I Hear America Crying
I hear America crying, the muffled cries I hear,
the worried cries of drivers along city streets and country roads,
tension of black hands gripping steering wheels,
the flash of blue lights in the rearview mirror,
the exhausted crying of laborers with calloused hands
that scrub floors, hold mops, grip tools,
hours that grow heavy with the weight of work unending,
the moaning crying of well diggers, oil riggers, miners, blacksmiths,
knuckles worn to the bone as they unearth and create
goods they will never afford,
the grinding, rattling crying of mechanics
beneath hoods, underneath vehicles,
oil-stains lasting longer than paychecks,
the painful crying of fishermen and butchers and farmers,
massive ships and farms and warehouses full
while their families’ cupboards remain bare,
the cries of the weary,
working two jobs, three jobs,
building debt instead of wealth, uncertainty instead of security,
the crying of the mother, of the young wife, of the sweatshop girl,
supplementing paychecks of the rest of the family,
even cries from the wealthy, reaping the benefits of others’ labor
yet watching their portfolios disagree with their intentions,
falling and making them feel poor,
each crying with breath broken
beneath the weight of American dreams deferred,
crying for what they wish could be
a joyful, melodious song.
Blue Collar Orange
I wore blue all my life,
to shield, to serve—
the weight of my badge
an anchor I let dig too deep.
I’ve pinned down criminals before,
voices thinned beneath me,
beneath the law, the rule, the authority.
Sometimes they struggle,
fight the power,
resist the law, the rule, the authority.
Situations escalate, egos inflate,
sometimes theirs, sometimes ours.
It’s my duty to press harder,
to enforce the law, the rule, the authority.
Blue fades to orange,
badge traded for bars,
conviction my new shade.
Me, now raw as the men
I’ve pressed into cold streets,
another victim of the law, the rule, the authority,
locked up
but still breathing.
Author: The Beatnik Cowboy
James Benger
Road
The first highway minute
begins near the end of her day,
a fading sun throwing
its best salute to the departing.
It’s not that she’s leaving nothing behind,
but the fields by the side of the road,
the farmhouses and dancehalls,
the singlewides and ranches,
the community of just enough
has given all it can,
and the promise of the road
has been growing stronger in her head
for longer than she can remember.
In a snap decision,
there was no time for goodbyes,
and that is probably for the best;
she needed no prying platitudes,
no reasons to stay.
She’s got a trucker’s atlas,
a thermos of strong black coffee,
and enough cash to get her somewhere.
The sinking sun reflects off the side mirror
in the finite encompassment of all those yesterdays,
but in the cracked promise of the highway ahead
she can see the future.
Evie Groch
Out of Stock
A sad realization I’ve come to,
that I don’t have enough light,
bandwidth, kindness, forgiveness
in me to atone on behalf of others
for hate they spew, venom they spread,
vile deeds they commit, lies they disseminate,
innocents they slay.
In all my daily encounters, I challenge myself to leave
the other person uplifted, amused or complimented:
the barista for taking my order, for getting it right,
the Lucky checker, for her smile, the librarian, for finding my
requested book, for her curiosity and interest about it,
the Kaiser station registrar for efficiently checking me in,
the nurse for preparing me to see the doctor,
my friend for having lunch with me at a favorite place.
And then the harassment comes at me, labeling me
with libelous accusations because of my origins,
my beliefs, my ethnicity, my religion, my people.
It comes at students in school and universities,
randomly, without an iota of compassion or empathy.
It comes at places of worship, not only with chants,
but with guns and fire. It even lands in cemeteries.
I’m accused of atrocities never committed, threatened
with death because I exist.
Where do I go to get replenished? To stock up
on hope, resilience, strength?
There aren’t enough of these on the shelves
to address the barrage of hurt aimed at us.
And the manager puts up the sign reading:
OUT OF STOCK.
Dmitriy Kogan
Sometimes I'm confused
Sometimes I'm confused about what I want
If I could move mountains, I would
If I could disappear into the wind, it would be a thrill
Just to get away from the present for a moment
Keith Dodson
Age Related
Pursuing older women
takes on
a different context
when registering
for Medicare
than it did
when registering
for the draft.
Living On A Budget
It’s cheaper
to walk
into a cigar shop
than a gun store.
