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Moments Unleavened~ By Teresa Price

5/28/2020

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Moments
she is held, at peace
as a drowsing newborn
in mother’s cradle.
Contented
she drifts,
somewhere within that elusory space
where breaths
are yet untroubled,
where ostensible sights and sounds
lull –
in that lovely place
where beloved still dwell.
It is the place
where all is well,
 
where dad still sits at the table
beneath a hazy cloud,
leafing through the morning paper
between lazy puffs,
shuffles of his calloused feet
across the laminate floor
a stable melody.
It is the place
where mom still bustles
around her familiar kitchen,
the privileged observer cadenced
by a perfect harmony
of whirs
and hums
and metal clangs
as she bakes her bread.
 
It is the beautiful, elusive realm
of possibility,
its transient visions and symphonies.
It is the Eden of Adam
before the bitter taste,
before he rises
to the fallout, the feud.
Before
…the infant blinks.
 
Before her limbs unfurl
and she reaches
for the reassuring touch,
substantiation of the sphere
always exceeding her grasp;
before
…she whimpers
for the absent mother…
 
And perception arrives
as a deluge
of pebbles and stones
then boulders upon the foxhole.
A threadbare sheet the solitary shield.
Echoes 
of violent retching
reach the ear
like a barrage of bullets
in a hollow chamber.
A paper bag crinkles as it opens.
Bony fingers collect hair
that has fallen by handfuls,
placing it inside -
the assemblage of shrapnel.
An emaciated figure paces,
in endless circles
around a stranger’s table
in a stranger’s home
…and moments
are gone…
 
She winces, wheezes;
puncture wounds resuming their bleed.
Disquieted thoughts briefly quiet
a cacophony onslaught
of sour smells and tastes.
Her leaden feet
settle upon the mound of earth
a father rests beneath.
Toward a kitchen
filled with sacrificial smoke
she begins to shuffle,
as she rises
to a feast –
           of leavened
                          bread.


Author Bio:
Teresa Price resides among the amber waves of rural Kansas. She is a full-time mother and Speech-Language Pathologist by trade. She fell in love with writing somewhere between girlhood and adulthood and has since embarked on a series of gratifying adventures with the “mighty” pen. Her writing often transpires within the solitude of the earliest hours of morning. That seems to be one of the few spaces in her life that is truly her own, where she can focus on her scattered intention as she revisits unbounded notations on various notepads, 'junk mail' envelopes and scraps of paper throughout her home. It is an indescribable serenity when she is finally able to bring cohesion to those persisting thoughts and sentiments. Her work has appeared in online journals including Foliate Oak and Gravel.
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Contagion~ By Akshaya Pawaskar

5/27/2020

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Are we Petri dishes
Culturing our own death?
As we huddle together
In trains, planes
Cuddle together in bars,
Jostle together
In clubs, pubs
Struggle together at
Our office desks
Walk together as herds.
Is that death hiding in
the pleats of your skirt?
Is that death clinging to your
trouser like a stray hair?
Are those fingers moving
toward your eyes to rub it
toward your nose to scratch it
Do they have the itch of death?
All the objects inanimate
teem with life, tiny yet profound
moving from man to man
as they are touched, pushed
Handled with nonchalance.
Are those hands turning the knob
Opening a door
Of unknown possibilities
Opening a door between life
And death?
Can you wash those hands off death
sanitize the ending of this story?
Yes perhaps.


Author Bio:
Akshaya Pawaskar is a doctor practicing in India. Poetry is her passion. Her poems have been published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Indian Ruminations, The Blue Nib, North of Oxford, Rock and Sling, Shards, Red Wolf Journal and Awake in the World: An Anthology (Riverfeet Press). She was "Poet of the Week" on Poetry Superhighway in 2019, featured writer in Wordweavers Poetry Contest, and second place winner of Blue Nib's chapbook contest (2018).
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Polemos~ By Lebile Melt Oluwatosin

5/26/2020

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I was led to the Hall of Judgement
With the eyes of my Pilate red and wicked
I was accused of my past
Sued to justify my future
But where future lies if not with AMICA
With whom will I walk if not love
.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Drum of war sing
I stand among gladiators in Blood Arena
Where trophy belongs to the last man standing
Where mortal wrestle with legion
Where rogue with nothing to lose trade life for honour
Where only I fight for love
Where my heart sing AMICA
.
Crowd goes wild
Fight to Die!
No mercy!
Kill or be killed!
Forget honour!
but as I think of AMICA
My hand grip my sword
I fight my war not to live
I fight for love
I fight for my unborn kids
I fight for generation that will tag my name with honour
I fight for VITTORIA! VITTORIA! VITTORIA!


