20 June 2009

Lynn Ciesielski

Mary C. O'Malley

Scott Owens

Ivana Plucinski

Lynn Ciesielski

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Ruling Through Terror

Gender driven fornication madness.
Political outcry. Fear instilling hell.
Pinch hit rapist soldiers
with arsenals stored in their pants.
Their flies serve as safety locks for rifles
they've carried with them all of their lives.

Ammunition loaded scum for hire.
Destroy the woman from within.
With permanent stun gun they rob her wealth,
squelch her dignity, her royalty, her humanity,
her ability to heal, to nurture,
to create new life,
to breathe growth into barren earth.
Now her confidence dissipates.

They steal her children,
destroy them too,
beyond the love of those powerful arms
that reach out to gather.
They emasculate her husband
by taking his ability
to provide for and protect
his cherished family.

Undermine the opposition
because they've got the power.
They'll hold onto it tight,
never let you speak,
never let you breathe.
They'll steal away your soul.

Would-be saviors seek to obtain
revenge for the victim and place the blame
where collective blame lies,
but the more deserved accusations fly
the more they fall
on ears stuffed with victims'
war torn dashikis.

Corruption begets corruption.
Oppression simply succeeds
at the hands and hearts of new rulers
who steal the worth from victims,
who seethe and simmer with the need for constant revolution.
Perpetrators rise to power, take it ever so higher,
robbing pride from others' fall in shame.


Bio:
This poem was written to decry the mass committing of rape in Zimbabwe as a political crime.


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Mary C. O'Malley

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The Deposition: A Giving of Witness

Off center,
the dead Messiah
is embraced
by a crowd
of females,
gathered in
grief; watching
with the female
gaze of life. All
within a
barren scene
of hard rock,
dead trees.

Acrobatic angels dressed
in rose
and peacock blue, free
fall from
rain full clouds.
their faces
sainted with tears.

And on
the right the
men stand repulsed.
They see
their dead hero
dead as
a criminal but
cannot touch him.

Only John,
in Venetian red
stretches his hand
As if to
break the feared
circle. They
are frozen. Like
those other disciples
hiding in
daylight roped together.
Invisible as
their presence in
the picture.

Christ head rests
in the
lap of Mary
arrayed in
biblical virgin blue
a crown encircled,
made by
worn maternal hands.

Mary of
Magdela, robed in
gold, cradles
once anointed feet.


Bio:
I am published both online in venues such as Box Care Review and in print in anthologies,zines, and readings. I have a MSW and MFA and five children.


(author retains copyright)



Scott Owens

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Noblesse Oblige

Third world countries rejoice!
We bring you salvation and civilization,
though it may cost you your life.
Dunking, pressing, hanging,
burning at the stake,
pulling assent out of heretics
with rack and screw,
never sparing the rod
from Muslim or Jew,
crusading against unbelievers
by drowning and hacking,
burning and sacking,
purifying in the name of Deus Vult,
or anything manifest,
genocide of Arawak
Aztec, Inca, slash
and burn, enslavement of Africans,
middle passage, internment then,
detainment now,
good Christian Nazis chuffing off
Jews to Auschwitz or slaughterhouse,
mutilation of Vietnamese children,
inquisition, crucifixion, excommunication,
waterboarding, confession, liberation,
Ra, Ra, Ra,
Huzzah, Hallelujah, and Amen
simply convert, submit, and
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa,
all will be forgiven,
no penalty but collateral damage,
decapitation, shock and awe,
welcome to perfection,
celibacy maintained by fondling boys,
supremacy by economic sanction,
distant starving of millions.
Said one true believer to another,
It’s a good thing it’s all about forgiveness
because Lord knows we need it.


Bio:
I teach at a community college in a very Southern town.

(author retains copyright)



Ivana Plucinski

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And All Seas Turned Black

What order next of man prevails,
Is there treachery in Gethsemane,
Does quinquennium of Ninevah
Hold full with ancient oils
Of brutal retributions?

Chronometer what might you say?
What hour now rings or cuckoo calls
This linear time might fade away,
The hands may come full circle
Of this Newton-wavelength phase!

The white skinned lords of force
By guile and blood in name of Christ
Have raped and hewn their mother
Till comforts are for shame
Inheritance of hemlock for a child.

Is Mabus within our midst
The third to follow emperor and tyrant
The last of all the anti-Christ,
Or shall apocalyptic horsemen ride
Diseases and foul weather?

Aye, my lords ye know not yet
Original sin of knowledge!
These pyramids to lose white marble
As your brains turn withered stone
In the rock of all ages past

Not this not that without respect
Ye creatures of the interface
The elemental chart alas is toys
For greedy fingers that might
Compound a whimpering of all fate.

