Why is there always one? – by Ronald McKinley

Sunday Night – by Mary Getlein

Ode to Autumn – by Michael Riley

The Blood – by Humberto Gomez Sequeira-HuGos

Boots on the Ground – by D.J. Carlile

Adullam – by Roger Houston

Time Is True, But Sill – by James Stone

Only Me – by Emily Wood


Why is there always one?

By Ronald McKinley

Why is there always one to bomb?

To fight

Why is there always more than one to die?

Is there always more

Why is it so

More a want

Than a need

American warlords showing their stones

American warriors returning home broken

Why always do we return to this point?

Should we bomb people to save them?

Why are we quick to bomb?

Why are new weapons tested?

Why do they look like toys I played with as a boy?

Why is there always one waiting?

For the next set of boys


Sunday Night

Ivy-Elena, sitting on a cushion on the couch

tells her story to Mark:

Once upon a time there was a daddy named Mark,

a mommy named Sue-Sue,

a daughter named Ivy and a son named Xavier.

They got up in the morning and had waffles

and whipped cream and ate it all up.

They went outside and saw a mango tree, with a

blossom that was flame-colored and very beautiful.

The end. Then she said: do you have a

needle? So I could sew this book up?

Mark said not right now but I can get you

one in the morning.

They looked at each other with love and exhaustion

Sue-Sue came out and they told the story to her.

They were all together on the couch, really

tired and the kids were jumping around.

Xavier pretending to be Spider Man, climbing the walls.

I got to watch a family being a family.

I sat in the chair holding their cat, reading

The New York Times Magazine.

I got to see how good it gets at home, their home.

how it can work without a lot of yelling and screaming

how it looks when they let kids be themselves,

express themselves.

Xavier likes to be Spider Man and climb the walls

Ivy likes to draw on paper and call it her book

someday she will learn to read and write in English

but for now it’s scribbling and memorizing her stories

It was a rare moment of down time

in a family that is constantly moving.

And I sit back and drink it in.

The End – I mean, The Beginning

– Mary Getlein


Ode to Autumn

A sonnet

By Michael Riley

Yes, my friend, it’s sadly true

I have contacted Vernal Flu

The melancholy that sets in

when winter’s chilly rains begin

and Ursa Major, from her crest

starts slowly slipping to the west.

I soon shall see the old drunk guy

residing in the Winter sky.

O’Ryan – the Irish constellation

holds high a flagon of libation

while ‘tis no sheath upon his belt

just the open fly unfelt.

Through winter’s reign – cold and muddy

he shall be my drinkin’ buddy.


The Blood

By Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

For Alma Ivette Durán

Every day the blood

of consciousness

irrigates the electric root

of the cells that produce

the formulas of my thoughts

of toys

and wild desires.

Without coagulating

in the cold atmosphere

of my emptiness,

it follows the course

of loyalty to its human instinct

of sacrifice

and vengeance.


BOOTS ON THE GROUND: or Talk of War (September Song)

By D.J. Carlile

Will they put some boots down,

boots on the ground?

Say these are empty boots,

with nothing in them,

empty  boots with ghostly feet

and spectral toes, the memories

of missing bodies—

dead or legless or worse.

Boots on the ground,

their owners in a bag now

or a box of ashes or a hearse,

in a bed or on wheels,

on crutches, locked out, or in reverse,

locked in.

Some boots on the ground,

all empty, all marching.

These were your children,

these are and aren’t your kids.

Why put a foot there?

Death in fancy footwear

wants to buckle a shoe,

one-two, wants you, one too.

That existential dilemma

of what is true, what false

has always boots one size fits all.


11:11 Monday, September 16th, 2013, Adullam ….. My life stares back at me this Monday morn. I wonder why that ever was I born. The sky outside my window marks the mood Within the room; throughout the neighborhood. The barre storm fence bears it’s nakedness In shame, wishing it could simply dress In green velour it wore one week ago, Before that idiot savaged it so. The oscillating fan, soft to confess In circulations, windy to express. And I, for one, beginning to feel good; That is to say, I don’t feel quite so bad. New page is written, soon as one is torn. As I stare at my life, I am reborn ….. Roger Houston, given the

name “Adullam” by the Children of God, 1971.


Time Is True, But Still

Frequently as I view my surroundings

I feel I’ve missed much that life has

But, still I like what I’ve seen and done

There is a certain contentment in that, at least

The North garden wall is covered in green

Moss, kept moist by no sun

The pine tree nettles drop continually making

A soft bed when nap is near

A dog’s bark is heard in the distance

Answered by other barks more closer

The figure on the road, slowly trekking,

Head bent low, hat pulled down, coat pulled

Tight with hands in gloves

It makes you think of old Harvey Joe

Long done now and better though

I wonder how dry the Summer will be, since

I’ve planted the field a week ago

The distant mountains blue with haze

Bring sweet memories of my days

When I did walk then hand-n-hand

A loved one I still can see traveling

On our merry way.

Should I admit to this?

– James Stone


Only Me

By Emily Wood

I watch my chest rise and fall

And wonder how I got here

And how I move in this skin

Do I belong here?

In this vessel of sin

A moving mistake

Contained within

Punished, ashamed

Hidden away

To save you

It’s what I’ve always done

Never hurt anyone

Only me

Only me

But I feel the blood

And the air

And the warmth

And a tear

And I know I’ve earned nothing

But there’s a melody here

So I get to dance

Not only me

Categories: Poetry

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