Author Bio:
Lebile Melt Oluwatosin is an Agric Extensionist and a poet, he is the author of the book titled Africa Your Son is in Trouble and part of the anthology titled Voice for the Voiceless, Peace is Possible, among others. 
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Corona Flutter~ By Manish Dhaka

5/21/2020

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Corona made the whole world flutter,
Put a full stop to people clutter,
Everyone got locked deep down,
And indeed, it did make us frown.

As the virus spreads farther,
"Run" for lives made us seriously "still",
"Stay home, stay safe" is the norm now rather,
Laid back attitude is the new thrill.

My granny used to teach during childhood,
Person's worth is known when not around,
Mother Nature made us learn it now,
Social Distancing is the way it found.

Doctors, nurses, police and real society cleansers,
Stood in front to battle it out,
Five minutes clap and nine minutes lamp,
All bow to the heroes beyond doubt.


---------------------


We fumble, we grumble, we always used to rumble,
Lockdown has taught us, really how to be humble,
We amass money, we cheat health,
Found zillion ways, to skip what is worth, with stealth,
This virus make us reconsider and redefine real wealth.

Vaccine still seems far far away,
Everyone is eagerly hoping for that single ray,
"Come together" is now defined in a new way,
All countries left their enmity behind,
And "Let us fight humanity's enemy" is what they all say.

While whole world is fighting this common enemy,
Nature started regaining its own territory,
Birds are chirping, skies are blue,
Rivers are clean and planes got mountain view.

Animals freely roam on the streets,
With no fear that somebody would shoot you,
Elders asked their younger ones,"Tell me what do you see?"
They replied in excitement, "Oh God, it is the human zoo".


Author Bio:
Manish Dhaka is a poet from India and an engineer in Computer Science. This lockdown period of corona has given Manish a chance to pursue a long pending dream to write. 
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A Moment Passed~ By Sierra Martinez

5/20/2020

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A moment passed
And I cared not
For I had all
the time in the world
But no time
to give it a thought

A moment passed
I looked back once
Then shrugged it off
And continued on

A moment passed
I turned in tears
Wishing I could go back
To that time so dear

A moment passed
I savored each second
Having learned my lesson
That each moment is precious


Author Bio:
Sierra Martinez is currently attending college and is majoring in English and History with plans of getting a Master's in Library Science. Reading is her passion but she has begun to enjoy writing as well. She first started writing in high school when her English teacher had the students participate in NaNoWRiMo. She now voluntarily participates in NaNoWRiMo and writes for her classes.
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Where Your Feet Are~ By Deborah Schmedemann

5/19/2020

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Grandson Luke, at four years old, and I, at sixty-four, experience this time of pandemic
differently.

Early March: his mother calls from Chicago to say she was exposed at a meeting and Luke’s younger brother Peter has a fever and cough. I count the days on my Minneapolis kitchen calendar until I know that her family is surely, surely well. Luke asks: “Is the bad germ inside or outside our house?”

Days later: the Illinois and Minnesota governors order their citizens to stay home. I mourn the loss of my volunteer gigs, my worship in church, my social life. Luke enters 24/7 life with Peter, their tele-working parents, and his toys—so much fun!

Weeks pass: I track the infection and death rates for Minnesota and Chicago every night. Luke chases Peter around the house, gleefully exclaiming, “Let’s pretend Peter has COVID-19, and if he looks at us we get it!”
Eventually: we are told we should wear masks. My husband makes mine out of an old t-shirt; I breathe shallowly when I wear it. Luke prances around in a brown paper grocery sack with holes for his eyes and mouth.

