom 
each freely walks on the land they love,
practicing, practicing...

Copyright 2023 by Judy Kronenfeld

"The Dream" was first published in One Art, October 23, 2023.

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My Cousin Israel, How Do We Handle This?

My Cousin Israel, How Do We Handle This?
by Dennis Price

My cousin was raped and murdered.
The family seeks revenge and safety.
How far do I go supporting them?
Two wrongs don’t make a right.
An eye for an eye soon leaves all blind.
A hungry, besieged stomach
Does not understand the politics of collective punishment.
But how do you shake the salt out, once it has blended
Itself  with the ground pepper?
Grain by grain, or winnowing it with the wind?
Surely not by burning it all up!
Life is cruel,
Must we be crueler?
Do the numbers tattooed on our arms
Give us the right to terrorize, 
To be unbuffered in our defense?
Surely there are quieter, more nuanced, long-term
Solutions that don’t require so much
Blood and pepper be ground together.

Copyright 2023 by Dennis Price

Dennis Price is a shy writer of poetry, who uses it as a journal and diary of his life. In his spare time he’s a parent of two, husband and cat father. He makes money by making sawdus
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Mayday

Mayday *
by Marian Shapiro

				  
				  

They’re falling
falling  clusters 
clusterbombs    feathers
feathers 	blood      ducks dropping
dropping   dead  					shot
shot mid-air
mid-air  blood showers
showers              hail
hailstones		     blood
blood-streaked stones felled to earth
earthquake   flood    fire
fire   pyre  crematorium
crematorium    where you
you mother father 
fathermother of  you
you friend   wife   husband				 dead
dead on these pages
pages of children pages 
pages pictures  poems
poems    pages           remembrances 
remembrances of the fallen
fallen, all fallen
fallen all.


* The etymology of Mayday is from the French, “M’AIDER” or M’AIDEZ”,  namely, “help me”.

Copyright 2023 Marian Shapiro

Marian Kaplun Shapiro is a psychologist and author of five books of poetry. "Mayday" was originally  published in Players In The Dream, Dreamers In The Play, Plain View Press, 2007. 
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Conflict, Tragedy, Resolution: Poems and Essays

In response to the ongoing tragedy in the Middle East, I will be posting poems of protest, of witness, of resistance, of survival and of empathy by poets from all over the country and, hopefully, from all over the world. Beginning tomorrow, November 1, and through the rest of the month, a new poem by a different poet will be posted. It is my intention to also post essays on the same theme should any arrive in my inbox.

This is an on-going project open to everyone Just send me a poem or an essays following these guidelines.

Please read and respond. Let’s start a dialogue. Let’s make an impact. Let’s not forget the innocent victims who suffer each day.

To peace.

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Call for Poems and Essays: Conflict, Tragedy, Resolution

In light of the recent tragedy that occurred in Israel on October 7 and the resultant, ongoing tragedy that is happening in Gaza, I am putting out a call for poems and essays related to Conflict, Tragedy, Resolution: poems of protest, poems of witness, poems of resistance, poems of survival and poems of empathy. Poems that address both humanity and inhumanity as manifested in this and all conflicts, past and present.

I am also looking for short, personal essays that address the themes above, especially essays of personal experience or from those close to you who have had such experiences. Holocaust survivors. Palestinians who have been bulldozed out of their homes. Ukrainians who have fled their towns and villages for safer ground. Whatever the conflict, whatever the era, I want your poems and essays. No matter your race, no matter your tribe, I want to hear your thoughts on the atrocities that only human beings can perpetrate.

Selected poems and essays will be posted on my web site, mikemaggio.net, on a daily basis throughout the month of Noverm. All rights will revert to the author.

Poems and essays should not contain any racist, hateful or misogynistic language and should be between 10 and 20 lines. Essays should be no longer than 2 pages. Please include a short bio.

Send your best and most powerful work. Let’s make an impact on the world.

