A Poem by Anon ymous
There is always the sea. The last place
to worship. It is primitive, the future.
It is the altar for heaven.
The sky is awestruck, feels feeble
and helpless, runs through possibilities:
roiling
tumultuous
serene
tempestuous
settles on tranquil.
It is sunlight scattered amongst the leaves.
It is within reach;
limb by limb she begins.
A Poem by Anon ymous.
Once she opens her eyes it will be all over.
A small brown bird sits on the sill, next to geraniums.
Believing is art.
An unfinished painting leans against the wall.
She folds her hands together.
The wind passes over in a trance.
She says it is cruel to capture fireflies, steal their light.
Her lips are dry, a leaf flutters then falls;
she curses it, but never out loud.
She is unrepentant.
A Photograph by Korey J. Brownstein.
Photo Credit: Korey J. Brownstein
A Painting by a Vietnamese children who live in the city of Dong Ha.
A Painting by a Vietnamese children who live in the city of Dong Ha.
A Poem by Cheryl Kutcher
Fundamental
shift
in perception.
Observing from
other side
of room
looking at
my life
with clarity
new power
new strength
of mind
needs assertion
in space
in time
it’s mine.
A Painting by a Vietnamese children who live in the city of Dong Ha.
A Painting by a Vietnamese children who live in the city of Dong Ha.
A Photograph by Sarah Edwards.
Photo Credit: Sarah Edwards
A Photograph by Sarah Edwards.
I’m an experimental/street photographer living in Montreal, Canada. This picture was taken today from my day–35mm film and cross processed during development.
Photo Credit: Sarah Edwards
A Poem by Anon ymous
The White Stripes follow Charlie Parr, followed by
Cowboy Junkies. (I’m so lonesome
I just died.)
Johnny Cash and endless possibilities only dreamed
on an open road. Haley Bonar and Nick Cave
sing of a religious experience. The self same one
written about in that letter;
never sent,
inside was a poem
a confession
a planned conversion
a one way ticket
and an excuse.
Sealed it and put it in back of the desk drawer,
it’s there right now,
waiting.
A Haiku by Lynda Riley
the spider willow
clouds and the bluest of sky
and then the rain comes
A Poem by Flair
Last night is actually background,
the next day a puzzle
the present a reward–
Wake each day like you mean it,
day blue/yellow sun,
learning is the risk of living
each moment
the unwrapping of a present
within the present.
A Poem by Anon ymous
She lights a match,
rubs the ash between her fingers.
Realizes how much remains
to be unsaid
It’s difficult to resist
the feeling of weightlessness
that comes from longing.
The sea cowers.
If she were strong enough,
she would worship it.
A Poem by M. Lapin.
The scar faced boy and the scar faced man,
Skin dripping rash and disorder,
Walk through the Monsanto field
And can’t help but taste the acid in the haze,
The fizz of fresh chemical and treated crop.
One day there will be an easier route,
But that day is not today nor will it be tomorrow
Sorry. This is what we do, this is how we injure,
This is how we create a better world
For everyone else—just not you two
Walking the path through the field
To school, to marketplace, to jobs.
A Poem by Anon ymous
What loves the stones.
For they seem to exist.
She can’t put a name on silence.
Figures it must be God.
He knows the nouns and verbs that spell despair.
She asks,
for no one:
What loves the sky.
What loves the hawk circling the field.
What loves the field the hawk circles.
What loves a well wrought story.
There is nothing left but completeness,
the quiet balance of morning.
A Poem by Michael H. Brownstein
Soon rivers will be hidden behind a gasp of trees,
Leaf will waken to the ends of wind,
And the ground will thicken into grass and turbulence.
A rising sun, wine red, like the brilliance of Torah,
Weaves strings of cloud into footpaths,
Avenues of bright blue across the water.
When I count my blessings,
I always count you twice.
No, that’s not right:
I really count you thrice.
–an ancient Irish saying
A Poem by Pham Thi Thuy
In summer
sunlight, wind, water,
the voice of birds
and it rains
earth drops, earth drops.