When I take my daily walks outside, I obsess about whether other walkers are really with members of their households or the requisite six feet apart. My daughter reports on an evening walk with Luke, when they came upon an empty baseball diamond: “Luke, about to swing an imaginary bat: ‘I am the best hitter in the major leagues!’ After running a lopsided circle around the diamond, he accidentally falls on his bottom while gloating by home plate. Luke, showing off his dirty butt: ‘I am the best slider in the major leagues!’”
​
April melts into May: I recoil at the huge numbers: over one million cases in the U.S., more deaths than the toll of the Vietnam War. Sweet Luke knows none of this. But he is an expert in the stress-reduction strategy I read about one morning: “Be where your feet are.” If only mine were still as small as his.



Author Bio:
Deborah Schmedemann is five years into the second phase of her adult life. For over three decades, she taught law students and texts on legal research and legal writing as a professor at William Mitchell College of Law; she also represented teenagers in foster care. Now she volunteers teaching adult English language learners and writes personal essays. She lives as close as one can get to the Mississippi River in south Minneapolis, spends considerable time with her two daughters and their families in the Chicago area, travels internationally with her husband Craig Bower, and walks around the block with her dog Columbo. Her published creative nonfiction includes Thorns and Roses: Lawyers Tell Their Pro Bono Stories (2010) and essays in anthologies on the topics of joy, change, nature, and home.
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Taking Stock: a Coronavirus Inventory~ By Andrea Dejean

5/18/2020

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Yesterday was spent counting cans
of peas and beans, conducting triage
among the carrots, and lamenting
leaves of lettuce slyly turned dark and sinister
in the furthest corner of the crisper
before we could salvage them.
No longer do we throw bits
of day-old bread into the yard
for the birds, and the few bones
we still toss for a local stray
are now sucked clean of meat and marrow,
the gristle mashed between our molars.
Our table manners have started
to resemble those of deceased French
relatives, survivors of the Second World War:
eating half an apple each, instead of one whole,
reheating yesterday’s coffee or cooking the leaves
of dandelions gathered near the door.
Each a strategy to push back the dreaded
trip to the store for supplies.
Each item a potential pack of poison
in our hands and in our home.
The skin on those hands grown
scaly from washing.
Weeks in and friends
are already calling less and less,
the “what ifs” too unthinkable.
Too many things not to think about.
Days wasted worrying.
Nights spent deep in despair.
We are being told to use this time
to take stock of ourselves and our habits.
But how to take stock
amid the daily death counts,
the warnings and the precautions still
possibly not enough to protect us?

The triage in my pantry is so petty
compared to the choice so many others
are having to make; who lives and who dies?
Who gets help and who doesn’t?
A tragedy for those who give care
and now must so often withhold it.


Author Bio:
Andrea Dejean lives and writes in southwestern France. Her poem, ‘Woman Writing on a Window’ was published on The Voices Project website in February 2019.
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Rehearsed Arrangements~ By Chris McNamee

5/14/2020

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Backside pressed to the caramel carpet of the parlor floor.
 
The fuzz of the turntable spills like a waterfall.
 
As the guitar topples from the speakers,
I feel the vibrations and think
“this must be what it’s like in the womb.”
 
A pause in the record cues my ice cubes to shift
then clink to the bottom of the glass
sending an echo through the room
and revealing its emptiness.
 
While Muddy Waters once again pours his emotions from the pressed vinyl,
I shift back to my own blues and that age old adage about love,
that distance makes the heart grow fonder.
 
Or is it, distance makes the heart grow bitter?
Distance makes the heart go wonder?

​
Author Bio:
Chris McNamee is the writer and photographer for lettersfromafar.net and author of Love, Lust & The Last Resort. He has appeared in Hamilton Magazine,  Chapter One, The Hamilton Spectator, The Cootes Paradise Writers Anthology and received honorable mention for the 2018 Short Works Prize. McNamee currently lives in Hamilton, Ontario.
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Evidence~ By Sam Barbee

5/13/2020

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Must be discreet, even without proof of danger.
Foreboding snap of twig beyond the hedge.

But I persist, knowing time is short.
Must prove our journey worthwhile.

Forgive companions, dismiss true-love’s flicker.
Excuse death and deceptions.

By sundown, gnawed proof and grief collaborate.
Taint my evidence with temptation and truth.