Hopi-shamans spirit drummed
From insignificance a
That might tell the final days
One thousand years before
And all the seas turned black.


Bio:
Ivana Plucinski is emerging writer. Her origins are in Slovakia. She resides in Germany. Her poems appeared in e-zines, such as www.poeticmatrix.com, www.AllThingsGirl.com, www.poetrydances.com and others where she is exploring both physical and spiritual relationships with emphasis on nonlinearity. Although she has never been published, she is an active writer, currently she is working on her epic historical saga.


(author retains copyright)



06 June 2009

Jessica Barrog

Ariana Cisneros

David D. Horowitz

Roy Jacobstein

Jessica Barrog

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Oppression


Opened your hands to our

People when their backs ached from

Prejudice. We

Resisted when you promised to

Emancipate our

Serfs. You laid

Shackles upon our children’s

Imaginations. Yet it is

Obvious we are

Not the weak ones.


Bio:
Jessica Barrog is a sophomore in the Creative Writing Department at the San Francisco School of the Arts. Although she has never been published, she is an active writer and hopes to make a career from writing some day.


(author retains copyright)



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Ariana Cisneros

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Girl poem

Color me red,
With a hand melted crayon
Slabbish wax shoved up your fingernails
Reminisce about kindergarten in your painting apron
On the strings of your guitar
On the negatives of your filmstrip
Tell me a story about innocence

Color me red
Because we're curious creatures
Build truth off of lies
And and lies off of childhood games
Spin the bottle, seven minutes in heaven, truth or dare
Later we play beer pong, ten fingers, and hotseat
We revert giggles and bashful smiles to
"Honey, you ARE my hotseat!"
A flick of the eyes
A flush of the cheeks
A few whispers
And hello everybody,
We have a couple!

Color me red,
Color me green too,
So I can fit on
Christmas cards
Flags of
Oriental nationalist colors
Winter commercials
For sales on scarves at Ross
And in the foliage of a Marquez book
All women are same in his stories
None of them are red
Or green,
Or blue,
Or orange
Or any color
Except for the fussy mess that is kindergarten crayons
The knot of strangled wire that is your guitar
The cloud of filmstrips
That is your movie

Color me red,
Because I am red,
We can do word to word associations
Like jury notes they read
Anger,
Alcohol,
Toilets with bad odors,
Bloodstains,
Redrum,
We can do Rorschach tests:
You can see
The taciturn,
The violent,
The schizophrenic
Oh, you're so emotional,
It must be PMS

Color me red
A dull red this time
Find "burnt sienna" in your crayon box
Because after all of this
We are jaded,
Sardonic
And sarcastic
Don't ask me questions
Don't give me excuses
And don't follow me
We all wonder why we sigh
At kindergartners
At psychosis tests
After a while
Being chipped away
Being rusted
Being dry and salt-stained
No longer red, but a dark shade of brown.


Bio:
Ariana Cisneros is a sophomore in San Francisco School of the Arts's Creative Writing program.


(author retains copyright)



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David D. Horowitz

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SOME TALK IS NOT CHEAP

The king dreads murmurs. Now, dissent earns jail
Or bullet in an alley, bomb through mail,
Or dagger to the heart, or enemies
Who live to make truth crawl home on its knees
And die there. Martyrs might persist. Dissent
That strong and brave don't dare call less than saint.


Bio:
I founded and manage Rose Alley Press. My most recent poetry books, from Rose Alley, are Stars Beyond the Battlesmoke; Wildfire, Candleflame; Resin from the Rain; and Streetlamp, Treetop, Star. My poems have been published in The Lyric, Candelabrum, The New Formalist, and many other journals. Recent essays have appeared in Exterminating Angel and IBPA Independent. In 2005, I won the PoetsWest Achievement Award. In 2007, I edited, as well as published, the Rose Alley Press anthology: Limbs of the Pine, Peaks of the Range. I give frequent readings in and around Seattle, where I live. My Web site is www.rosealleypress.com.



(author retains copyright)



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Roy Jacobstein

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IMMORTALITY

Gatling and Colt,
Mauser and L├╝ger,
Kalashnikov, Uzi -

you men of invention
live on in the hammer
and the grip, muzzle

and buttstock, bluing,
fire, recoil—wherever
you are, blood pools,

wound and clot
flashing the code,
your family name

shattering bone.


Bio:
Roy Jacobstein is the author of three books of poetry, Fuchsia in Cambodia (NWU Press/TriQuarterly Books, 2008), A Form of Optimism (University Press of New England, 2006, selected by Lucia Perillo for the Samuel French Morse Prize) and Ripe (University of Wisconsin Press, 2002, selected by Edward Hirsch for the Felix Pollak Prize). He is a public health physician who works on women's reproductive health programs in Africa and Asia.



(author retains copyright)



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