Wow, wonderful!
(Editor’s note: this poem is the poet’s first written poem and they wrote it in English in their English study class–their native language is Vietnamese.)
A Poem by Anon ymous
There is space. So much space.
It is suffocating.
Light pressure, not the stifling wall
of drowning in a shallow pool.
The sky bleeds:
from the clouds
from the wind
the rain a crimson curtain.
The sun is a bright white shark in a tar black sea.
The moon remains
simply the moon.
Sinking upward,
a cliché whose value has been spent.
A Poem by The True Patriots
The flag right or wrong–wrong
The nation right or wrong-wrong
The patriot is not a patriot if right or wrong is right
Nationalism is a disease if right or wrong is right.
The making of a nation is more than fireworks and bar-b-ques,
it’s an empathy for others, a world view, a selflessness.
This fourth, take a moment for religious freedom,
freedom of speech, freedom of the press,
and get a better understanding of what freedom is–
but know this: for us to be free, so should every nation,
every flag, every patriot no matter where they live.
We should be the Peace Corp of the world, not tyrants disguised as police.
A Prose Piece by J.R. Johnson
Thursday: cold, overcast, and more exciting than expected. Sirens are normal in this neighborhood, but these didn’t fade into the distance. In fact, they got louder and multiplied. After the third or fourth wail I felt the low rumble of heavy equipment through the house’s foundation and decided to check it out. Western Avenue was choked with cars and, more dramatically, smoke. A few people were already on the street clutching cat carriers and file boxes. The less prepared had a jacket if they were lucky, nothing but a towel if they weren’t. Smoke poured from the roof and back of the big apartment across the street.
The building is home to a lot of young families, students, and single men. Fire alarms go off there all the time, but usually it’s nothing; not so today. More residents pushed out through the front doors. Firemen grabbed their gear and ran inside. A uniformed expediter in the street called out instructions to the seven engines, five EMTs, two ambulances, and uncounted police cars. He didn’t need a megaphone. He remained calm and focused, even when he was running. Even after three firemen came spilling from the entrance doors in a billowing cloud of dense smoke. A final engine raised its ladder from the next block straining to reach the roof over trees and power lines. All the while ambulance crews moved stretchers toward the building and people kept flooding out.
I wanted to do something, but like most in my position of voyeur, the barriers of space, time and uncertainty were too great for me to breach alone. I wanted to offer coffee from a pot I don’t own, hot chocolate in the sort of huge dispenser I’ve thought of buying but haven’t, or open up Aunt Fay’s now-empty cedar chest and bring forth warm blankets like those my mother used to keep inside. Sirens continued to scream, shivering tenants gathered dogs to their chests and rubbed each others’ arms for warmth. Western was closed down, police sending stray civilians speeding the wrong way up our one-way street to make room for still more emergency vehicles, and some poor soul in a moving van caught his first glance of his new building, sinuous orange flames waving in welcome.
Then a white and red truck pulled up, after the fire engines and the EMTs, but several minutes in advance of the inevitable news helicopters. The Salvation Army. A kindly-looking man popped out of the driver’s seat and opened up the back ready to dispense what help he could. It reminded me of something Alexis de Tocqueville once said, that there was nothing like America for civic institutions, and that if something needed to be done why, we’d just get together and do it. True, he wrote almost two hundred years ago, but I believe we are still at root a nation of people committed to a broader popular ideal. And that’s the key. It helps convince me that despite what I may see in the news everyday, “we” is better than “I.”
Hours later the emergency was over. Firemen gave the all-clear. The aid truck sent the last of its guests back into the blackened but now safe building. City workers cleaned up ash and police cars rolled out leaving nothing but order in their wake. I was left with a profound sense of my good fortune for being born in this place at this time, among these people. They accomplished what I couldn’t do myself. Together, molded into an army of mutual purpose, there are hot drinks and blankets for everyone. Alone, you’re left helpless by a window or bare-assed on the street.
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