Poetry of Love, Resistance, & Solidarity

Posts tagged ‘Ronda Miller’

Time Zone in Scorpio – Ronda Miller

fiery ramifications,

a blazing sun.

S. Korean silent,

not to embarrass self,

national communiqué.

 

There’s something not right

with the sky tonight, hot breath

of summer months away. Miami

man, at Swope Park, slinking

rage, scent of murderous ways.

 

Something’s not right

with the sky today,

it’s pushing me away.

Breath comes overwrought

with too much afterthought.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

 

Something’s not right with

The moon tonight, it’s purple, not gold.

The squirrels are acting crazed.

 

Fingers lace amidst flowers.

~ Ronda Miller

November editor, Ronda Miller, is State President of the Kansas Authors Club (2018 – 2019). Her three books of poetry include Going Home: Poems from My Life, MoonStain (Meadowlark-Books, 2015) and WaterSigns (Meadowlark-Books, 2017). Miller lives in Lawrence but returns to wander The Arikaree Breaks of Cheyenne county every chance she gets. Kansas Authors Club.

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A Boy Cries Bullet – Darrien Case

Stephon Clark was shot and killed on the evening of March 18, 2018, by two officers of the Sacramento Police Department

When a boy cries bullet

his body be canvas and fear to stains

like mercy,

laid to dry

against the unforgiving side

of a concrete palette.

 

When a boy cries bullet,

his rights are read as the trigger is pulled.

Shrieking sirens

ain’t got nothing

on the level they shout

his failures.

 

When a boy cries bullet,

he will not comply

with a bloodthirsty

open muzzle, either way,

he is worthy

of consumption

 

When a boy cries bullet,

his folks gather for home going service

to wade through sorrow,

that

will

flow

from

a weeping

Mother.

When a black boy unearths his skin,

he digs out boundless joy

the size of mustard seeds.

Sows them across the backyard

of his grandmother’s home.

For that is the most

sheltered

place of growth,

right?

~ Darrien Case

Darrien Case is an award winning spoken word artist. He was honored as “Best Newcomer” by the Music and More Poetry Foundation in 2018. A seven-time Kansas City Poetry Slam Champion, two-time FTW Poetry Slam Champion and represented KCPS (Kansas City Poetry Slam) at the 2018 National Poetry Slam. He wishes one day to start a social venture dedicated to utilizing poetry for healing trauma for the in youth his community.

November editor, Ronda Miller, is State President of the Kansas Authors Club (2018 – 2019). Her three books of poetry include Going Home: Poems from My Life, MoonStain (Meadowlark-Books, 2015) and WaterSigns (Meadowlark-Books, 2017). Miller lives in Lawrence but returns to wander The Arikaree Breaks of Cheyenne county every chance she gets. Kansas Authors Club.

Footage from Aleppo — Roy Beckemeyer

“…a lark talking madness in some corner of the sky.” – Joseph Auslander, from his poem “Dawn at the Rains Edge.”

Laser-eyed bombs streak in, unheard

and unseen until the earth,

flash-blinded by frenzy,

grabs the sky by the throat,

shakes it, erupts, rolls up.

A flock of short-toed larks takes flight

at the madness, sweeps over

the roadside in an aching cloud,

a dancing random swirl,

movements mirrored, for just a moment,

by a dead man’s keffiyeh, blown free,

billowing: birds and scarf together

a stark calligraphy, a sort of script,

a staging, a new orthography of atonement.

~ Roy Beckemeyer

Roy J. Beckemeyer was President of the Kansas Authors Club from 2016-2017. His latest book of poetry is Stage Whispers (Meadowlark-Books, 2019). Music I Once Could Dance To won the Kansas Notable Book award (Coal City Press, 2014).

November editor, Ronda Miller, is State President of the Kansas Authors Club (2018 – 2019). Her three books of poetry include Going Home: Poems from My Life, MoonStain (Meadowlark-Books, 2015) and WaterSigns (Meadowlark-Books, 2017). Miller lives in Lawrence but returns to wander The Arikaree Breaks of Cheyenne county every chance she gets. Kansas Authors Club.

Trafficking — Diane Palka

I heard there were one hundred

ten who didn’t survive,

no one cares

in the nightmare.

They sucked air through a tube

took turns breathing, staying alive,

shades of brown twisting on a burning Rubik’s cube

in the nightmare.

Nothing gets done about the ten, ninety,

or thousands more in cargo bins, rolling ovens,

truth ignored along with those

in the nightmare.

Politicians – cobras all – spit venom,

blind each other with hate, the real villains

slithering through politics, lining their own pockets

in the nightmare.

Bald Eagle soars – looks down

showers tears upon innocents abandoned,

tortured, left to die, rot in hell or in a living hell

in the nightmare.

Will we ever say, “Life trumps senseless death

compassion trumps cash, truth trumps lies

love trumps hate, goodness trumps evil,”

in the nightmare?

~ Diane Palka

Diane Palka resides in rural Overbrook, KS. She has four series of haiku published in Tall Grass Voices (Hill Song Press) and “Sunflower Turtle,” in Kansas Time + Place, 150 Kansas Poems (WordPress.com). She writes prose, free verse and Japanese forms of poetry. She has been a long-time member of Kansas Authors Club and is the treasurer for District Two.

November editor, Ronda Miller, is State President of the Kansas Authors Club (2018 – 2019). Her three books of poetry include Going Home: Poems from My Life, MoonStain (Meadowlark-Books, 2015) and WaterSigns (Meadowlark-Books, 2017). Miller lives in Lawrence but returns to wander The Arikaree Breaks of Cheyenne county every chance she gets. Kansas Authors Club.

Yellow Music — Diane Wahto

“When the communists took over my country, they labeled the music different colors—yellow for soft, relaxing music, green for music to work by, red for music of war.”

