‘Poetry’ Archives
Slow-Rolling Boulder
By SAM HENDRIAN The Right cheer, the righteous jeerAt the documentation of undocumented hateYet both fail to see it’s not hate but fearThat permits prejudice to perpetrate. One person dies at the hand of a foreigner,Therefore the danger must dwell overseas;Never mind that many a coronerHas recorded their fair share of local atrocities. Our leaders operate in a post-logic landscape,A finger-pointing fairylandWhere there is no escapeFrom those who stand on anyone they don’t understand. The empathetic laugh it off,The apathetic whistle onLike a man with a cancerous coughWho insists he’ll always wake at dawn. And so we seal our country’s doomShrugged shoulder to shrugged shoulder,Forgetting that few have ever heard the boomMade by a slow-rolling boulder.
Love Notes
(written on November 9th, 2016) go about your day, dear ones.write your words and speak your stories.sweep the house and fill the pot with water. there’s no going back, darlings.your life is now the revolution you always sought externally.tidy your closet and turn the burner on. i know you feel tiny, loves.there is no ‘later, later’ anymore, only right now.wipe the table and scoop the grounds. know your strengths, beautiful.things have been unmasked; you have not been blinded. drink your coffee and rebelliously love. Mattie Wong is the editorial layout coordinator for the alley. She has been connected to the Phillips Community for many years through various jobs, projects, and community events.
Campfire of North Woods
By OWEN SAARINEN The campfire knowsthe rotten log,the bending stick, themeal maker’s hands ona pile of dew-droppedkindling. Like a fussybaby, she won’t eat. He nimblycrafts the cabin, then the teepee,then the ring is cleared,and finally, the touchis made from birchbark tosultry wood that startsto hiss. In momentary joy,the tender allows his creationto sputter freely, coaxingair into the concentratedflame and ember. Both know the game, and hemust spoon feed the driestbrush or the agreementwill not hold. The fire tocrackle to life; the pot toboil on a stable grate of wood;the flames to lick high; to besatisfied, satisfied, yes Cooking on the fire is beans andrice and water for tea.Nothing better than black night andwarmed cheeks and knees.The spoon clinks and another stick is fed.Cleaned pot, ashesstomped, now it’s time for bed.
