Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Nana Mark shoots

Umid Ali writes




The stone which was melted by the breath of the morning,


The tear which dropped from the eyes of the night


The ray which kisses the heart of the day


The tambour which filliped at the moment of sunset


The blood of  verdure which was spat out


The last destination (the place of ghosts)


The clean smile – white,

The weeping – black,

The laugh – absolutely white,

The tear – pitch black,

The feelings – green,

The sense – red,

The love – quite green,

The soul – a ray (God),

The life – blue,

The age – golden,

The spirit – divine,

The soul… colorless.

--tr. Asror Allayarov, from "The Gate Opened by Angels"

Season of Hope -- Theresa Dedmon

Kevin Patrick Hodgkiss writes

Tamir Rice

A brown boy in the park 
With an air-soft gun 
Twelve years old 
He is a soldier 
He is a hunter 
He is the police 
Protecting the people 
He is courageous 
And victorious 
A hero for his day 
His play

He shoots down the aliens 
The lion on the loose 
The bad guys 
The enemies 
He leads them 
Hands up in surrender

He’s in a bunker 
He’s on a bike 
He’s riding a horse 
A cop car through the night 
A fighter jet 
A jungle jeep 
The people’s defender

He spins 
He twirls 
He moves through his game 
Ready to protect and serve 
He takes his bullet-less aim 
Back up arrives 
Shots are fired 
Three seconds down 
Like a mad dog 
Like a prison escape 
Like a bad guy 
Like the enemy 
In the park 
With an air-soft gun 
Twelve years old.

Serve and protect 
Show some respect 
He shouldn’t 
No he shouldn’t 
In the park 
With an air-soft gun 
Guns are only for the grown-ups 
And the soldiers 
And the hunters 
And the police 
Protecting the people 
From a twelve year old 
Brown boy 
In the park 
With his air soft gun.

Tamir Rice

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

William Bennett writes

A world without artists is a grey landscape, 
a painting of one shade, 
a Dada with only a da, 
a surrealist with no dream, 
a not so impressive impressionist,
an abstract with no expression, 
a poet with no "po",
      just an et, 
a deconstructivist with no construction 
     to tear down, 
a classist who is not classy, 
a surrealist who is merely real,
     and aint. 
Just a painter who is paint 
     on the side of the house.
 Shades of Grey -- Mickael Bruce

Robert J. Fouser shoots

Kushal Poddar writes

Comfortably Numb

Green over the wall,

an egret white on the green,

blue in the milieu.

What was it I was saying?

Nevermind wears

a teal jacket,
matching top hat,
carrot for nose.

Robert holds
a magnifier
near its snowy skin.

Rob! Don't do it, Rob!

And uncle leanness
appears over
the horizon's bend.

Dorin Popa writes

sometimes melancholy wins
and beyond all heavens
childhood stretches devastatingly

if Hölderlin should come
the sky will set forth sweet songs
of resurrection
and the eye of the needle will close
(the freight train will run
over my neck no more)

if Hölderlin should come
only the bells
will be heard in the distance
and voices of children in a fervent choir.
all that is elusive will have a shape
all that is unborn …
… will be born,
if Hölderlin should come

Hölderlin -- Louise Keller