For further information or to submit, contact me at poem@mikemaggio.net

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Collateral Damage

(we regret the loss of)
	civilian casualties
(we regret the loss of)
	innocent bystanders
	independent observers
	unembedded reporters

(we regret the loss)
	

(we regret the)
	Ministry of Finance
(we regret the)
	Press Building
(we regret)
(we regret)
	the Ministry of Culture
	Children’s Hospital
	the pharmaceutical facility
(we)

(regret)
(regret)
(regret)

(the loss of)
	doctors
(the loss of) 
(the loss of)
(we)
	nurses
(we)
(regret)
(the loss)
(of)

	medical supplies
(the lossof)
	syringes
(the lossof)
	pain killers

(the lossof regret we)

(regret)
	history
(the loss of) 
(we apologize)
(we’re sorry for your)
           geographical location	
	house
	your market
(we regret the)
(regret)
	the bridge across the river
(our condolences for)
(our deepest sorrow)
(our commiseration)
(our pity for)
	your baby
	your wife
	your son
	your husband

(we regret the)
(thethethethethethethethe)

(we regret the)
	values
(we insist)
(we claim)
(we maintain)
(we regret the)
	liberation
(the lossof)
	oil
(we regret)
	the country
(we maintain the regret of)

(we do regret)
	freedom
(we regret the)
	constitution
(we regret the lossof)
(we regret the lossof)
	freedom of press
(we do)
(we do)
(we do so regret)
	freedom of speech
(the lossof the lossof the lossof)
(the)
	right to a fair trial
(thethethethethethethethe)
	right to counsel
(we regret the)
(we)
(we)
(we)
(we regret)
(we so regret)
(we do so regret)
(we do hereby declare)
(we swear on our mothers)
(we swear on the flag)
(we swear on the bible)
(we swear on the corporation)
(we’re sorry)
(the number you have dialed)
(we’re so sorry)
(we sincerely apologize)
(we can’t express our)
(we regret the loss of)

Copyright 2007, 2023 by Mike Maggio

This poem originally appeared in my collection, deMockracy (Plain View Press, 2007), partially funded by a grant from The Puffin Foundation.

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After the Beheading

After the Beheading
 
What they did
they did
in the name of god

in the name of god

as long 
as I have
head
or tongue
or hand
I will not remain silent

in the name of god
the godless
did
what they did

and the world quaked

what god
could create
such acts
in the name of
such men

what god

they did
what they did

in the name of god

not spit nor brass
shall glorify them

no god
shall pull asunder
what god has rendered

no man
shall render god
godless
in what they do

for god
in his magic
will render godless
in all their godliness
no godlier
that what they did
god
in his magic wisdom
will render
on this horrid, bloodless day

in the name of god

on this day
no god
shall remain
as ungodly as thou
on this day
no god
shall remain

in the name of god
I do hereby swear

Copyright 2007, 2023 by Mike Maggio

This poem originally appeared in my collection, deMockracy (Plain View Press, 2007), partially funded by a grant from The Puffin Foundation.

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That Day on the Gaza

This poem was written during the first Palestinian intifada. Because of what’s happening now in Gaza following the brutal Hamas attack on Israel on October 7, I am posting it here today.

While no one should condone what took place that day, we should not forget that oppressed people can only be oppressed for so long. The fight for freedom never dies. The pressure can build for only so long before the pressure cooker explodes.

There’s only one solution for peace — for both the Palestinians and the Israelis: a political solution which involves two, independent states.

They were tired. 
They had waited twenty years. 
Too many houses had fallen 
too many olive groves destroyed. 
The songs of Fairuz 
veiled their patient tongues. 
The barbed wire fence 
encaged the camps 
like a prison. 
 
That day on the Gaza 
the children were playing in the broken gutter. 
The men in kuffiyyas 
were waiting restlessly 
for their bus to the quarries. 
There was a woman in black 
squatting on the sidewalk. 
She was selling fruits and herbs. 
She was washing her wares 
in her quiet tears. 
 
A young boy picked up an angry stone. 
Then the soldiers came 
then there was wailing 
then the sounds of silence died. 
 
Give me a stone, 
I don't need no gun. 
Guns were made 
by the hands of the warden. 
Stones were made 
by the hand of God. 
 
Give me a stone, 
I will fill up the sky. 
The sky is a place 
that has no limits.
Freedom is a tree 
that never dies.

Copyright 1988, 2023 by Mike Maggio

This poem originally appeared in my chapbook, Oranges From Palestine (Mardi Gras Press, 1996).

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