Better Than Starbucks!

Fear of Flying

 

My hair never dries.

I shower,

braid,

sweat,

continue sweating.

 

I’ve never dreamed that I could fly.

I could sometimes hover just

above the ground.

But most often

I’d run,

then begin clawing

at the ground

to gain speed,

then find

myself running on all fours,

beast-like.

 

I sweat at work

and pick up

the stench of the fryers.

Come home,

get clean,

braid my hair

so it’s not a wild

wet mop

in bed.

 

It’s a rope.

A tether.

 

But not you.

 

And when you dream, you fly.

That’s enough.

 

 

 

When I Am Old

 

I will write

about you and your voice;

 

about the years I raged

against your revisionist’s histories

and attempted martyrdoms;

 

your talking.

 

When I am old

I will lament

 

the hostages I held

with resentment and insecurity,

and my unkindness,

 

the bristling at your words

and words and words and words.

 

To say something does not make

it true.

 

To say something does not make

up for not hearing it from me.

 

When I am old

I will write about you

 

to fill the silence.

 

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Hope Madden is a writer, film critic, journalist, horror film fanatic and Chipotle addict living in Columbus, OH. Read more from her at maddwolf.com, on Twitter @maddwolf, and Facebook @maddwolfcolumbus

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            PASSING WORDS

        (In memory of my father)

 

Do you remember when I was six?

So full of energy and dreams...

You said, “Go to school and fill your head with books

And your heart with prayer”.

So I did ... and that worked for a while.

 

Until I was sixteen and looking for my way,

So full of rebellion and rage.

You said, “Don’t change the world

But find your place in it”.

I thought about this and realized they were not

Just passing words but a code to live by.

And that worked for a while.

 

Until I was thirty with three girls in tow

And I was confused, looking for meaning in my life.

You said, “Don’t look to the sky for answers

Just look into those little eyes, there’s the meaning of life”.

So I did... and that worked for a while.

 

Until I reached middle age and felt mortality grip me deeply

And sorrow wrapped my soul like heavy chains.

In the midst of my darkness you said,

“This is the cycle of life, flowers grow, bloom and wither.

Healing will come”. I came to realize                       

These were not just passing words

But the process of living.

And that worked for a while.

 

Until now when I have to seal myself from the anguish

Of seeing you pass into shadow.

And as I wallow in the pools of Why and What For

I hear you say, “Remember me in your heart,

I will live forever there”.

I hope that works for a while.

 

 

Phil Capitano, from Huntsville, Ontario, Canada, has been writing for 50 years. "Passing Words" is from his first book of poetry entitled "Roses on the Moon" (2017)

 

 

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The Best That We Can Do?

 

               May he defend the cause of the poor of the people,

               give deliverance to the children of the needy. -Psalm 72.

A fleet of impossibly large white boats

lies quietly moored 

at an impossibly beautiful 

Mediterranean tax-haven.

I read of the growing gulf 

between rich and poor,

how even in the mighty USA

the wealth of the top one percent

equals that of the bottom ninety percent.

Then into my mind’s eye chugs

a flimsy boat, overcrowded

with men, women and children

fleeing poverty or persecution,

all brave, desperate, hopeful, scared,

all enduring terrible privations,

the lack of privacy, hunger, stench, heat, wet, 

desperate scanning for land,

the gathering sea, the looming swell,

the vulnerable diesel motor,

the creaking of the water-filling vessel.

 

Then float images of the new gulags,

Pacific Island detention centres,

shimmering heat, barbed wire, dormitories,

hopeless, hollow-eyed children,

vulnerable women,

abusive, predatory guards,

the hostility of the locals

in places of planned, deliberate inhumanity

designed to deter seeking asylum by sea.

And what I want to know is this.

Can we do no better than build walls

or nightmare places of deterrence?

Does not injustice foster hate and resentment,

encourage violence, revenge,

the bloody carnage of the bombed market,

the twisted tangled of the torn apart train?

Does not the past inform 

that the grinding shoal of inequality

eventually leads to dark stains 

from the guillotine flowing 

through blood-filled squares?

 

Neil Creighton is an Australian poet whose work as a teacher of English and Drama made him intensely aware of how opportunity is so unequally proportioned and his work reflects strong interest in social justice. Recent publications include Poetry Quarterly, Poeming Pigeon, Silver Birch Press, Rat's Ass Review, Praxis Mag Online, Ekphrastic Review, Social Justice Poetry and Verse-Virtual. He blogs at windofflowers.blogspot.com.au