Cold Rambler

We mirror the clear air, light horses burn white on the island of sand, you empty prism robes and drink water from transparent glass, I draw lines in the well, we sound voices in the hollow, we cup tears of myrrh, the sun passes with ink you blue calligraph a firmament on the lens. John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France.  His most recent chapbook, The Daymark, was published by the Origami Poetry Project.

They’re piling up or splayed out on streets body after body civilians unarmed or ill advisedly armed  in haste and heroism their meat is needed to feed the hunger. It’s piling up the rubble of lives in flames fed  by weapons and more weapons the tears of the displaced  are not enough to douse them so they leave, when they can, a low priority as there’s no meat on them  the women, children and elderly. But the meaty men must stay to fight like soldiers to the death and be spat out with screaming shells and fear. And their screams die with them  as victory comes closer it is said day after day it is said as the leaders scream “no surrender” victory will be theirs when the hunger is sated. More weapons more bodies more lives in flames  to feed the insatiable hunger of war.   Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring ...

 1: Celebration The fascists in my hometown of Alpena are holding a parade in honor of Trump's second inauguration.  ...laughing at everyone freaking out over Elon's Nazi salute. ...hoping police can now get even more brutal towards the homeless and people of color than they already were. ...pleased that the January 6th rioters have been freed. ...delighted that immigrants are afraid of themselves and their children being kidnapped by Trump’s gestapo, ICE. ...patiently waiting for food and gas prices to go down, and for their careers and small businesses to reach new heights of prosperity, in our newly energized Capitalist economic system. ...glad that student activists are going to be deported, and their protests promptly shut down. ...relieved that Christian America has *once again* been saved. ...looking forward to the woke public school system being demolished, and the public library being shuttered. ...optimistic that the long, painful fentanyl epidemic is finally about t...

A cold rambler broke my heart. The horse I rode in on can’t be found. When the dust blew in from the prairie, I knew a storm was coming. There were only a few tracks  on the horizon.   Mary Bone has been writing poetry since childhood. Her poems can be found at Cold Rambler Blogspot, Literary Revelations, European Poetry Journal, The Academy of the Heart and Mind and other places. Upcoming poetry will be featured at eMerge Magazine.     

Tariffs, graft--BALLROOM! Epstein, greed, shootings--BALLROOM! Fuck the damn ballroom.

When empathy died the soldiers could dance in the streets they’d cracked wearing the underwear of the women whose homes they had destroyed. And dance they did with pride. When empathy was dead  the soldiers could take children’s toys from the rubble of their bombed homes and repurpose them as tank trophies mascots to be flaunted with pride while the street cracked under the weight. When they had killed empathy  the soldiers could shoot babies in the head or gut - they chose, and someone’s daughter 200 times,  or 300 - they could choose. And they filmed it with pride from the street’s rubble and cracks. When empathy was murdered the soldiers could capture children and imprison them in cages, one metre square, or whatever they chose until they told them  what they did not know and then laugh with pride in the smooth Israeli streets. When empathy was dead and buried deep down below the streets’ cracks and only silence could be heard Israel was supreme, a supreme being,...