 

An Le, Vietnamese refugee.

Those in positions of power buy pianos,

know that people are ruled through

their stomachs. Keep citizens a little

hungry, and they will work from Monday

to Sunday without complaint. It’s the well-fed,

the fat, who want weekends for themselves,

want to play yellow music on their grand

pianos, plot the next move to keep victory

in their iron-clad, red-music grasp.

~ Diane Wahto

Diane Wahto’s book of poetry, The Sad Joy of Leaving, is available at Blue Cedar Press.com. Her most recent publications are “Persistence,” at Ekphrastic Review, and “Empty Corners”, in Same. She and her husband, Patrick Roche, live in Wichita, Kansas, with their dog Annie, the Kansas Turnpike dog.

November editor, Ronda Miller, is State President of the Kansas Authors Club (2018 – 2019). Her three books of poetry include Going Home: Poems from My Life, MoonStain (Meadowlark-Books, 2015) and WaterSigns (Meadowlark-Books, 2017). Miller lives in Lawrence but returns to wander The Arikaree Breaks of Cheyenne county every chance she gets. Kansas Authors Club.

Aging Daily … Hourly…Damn – Valerie Bennington Widmar

a poem about adult ADHD

 

Anger destroys her day.

It makes her agitated and frustrated.

Anxiety doesn’t have deadlines…

It comes and goes. It can stay for days.

Absolutely deny having difficulties!

They will look at you differently.

All days have darkness…

-Life is hard, just deal!

Always dealing…hours, days!

Temper flares, tears roll.

Acquire meds, Hide meds.

Because they will think you are faking.

–It’s not real.

–You didn’t have it as a kid.

–It’s over diagnosed.

–Too much t.v., huh?

Anxiety, dear…HURRY DEPART!

–It will go away, just meditate.

Anger, darling, happy dance.

It’s not working.

Absolute despair happens daily.

–Oh, come on, really? It can’t be that bad.

Argue, Defend. Help debunk…

But I am tired of keeping it a secret…

and taking meds in secret, so no one can see me.

–Why do you need so many?

–How can you have anxiety ALL day?

–Why can’t you remember your coffee?

–Why are you taking things so personally?

–Too much T.V. as a kid, huh?

–Isn’t that the soccer mom drug?

Act. Deceive. Heartbroken. Defeated.

Actively detaching…hourly, daily.

Aimless, directionless, helpless, delirious.

Thoughts darting here and there.

The mind multi-tasking without pause.

We can doubt and over-share.

Feeling anxious without cause.

Attention. Deficit. Hyper-activity. Disorder.

Educate yourself. Give us a safe place to land.

The only things we make up…

are excuses as to why you don’t understand.

~ Valerie Bennington Widmar

Valerie Bennington Widmar lives in Rochester, New York with her husband and two young daughters. She has B.A.s in Creative Writing and Film Theory from The University of Kansas. She writes observations of human relationships and personal challenges. She loves talking about movies as a co-host on podcast Cultural Stew (culturalstew.net). She believes discovering a sentence that resonates helps us feel seen and reminds us that we are not alone. Vidmar struggles with ADHD and, like numerous others, was initially misdiagnosed with manic depression. She highly recommends second opinions.

November editor, Ronda Miller, is State President of the Kansas Authors Club (2018 – 2019). Her three books of poetry include Going Home: Poems from My Life, MoonStain (Meadowlark-Books, 2015) and WaterSigns (Meadowlark-Books, 2017). Miller lives in Lawrence but returns to wander The Arikaree Breaks of Cheyenne county every chance she gets. Kansas Authors Club.

The Death of Chang Eng – Jeff Worley

“Eng . . . continued to lie

there in a stupor

for an hour more. And then

he died.”

The Two: The Story of the Original Siamese Twins by Irving and Amy Wallace

When I ask William, How is your

Uncle Chang? he looks at the floor

and speaks through the mounting heat:

Uncle Chang is cold . . . Our eyes meet,

and he runs to find Adelaine, who let herself

be courted into this strange life,

took me and turned taboo to love.

I won’t look at Chang and won’t forgive

his rotgut whisky, squealing women

he took from behind, yang and yin

locked in lust, while I gazed at the dim

ceiling bulb, distracting myself, the women

again disappointed by my pocketed hands, my steelclad

resolution to stay limp. I ate

from the green garden, meat

never bled from my plate.

But I couldn’t stop him –profligate

of opium and spices—from drenching flank-steak

with fu-yung, chaing yu. Bones broke

under the knife his left hand wielded.

I’d have signed my name twenty times in blood

to end this coupling, the appendix

that connects us like a sword. Mix

of flesh and shadow, ego and other.

… Uncle Chang is dead. My brother,

what could I have said when William

told me this, my heart slowing? That I’m

forgiving you for all of it? I hated you

is the truth. Amazing: You never knew.

~ Jeff Worley

Previously published in Tampa Review

Jeff Worley, born and raised in Wichita, was the second graduate of the Wichita State MFA program (1975). He is extremely grateful to Bruce Cutler, founder of the program, for his invaluable help with early fledgling poems. Jeff has published numerous collections of poetry including, A Little Luck, winner of the 2012 X.J. Kennedy Poetry Prize from Texas Review Press. Now retired from the University of Kentucky, he and his wife, Linda, split their time between Lexington and their Cave Run Lake cabin.

November editor, Ronda Miller, is State President of the Kansas Authors Club (2018 – 2019). Her three books of poetry include Going Home: Poems from My Life, MoonStain (Meadowlark-Books, 2015) and WaterSigns (Meadowlark-Books, 2017). Miller lives in Lawrence but returns to wander The Arikaree Breaks of Cheyenne county every chance she gets. Kansas Authors Club.

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