It’s cheaper
to buy
a box of matches
than a box of ammo.
Yet, regardless
of budget,
there will be smoke.
Bruce Mundhenke
Dreams
Will I remember all this,
or will it be lost,
like a dream
slips away in the night?
Many of those I have known
are now gone,
I almost hear their voices sometimes.
There are many of them
I still long to see,
many I still wish were here.
As long as I breathe I remember,
are they still remembering me?
They’ve all gone away
and are lost to my senses,
still alive in my memory.
All of them have fallen asleep,
some say never to dream,
except in the dreams of others,
able to awaken from dreams.
James Fleet Underwood
The Bats
I’m out with a buddy Kirk tripping all night summer of ’84 we get chased into the
woods by the cops flashing their blue and reds spotting us drinking beer on the
monkey bars of a local school Kirk freaks running from tree to tree smearing
his face with dirt and stuffing his cap with leaves like a couple fat cops are
coming into the woods to wrangle two teens off to the clink there’s no talking
sense they didn’t even stop to grab the beers still in their bag under the
monkey bars calm everyone right down so I sprint out to grab them but when I
return to the sand pit in the woods Kirk’s split I try my luck drinking a warm
one for direction then slink through back yards between trees across town
unlatch the fence in my backyard it’s nearly morning I think I can get in the
house after mom leaves for work at 8:30 supposed to be sleeping at a friend’s
what are you doing coming home with the bats smelling like a drunk what’s wrong
with your eyes you’re not leaving that chair until you tell me what the hell is
going on pretty cold for a summer night I lift up the bottom boughs of the big
back yard pine to check if there’s space for a body to curl feel around in the
dark with my hand for roots and crawling things find crushed coffee cups
cigarette butts balled up paper bag greasy to the touch wonder if it’s another
man’s warmth I’m feeling in the dirt or the lower end of the chemicals kicking
off the hair on my neck standing on end like sparklers
Joseph Farley
After Long Years
After long years, the words still come.
Pages are filled, manuscripts sent out.
Books appear and are met with silence.
Wasn't this always the way?
When spring comes, the soil in the yard
Needs to be turned. Seeds must be planted;
Fruit trees, vines and bushes tended.
These growing things mean more.
They always should have.
That's where life is. In green leaves,
Lengthening stems, flowers budding,
Before bee magic turns them into
Tomatoes, peppers, long beans.
The children mean more than the garden.
They always did. They always will.
So much more than words
Or dreams that fuel the writing.
How strange this compulsion
To scribble and type. It must be
Some kind of allergy
That bothers a soul all year round.
I didn't ask for it. It came to me.
Part of the baggage of life,
Rotting fruit from my childhood.
I could have done well without.
Friends, wife, the little ones,
Before they grew up and went away,
That was all I needed but did not know it.
The garden now fills in for what was lost.
Life is all there is, all that ever matters.
The words must learn to understand,
Since they won't go away,
That what little is left is not for them.
It is for others and what can rise
From cold winter mud after longer days return.
Scott C. Kaestner
US vs. THEM
There is no them.
We are them.
Just as we are us.
Stardust hurling through space
the odds are stacked against us
all of us; so at least be kind.
A. Scott Buch
COINCIDENTAL DISREGARD OF A LIE
Where are the convergent
figures of a Like
etchings in water closet
lewd doodles assemblage
bordering initials and dates
divided in spacetime as an actor and spectator are?
Or vibrant lantern nights
from sweating day through Luzhou wine,
Passengers winding avenues
Dull glinting fireworks
Pixelated sunbeams on the Yangtze.
Could these quintessences—
red molten buoys surge
numbing the lips—
Be carved a subjected populace
out of an infinitely pliable block?
The algorithm of a landlord may count on
faceless compliant yield
while art can never net a fraction of a cent
On satellite view the percentages confirm
this vantage is the exclusive domain
of the dictatorship of all that is consumed,
Shells take on ghosts
Cash grows a taxable brother big
Consciousness sees flame flicker in a mirror
rather than participate in ecstatic revels
tracing volatile contact
in leaps around a fire.
A person no longer meets
as though Anarchy were a solution to
a future where the past
was only a conceit.
The Beatnik Cowboy 