Saints at the arched stone gate cheer, make it bearable,
but know me as all thumbs with warmth or silver.

Grace must conquer, tie bows around the entire affair.
October leaves ignite and whisk haze among stars.

Breeze rustles grass in front of vanity’s tomb.
Intuition and outcome have proved the same.


Author Bio:
Sam Barbee's poems have appeared Poetry South, The NC Literary Review, Crucible, Asheville Poetry Review, The Southern Poetry Anthology VII: North Carolina, Georgia Journal, Kakalak, and Pembroke Magazine, among others; plus on-line journals Vox Poetica, Sky Island Journal, Courtland Review and The Blue Hour.

His second poetry collection, That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53), was a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016. He was awarded an "Emerging Artist's Grant" from the Winston-Salem Arts Council to publish his first collection Changes of Venue (Mount Olive Press); has been a featured poet on the North Carolina Public Radio Station WFDD; received the 59th Poet Laureate Award from the North Carolina Poetry Society for his poem "The Blood Watch"; and is a Pushcart nominee.
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There is Comfort in Repetitive Tasks During a Pandemic~ By Jennifer O'Neill Pickering

5/12/2020

4 Comments

 
1. There is comfort in repetitive tasks…
folding warm clothes from the dryer,
wiping down counters
with disinfectant (if you can find it),
meditating, repeating the word heal,
listening to the call and refrain of mourning doves,
the eve’s crescendo of crows closing curtains on day,
kneeling on the Mother’s altar in the garden
offering Impatiens impatient for late spring
as I am for the ending of this self-isolation,
for social distancing, confined to the prisons
of our homes, quiet, comforting, frightening.

2. I am lucky to see parents in their front yards
the joyful cries of their children,
musicians serenading on porches,
lucky to have wide streets in our neighborhood
a park nearby where we stroll together with our dogs,
cheerful in their ignorance and play, though the CDC
recommends we ban them from sick rooms
to keep them safe from us.

3. I am grateful to wake this morning
symptom free from the virus;
grateful I am a semi-introvert, with work to do,
words to construct worlds to step into for safety
that others might enter. Grateful that others work
in a time of danger continue a semblance of normalcy
aware of the privilege that I did not understand before.

I pray again like I did as a girl without judgement,
if not a true believer holding out the possibility…
“Please God keep us safe, deliver ventilators, PPD’s
to essential workers, so they stay healthy.
Please, God hear my prayers.”

4. I like our Governor he speaks in sentences,
makes sense, doesn’t scream at reporters,
is losing his voice from trying to reassure us,
believes in science, practices social distancing,
wears a mask.

5. I am afraid of getting too near store clerks,
miss my monthly pedicure, my hair stylist.
Two small luxuries.
I’ve given up on my toenails.
Arthritis has won out.
My hair tumbles down my back as in puberty.
Each month for twenty years she’s styled my hair.
I need to pay her for the services I won’t receive.

6. In N.Y. City refrigerator trucks rumble
down Broadway, carry the dead away.
In my neighborhood church bells toll
with the symphony of sparrows,
bright notes marking the hour of plague
counterpoint to the helicopter blades,
muting life flights of the sick to the med center.

7. I wish to sit in someone’s lap curl up like a cat
(grandmother’s comes to mind)
long ago in a terrible flood…
Too big for her lap, she made room for me.
Grandmother, survivor of the Spanish flu, the polio epidemic scorn of skull bones plastered to her parents’ front door.

8. I am afraid to be old,
to be the patient recommended
to die, because the richest country
in the world has a shortage of masks
and I am dispensable, not rich nor famous
worked forty years and still at what I love.
My daughter says she’d advocate for me.
Did the trip to the grocer write a death sentence?
I wake in the night heart a racehorse’s racing
husband snoring next to me,
the dog wedged between us
the cat a ball of warmth at my feet
dust settles, heart slows.


Author Bio:
Jennifer O'Neill Pickering is a literary and visual artist living in California, a Pushcart Prize nominee for poetry and a finalist in the New Women’s Voices Chapbook Competition, Finishing Line Press. Her Chapbook, Fruit Box Castles: Poems from a Peach Rancher's Daughter is slated for publication by Finishing Line Press in the fall of 2020.
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