Saturday, September 3, 2011


by Aashish Thakur

I called a tree- ‘Tree’
Tree laughed,
And said-‘I am the wind’
I called the wind-‘Wind’
Wind smiled
And said- ‘I am the cloud’
Then I shout the name -’ Cloud’
I saw the lightning and thunder
Angry could said-‘ How dare you, I am the rain’
Then I asked the rain- ‘How are you river?’
After that, my legs never got dirty
And I never felt thirsty.

Israeli Jasmine, Manicured

by KJ Hannah Greenberg

Jasmine, hedge-high, bordering a beachfront bungalow,
Slung itself along the Mediterranean, in a land
Shaded by disputes of international stature, grows.

Pigeons, gray, brown-red, also white,
Opined witnessing to local, pedestrian issues
Missing all traces of ocean tranquility, take flight.

Conch shell inhabitants, tiny, maybe thumbnail-sized,
Chorused periodic flowery, feathery, or dysfunctional flash
Rumoring natives as no more than immigrants or tourists, slide.

Certain civic cases, cached by multinational requests for mollification,
Spun “insights,” didn’t offer counterpoints to foreign correspondents
Habituated in gifting bad press to residents, erupt.

Yet, all the beauty of sky-filled vistas, chain smokers, darting lizards,
Cedars, acacias, myrtle, oleaster, cypress, box trees, likewise elm,
Waylaid by dint of ill-intended, external aloquoting procedures
Designed to trump the population, continues on, unabated.

Death Waltz

by Craig Shay

We are waltzing instep to a cold wind,
blowing us toward extinction.

We are waltzing, in the glow of computer screens,
while specters haunt our American Dream.

We are waltzing, because we support illegal wars every day,
with our tax money and by pretending they don’t exist.

We are waltzing, while innocent civilians submit
to the brute force of our military.

We are waltzing through shopping malls,
while foreign cities are bombed to ash.

We are waltzing quietly,
unaware that our government,
which preaches freedom and equality,
is the world’s greatest purveyor of violence.

We are waltzing, with our hands held
tightly over our mouths.

We are waltzing, because the American Dream
is really the coma of consent.

We are waltzing through massively corrupt systems
of monopolies and oligarchies.

We are waltzing through decades,
suspended in consumer hypnosis.

We are waltzing up to voting booths,
believing lies, fed to us by puppets.

We are waltzing, while a handful of corporations
control the music of the dance.

We are waltzing, while our media provides
the chanting drone of obedience.

We are waltzing, because denial reigns,
like a pistol, butting everyone over the head.

We are waltzing through our empire of illusion,
too petrified to act out against it.

We are waltzing, while waves of false history
knock us back into the Middle Ages.

We are waltzing as serfs and peasants,
on the manors of dark lords.

We are waltzing on vast plantations,
working for ruthless masters and demonic butchers.

We are waltzing, like zombies down dead-end streets
with faded promises tattooed to our eyelids.

We are waltzing through a luxurious ballroom,
without realizing were are on a sinking ship.

We are waltzing, though the glass ceiling is caving in,
and water is slowly rising around us.

We are waltzing, without realizing that we are dancing,
with entities of death and annihilation.

We are waltzing with blindfolds on,
oblivious to the emergency,
with nothing but apathy in our souls.

Waiting Room

by Rachel Marsom-Richmond

After the world becomes a hospital,
a content, controlled safehouse,

when men, women, children
live in every sense enlightened,

in a rush for nothing, a
moving outward, surrounded—

as when in your elderly years the
friendly neighborhood ladies so obviously

secure were only a few blocks away,
flaunting tied-back curtains, open doors—

everyone talked to them, everyone
hugged them every day, everyone watched

their routine of predictability—as
you all say when the day ends

at last, as you hide from the burst of moon,
as we are not here, we give up, and we are leaving.