*** For my mother

At 92 she stares
Out the window
At the outside world 
The mens’ Brooks Brothers strident
Conquering stride
Andriods in the laps
Of their hands.

She remembers his--
Palms stained with ink
Clasping a Daily News
The bellicose headline of
The New York Post
Crying for Brezhnev 
“Big Red is Dead”
The smell of
Martinis on his breath.

She was one of those harried women
In the black SUVs
Work, children
Managing her life
A litany of baggage
Waiting to be
Delivered
On time.

She watches
The construction crews
Rip the street apart
Their clumsy reinvention
Of her town.

She sits with a tight grey bun
Her hands like angry crabs
Claw her cup.
Steam from her coffee
Just adds to her mist
Behind this frame
Of time.


Author Bio:
Doug Holder's latest collection of poetry is "Last Night at the Wursthaus" (Grey Sparrow Press). Holder teaches writing at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston and Endicott College in Beverly, MA. He recently retired from McLean Hospital, where he ran poetry groups for psychiatric patients for almost 30 years.

As the immigrant came to our city
Our girls hide and crawl
Our boys wear their guards
Almost suffocating the breath of freedom

Our girls hide and crawl 
Didn't the immigrant seek asylum
Our boys wear their guards
Our girls are violated at the hill tops

Didn't the immigrant seek asylum
Our boys wear their guards
Our girls are violated at the hill tops
As the immigrant came to our city


Author Bio:
Molicienna Emeks studied English Literature at the University of Lagos in Nigeria. She enjoys traveling and reading.

I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
of an Athenry graveyard; I see
your fiddle fingers flying as you navigate
whistle, banjo, or playing
 
our piano, Whispering Hope-
And you briskly brush by me and say:
'I'm leaving you my Mandolin'.
 
And I think of you so full of song, 
so lush with life. And I see us crossing town
chanting about big and bright stars
Deep in the heart of Texas.
 
I do not think of you as playing
second violin; I see 
your maidenly warmth flow 
through my blind umbilical grip.
 
You are not lying in that wet clay,
for it is a starry night now and we
are walking hand in hand under the Arch
and you are shining harmoniously down on me.


Author Bio:
Sally McHugh lives in Galway, Ireland. She likes Art and all kinds of creative pursuits. She started attending a weekly poetry workshop in Galway in 2017 and had her first poetry publication, ‘Dunmore East’ published in ROPES Literary Magazine later that year. In her day job she is a PhD researcher at the National University of Ireland, Galway. She is looking forward to coming to San Francisco in the U.S. in 2019 as a Fulbright Creative-Ireland Museum Fellow. 

How deep it goes, I will never know.
The bravery of seeking its depth remains my foe.
Be strong, like a mother protecting her young, I wish only one thing - 
​that I will never run. 


Author Bio:
Clint is a middle-aged professional who writes poetry as an outlet.