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