‘Poetry’ Archives
POETRY: Kiziah’s Story
for Mom PART I/II By SHELIA BLAND We gave up a relativeTo the status quoNot voluntarily, of course --When you say “we” what do you mean, exactly? Well, I wasn’t there.No one was there really.We aren’t guilty in that sense. --Then what are we talking about? We are not guiltyNone the less, we are all responsible --All responsible? Yes, all responsible. --But no one can give testimony, becauseno one was there… We cannot give testimony, no.But we must bear witness… It was sometimeOne timeAnytime.In any case, it was a past event.Yesterday—Last year—Last century…. Yet, I can assure youIt happened. We were rule followersWe got alongWe got ahead This was trueYesterday—Last year—Last century. We were not of the one percentBarely of the ninety-nine percent—More like the zero percent.This was trueYesterday—Last year—Last century. We were the servantsWe were the sharecroppersWe were the enslaved We were the prep [...]
Pink-Jacketed Woman
By THOMAS R. SMITH No one could track all that was going on,but a pink-jacketed woman horrifically,dangerously close caught it on video.Alex Pretti beaten to the ground,shot in the back ten times in five secondsshe recorded through terror and confusion,and managed to escape without ICEseizing her phone. Helped by a womanwho gave her a different coat for cover,the “pink-jacketed woman” vanished,escaped to explode the regime’s lies.When I hear the word “cowardice” I thinkof muscle-bound, gun-toting thugs claimingself-defense against protesters with signsand whistles, and how Homeland Securityshields them from legal accountability.When I hear the word “heroism” I thinkof Stella Carlson, the “pink-jacketedwoman,” who absorbed the trauma up closeand with nothing but her braveryto shield her gave the whole world the truth. THOMAS R. SMITH is an American poet, essayist, teacher and editor. His work has appeared in numerous anthologies and journals in the U.S. and [...]
A Flash of Green
A serene country road winds through the rolling hills and green fields of the Glens of Antrim, dotted with farms and sheep grazing peacefully. IMAGE: Adobe Stock By BRAD TROM A flash of green on a day of grey,When winter’s grip begins to fray.The fiddle’s cry, a joyful sound,On this day, no sorrow’s found.A river runs a viridian hue,Reflecting skies of hopeful blue.The shamrock crest, a simple sign,Of faith and luck, and passing time.From Dublin’s streets to shores afar,Beneath the same cold, morning star,A spirit shared, a hearty cheer,That echoes softly, year by year.
